Surgery is a Comedy

I don't know if it is nerves but I always seem to find hilarious moments on surgery day.

Last Friday was, what I hope, my final surgery.  I felt ill prepared compared to the previous surgery.   Likely because I didn't see my surgeon in advance to have all my questions answered,  but there comes a point when you want to avoid unnecessary doctor appointments.

Thursday was preparation day:  Cleaning, grocery shopping,  packing a little bag for the hospital.  Fasting began at 11 PM, Thursday evening and by 11:01 my tummy was growling.  Surgery was scheduled for 12:20...and in my fantasy land, I envisioned my body emaciated, weak from hunger upon my release.  Even if that was the case, I have 20+ pounds from chemo to keep me going.  I did cheat and had a small cup of black coffee in the morning.   If the nurses expect cooperation from me, there better be some caffeine running through my veins.

One of the things I noticed during chemo, is I look and feel totally bad ass walking down the halls of a hospital,  dressed head to toe in black with a skull emblazoned across my chest.  Motorhead's Hellraiser usually plays in my head.  When Meta dropped me off at the Monfort, I am pretty sure I got a raised eyebrow or two from the senior volunteers when I waltzed through the front door.   Sadly, no make up and my little pink sneakers, weakened my tough bitch image.

This time my bed was further away from the nurses station where they stand around,  drinking their coffee.  I closed my curtain to completely avoid them taunting me with their Tim Hortons.

"Well you want us to be on the ball."  A nurse commented

I had no comeback for her.

Since Kim's last literary selection was such a hit, she provided me with another Chelsea Handler book to keep me entertained while waiting. I tried hard not to laugh out loud but behind closed curtains, muffling my laugh sounded more like I was crying.

No matter how many blood tests or treatments I receive,  I am still the biggest baby when it comes to needles.  I was hoping they could use my port but no such luck.   The nurse tasked with inserting my pic line, assured me she was the best and wouldn't hurt me.  SHE LIED.  It is never a good sign when she constantly rubs your arm,  looking for a good vein.   And the random taps to bring blood to the surface, definitely means it is going to hurt like hell.  I just finished chemo, I don't have a good vein left!

I hurt, I'm tired,  hungry, cranky and I want coffee!!

At least surgery was on schedule.  This made me very happy.   Cancer is a giant lesson of "going with the flow" that I haven't mastered.  I still hate waiting and want my life scheduled at least three weeks in advance.  The nurse and a porter helped me into a wheelchair to take me to the operating room.  I removed the hospital gown I used as a house coat, exposing my back side.  The porter held the top of my gown shut.  "That wasn't the half I am worried about exposing, genius."

Then one of those cool moments happened where you wonder if it's "a sign."  As I am being wheeled away, a nurse pats me on the leg and says "It's time to rock n roll,  my dear."  Since I decided that my cancer treatment would have a rock n roll flair, I took it as a sign that every thing was going to be alright.

I was in the same operating room as last time.  As my 20 something porter helped me unto the table, I started to flirt with him.  Why not?  Never mind I am wearing a hospital gown in the world's most unflattering color, have no make up, no hair,  sporting blue shower caps on my feet and one on my head....and I am old enough to be his teenage mother.  I am blaming nervousness again or sedation.  I am such a loser.

I have learned that when I am nervous,  I laugh. Those who know me, know I have a very loud laugh.  The echo carries well in the operating room and again, a nurse jumped about four feet into the air when she touched me with her cold hands.

I always tell the anesthesiologist that I wish to be deprived of all my senses and he gets it right every time.  The next thing I remember was coming around in the recovery room.  He may have been a little too eager to please because I could not function for hours later.   In fact, I didn't respond well to the sedation.  I had nausea and received Gravol which knocked me down even more.  Poor Kim and Shawn - stuck waiting about 2 1/2 hours longer than expected.   I vaguely remember calling Shawn, telling him it was like being on the worst drunk ever.  The nurses were adamant about me sitting in a chair and it took two of them to carry me across the room.  Now, as I mentioned earlier, I don't want to spend any more time in a hospital than required but at that point, I wanted to have a sleepover at the Monfort.  I didn't give a rat's ass if I didn't have a tooth brush or extra underwear.  I could not fathom the thought of standing.  No such luck.  I knew I was being released back into the wild when the nurse began to give me instructions on how to empty my drain.

Are you kidding me?  I cannot even spell my name and you are expecting me to retain this?
Furthermore,  it is now pushing 6 PM and I still have not ate anything.   Because  I was nauseous,  I was denied my ginger ale and soda crackers.  Recovery was beginning to feel like Alcatraz.

They finally released me to Kim by 6:30 and repeated all the instructions to her.   I am also supposed to report that Kim had practiced for her second guest appearance as a porter and did an excellent job!  She didn't hit any walls and narrow pant legs ensured she did not get tangled in the wheels.  And God love them! A McDonald's cheeseburger was waiting for me in the back seat.  I inhaled it before Shawn shifted the truck into "drive."

Kim knows me all too well and as my former room mate, knows my infinite love of showers.  I hooked up my hand held shower on Thursday evening, because sponge baths just don't cut it for me.  Even though I was drugged to the point that Kim had 3 - 4 eyes,  she knew there was no stopping me from washing the hospital scent from my body.  She just stood in the bathroom door way hoping not to hear the thud of my body hitting the bathtub.

My plan was to have a slumber party at Gailene's.  I am supposed to stay with someone for 24 hours, post surgery and last surgery, I was very alert. So I thought it would be a fun filled evening of jokes, conversation and laughter.  I arrived ready for bed, in my striped pyjamas,  toting a healthy salad for our dinner.  Screw the salad.  I now wanted a donair and a poutine!  I managed to stay awake until the delivery man arrived.  I was also certain that Gailene was speaking to me in a foreign language but since she told me that one of my eyes was pointing north and the other, Southeast; I guess I was still suffering from the sedation.   It was very nice of Gailene to offer me her bed but in my state,  she could have put me in a cardboard box on the back porch like a stray animal and I would not have cared.  The "stoner munchies" kicked in around 1 AM and I wolfed down cold poutine.  To be on the safe side, I took a Gravol.

Saturday morning,  I was back at my own place, relaxing.  My home care nurse said the bandages were clean and didn't need to be changed until Monday but warned that it will hurt like hell and would give me an hours notice "to take everything that I have. "  It wasn't as bad as anticipated and tickled more than anything else.

The drain consists of a small tube inserted in my armpit with a plastic pump at the other end which resembles a grenade.  I feel like Al-Queda with it strapped to my bra.

Taking a shower with my bandages and drain resembles a Cirque du Soliel audition and on Sunday,  I learned very quickly why I should not hit my arm.  I knocked my arm against the wall....Jayzus!!!  I won't be doing that again and now understand why I should not go to hear Jake E Lee play tomorrow night in a crowded bar.