So I got to take the day off yesterday. Not so much for fun and relaxation, however. I was treated instead to minor surgery!
I won’t go too into details about the surgery because:
- My brother reads this, and he was violated enough as a child by having to deal with four sisters and not another brother in sight.
- My Dad also reads this, and I’m sure his senses were assaulted for years by vivid stories from my mother and her similar problems.
So, let’s just say it was an operation that required stirrups, no pants and a recovery that involves the word “discharge,” and not just instructions that you get from the doc. My husband referred to it as me getting “roto rootered” and suggested that maybe I could have avoided the problem if I had just used some Rid-X. So you get the idea.
So anyway, I was justifiably anxious. Not the kind that required Valium, just a butterfly feeling. And generally when that happens, it’s a sure sign that the 30 minutes you are waiting to get brought into the procedure room is like an eternity. Stare at the ceiling. Wonder if you have some bizarre heart condition that will make you expire right there on the table, and also, if you do, will they be nice enough to take your feet OUT of the stirrups before they let your husband come in and say goodbye. Think about whether you should go ahead and color your hair red again (you know, if you somehow make it out of surgery alive). That kind of stuff.
Then the doc comes in, explains everything that you already knew, then leaves again for another 15 minutes. More waiting. More random fantasizing.
Finally, it’s time. Into the room, up on the table, but not before managing to flash your big old butt to absolutely everyone in the room. Joke about butt. No one laughs. Feel defeated that your butt is obviously so big and heinous you cannot even get a laugh by being self-deprecating. Give up. Drugs start. Doc asks a few questions you are unable to answer. My kids names? What? Beats the hell out of me….
“Marney, wake up.”
Ahh, it’s over.
Let me go on a quick rant here. Who the hell decides what types of “procedures” do and don’t need anesthesia, anyway? I have now been knocked out twice in my life, once for this deep-sea expedition of my lady parts, and once for having my wisdom teeth removed. But — I have also had two children CUT out of me.
I’m trying to imagine a couple of doctors sitting around discussing this. The conversation goes like this:
Doc 1 – Ok, we have oral surgery, we’re going to pull out four completely useless teeth.
Doc 2 – Knock ’em out, definitely.
Doc 1 – Next, we’re going to poke a hole in the hole and be in and out in 90 seconds.
Doc 2 – Out cold, no question.
Doc 1 – Ok, we’ve got a woman who is emotionally and physically exhausted, her mind a jumble between the joy and fear of bringing a new life into this world. We’re going to strip her down naked, lay her out on a slab, cut through her abdomen, lift out her guts, cut open her uterus, pull out a huge baby, pull out some other nastiness, stick the ShopVac in there to suck out some more gross stuff. Stitch her uterus back together, push on her belly a little. Finally, put her guts back in and staple her abs back in place.
Doc 2 – Oh, let’s just give her a spinal. She should be awake for that.
WHAT THE HELL?
Anyway, back to my own personal off-shore drilling procedure. I was delighted to be alive, obviously. As they sat me up, I tired, several times, to stand. I have no idea why. It was just what I wanted to do, and the nurse needed to apply very little pressure to my shoulders to get me to sit back. At one point, I think one of my feet was still pinned firmly in the stirrup, yet still, I tried to stand.
Then they bring in a wheelchair, and it is HUGE. And again all I can think is, God, is my butt really THAT big?
“You know, I’ve lost nearly 20 pounds,” I announce to the nurse.
“Good job,” she says, pushing me back into sitting position.
“Why don’t I just walk back to my room?” I ask, trying to figure out why it is necessary for them to wrestle this enormous wheelchair into the room when clearly I am fine.
“If I stand up right now… will I just fall right down?” I finally say.
“Yup,” the nurse answers, hooking her arms into my armpits and helping me into the fat-chair.
I have no idea how long I stayed in that chair. Jim came in. I think I mumbled at him. I know I laughed a lot. They handed me a granola bar, and within moments I handed BACK an empty wrapper. Apparently, I was ravenous. I know I got myself dressed again, but I don’t know how. Suddenly, the nurse was pushing me out the door, and we were at the front of the building, Jim opening the car door for me.
“That was awesome,” I heard myself say.
By the time we got home, I was thinking clearly, though I felt like I was drunk. Jim was nice enough to get me coffee and turn on a movie in the bedroom so I could lay down and watch. After a day of dozing, I pretty much feel back to normal. But I have to say, I think I have a clearer understanding of why people abuse drugs! Anesthesia is my new BFF.