The great thing about surgery is the anesthesia. When I regained consciousness about an hour and a half later, I hadn't felt a thing and still didn't register any pain. Of course, I had a full tank of post-op morphine sulfate and a pile of warm blankets. On my right, a nurse (I assume) was typing furiously into a laptop on a small platform, apparently recording the essential data of consciousness regained. She asked a few questions to determine whether I was aware of my circumstances and assured that I was, left to seek the surgeon, an orthopedic specialist, to discuss his findings. He soon arrived bedside, still in full surgical garb and gave me the news.
It was good news. The infection was "superficial". It did not compromise any critical tissue. Both muscle and bone were not infected. My leg would remain intact and recovery would likely be complete. With a couple of divots, as another surgeon later quipped.
Without further delay, I was wheeled by the transport squad to my new digs on the 6th floor. It was at this time that I noticed I was attached to a small machine that made an audible whirring noise. I was informed that it was a "wound vac" and that it would clean and drain the debrided area. I did not yet know the extent to which this torture device would come to dominate my stay at St. Joe's.
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