Paralysis on the operating table: Awake and afraid

On January 3, while many of you were still celebrating the new decade with themed parties or family vacations, I was preparing myself for a routine tonsillectomy. Aside from getting my wisdom teeth out, this was my first surgery, so I was not quite sure what to expect—other than a really sore throat and lots of ice cream.

On the morning of my surgery, I was given a mild muscle relaxant called succinylcholine, intended to wear off in five minutes, so that a breathing tube could be put in during the operation. Hours after surgery, I awoke to realize that my throat was the least of my worries: I was paralyzed.

As I slowly regained consciousness, I recall waiting eagerly to have the doctor and my parents tell me all went well and that I was fine. But that hazy vision of a hospital recovery room that I was expecting never appeared. I awoke to complete darkness, where I remained for the next six hours. I did not hear the doctor tell me everything was fine. Instead, I found myself an intruder in the conversation, an unknown presence.

“I don’t think we should bring her parents back, I don’t think they would stay very calm,” one nurse said to the other. “Have we found Dr. Bates yet?”

Still utterly motionless, an apparent vegetable, my bewilderment quickly turned to terror.  All my effort was focused on moving an eyelid or raising a fingertip, anything to let them know that I was there. I was quickly foiled by my own anxiety when a change in the respirator alerted me that not only was I not breathing on my own, I could not even make myself breathe. In that moment I would have done anything to scream and cry, “I’m here! I’m here!” But all efforts only added to my panic. I was trapped inside myself, and the only thing I could think to do was pray that I would survive whatever was happening.

As disparate traces of the Lord’s Prayer echoed in my head in a disconnected montage, I found myself desperately attempting to mute the chaos that had engulfed me. I was thrown back into my reality when the nurses slowed the flow of oxygen to my lungs saying, “she’s tiny, I think we should slow it down.” I can only describe what followed from this slight change in oxygen pace as the sensation of being held under water a little too long, without the ability to  signal that you need to come up for a breath.

When the anesthesiologist entered, my panic subsided as I convinced myself that he would have some answers. Instead, in an attempt to revive my reflex reactions the doctor applied a minor shock to my hand. This might have been fine in other circumstances, but considering I was completely paralyzed, I could only lie there screaming silent obscenities.

Within the chaos of the room, I kept hearing estimates of how long my state would persist—some said two hours, others thought it would be more like eight. No one in the room, including my doctor, had ever witnessed this reaction. It was not until six hours after surgery that I was able to flick my eyelids, an act that was answered by a reassuring hand on my wrist from the nurse. Finally, someone knew I was there.

After my ordeal I would come to find out that I have a rare enzyme deficiency that affects only 0.1 percent of the population.  While researching this condition, I found that it only applies to one class of muscle relaxants and cocaine. I have never taken hard drugs, but I won’t say that the curiosity wasn’t there. Ironically, the main reason I never wanted to try cocaine was not due to a lack of curiosity, but just a feeling that I would be that one, the statistic they warn you about in school. Now I know I would have been. It took six hours for the small dose of succinylcholine to wear off. If I ever did even a small amount of cocaine, it would be like taking ten times the amount, and it would kill me in minutes. At twenty-years old, I find myself confronted with the jarring realization that I am not invincible.