How many years has it been since restaurants started using those square pagers that light up and vibrate in your hand to let you know your table is ready? A novel idea in its time, the gadget has made its way into many other areas of life, including health care.

Last week, on Tuesday morning to be precise, the hospital volunteer in the outpatient surgical unit handed my husband one of those delightful little twinkle buzzers, which would signal when the unit was ready for me to come to pre-op. Four stomach viruses in eight weeks had told me something might not be exactly right in my system.

The fourth one sent me to my internist, with ultrasound results in hand. The internist sent me to the surgeon. The surgeon scheduled me for a cholecystectomy. “Ectomy” is medical jargon for “let’s get it out!” The “it” in my case was my gall bladder. The surgeon, a wonderful and warm woman with great compassion, scheduled me as quickly as she could.

When we arrived at the hospital, we were greeted by smiling volunteers. Six o’clock in the morning is too early to be smiling, especially at people who are about to be doped up, opened up, “ectomized” and then closed up. Nonetheless, they smiled at me and handed the twinkle buzzer to my husband.

“Harris Murray,” the nurse called out. They always call me that because they can’t figure out whether to say Mr. Murray or Mrs. Murray. I walked to the pre-op room under my own power, where I was welcomed with a warm smile.

“Take off all your clothes, put on this gown and lie down on the bed (gurney),” the nurse instructed, still with that warm smile on her face. She left the room to give me privacy. When she returned, still with that warm smile, she asked me to verify my name and birth date. She placed a band on my arm and asked me what kind of surgery I was having.

I could have said, “I’m having my gall bladder removed,” but just to be a show-off, I said, “A cholecystectomy.” She smiled, again.

The anesthesiologist came in next. He was young and good looking. He was too young and too good looking to be the one responsible for doping me up and putting me out. I told him so. “You’re something good to look at this morning!” and the boy (yep, to this old woman, he was a boy!) turned beet red! Good. That means he had his wits about him (I sure had mine!).

He asked me my name and birth date. I told him. He asked me what surgery I was having. I showed off again and told him. He smiled, warmly, and told me he would take good care of me.

Someone came to put my IV line in. I can’t remember who she was, but she smiled, warmly. She told me I would feel a little stick, but she was so good that I didn’t feel a thing. She asked me my name and my birth date. I told her. She asked me what surgery I was having. I showed off again and told her.

The surgeon came in. She smiled warmly at me and asked me how I was doing. For someone who was getting ready to be doped up, opened up, “ectomized” and closed up, I told her I was doing fairly well. She told me again that she hoped everything could be accomplished laparoscopically (three little holes, then pull that gall bladder out through the belly button), which would lead to a faster recovery.

Everything went successfully, and my recovery has been steady and uneventful. The next time I have one of those twinkle buzzer gadgets, however, I’d really rather hear, “We have your table ready,” from a waitress with a warm smile. She’ll ask me what I want to drink and she won’t have the gall to ask what my name is or when I was born.

Harris Murray is director of library services at Orangeburg-Calhoun Technical College. She can be reached by e-mail at writeharris55@yahoo.com.

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