Little Bits of Pixie Dust

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thourougly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO, what a ride!!"

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Post Op 9 Days

I know that you have all been waiting for the big surgery post... I know it, even though no one but me ever reads this! Well, I haven't really been able to get out of the house for the last week, so today was the first chance that I had to tell you all about it. So without further adu, here it is....

A* and I were shot from sleep at 7:30 am the morning of the surgery by the phone ringing. It was the hospital, saying that my doctor had a cancellation and would there be any way for me to come in earlier? I was actually very happy with this news, because that gave me less time to sit and think about what was going to happen. I called my mom and asked her to come over earlier and in a half hour she was there to pick us up. A* held my hand the whole way to the hospital, and whenever I would think "Ah, I'm doing it!" and squeeze his hand painfully, he would just squeeze back.

We arrived at the Same Day Surgery Center, where a cheerful security guard ussured us in. He asked who was the patient, ,and for a stupid minute I didn't realize that hey, that's me! He told my mom that in order to get in the building, she had to have a "heat sensor" read her palm and to wave it over this picture thing. My mom waved and waved her hands, until she noticed the man beside himself with glee. Turns out she is just gullible, and there was no need to be doing this. It lightened the mood considerably, though. I signed in at the front desk, and my family was given a pager that would go off when I was finished. My mom, grandma, A* and I sat in the waiting room for about five seconds before I had to go to the bathroom... again. My stomach is not the best when it comes to stressful situations. They finally came and took me back, assuring everyone that they could come back and see me before the surgery would take place. I went to a room and a nurse came and asked me all sorts of questions, and then hooked me up to an IV. I told her that I had taken some Tums earlier that morning, and she put some Pepsid in my IV to try and make my stomach calm down. Ha! Then I met the anesthiologist, who in turn made me take a pregnancy test "because of my age." Since I have been in menopause for the last six months, I wasn't shocked to learn that I was not pregnant.

They let my family come back, and we all made stupid small talk around my hospital bed. I was so nervous, I don't even remember what was said or what was really going on. By this point, maybe they had given me something in the IV to relax me, too, I don't know. That could be why things are fuzzy. My doctor came down and reassured my family once again, and gently told them that they needed to leave. My mom was hurriedly issuing last minute instructions about "her baby"~ "You know, the anesthia makes her really sick. The last time she had surgery..." and so on and so on. I heard her calling out a medication that I was allergic to (and was already stated on the bright orange hospital bracelet I was wearing) as the doors shut. A* smoothed my hair back from my forehead and told me that he knew I would do great, that he was proud of me, and that he loved me. I held onto his hand for a long moment, contimplating chickening out. But he smiled at me, and I was able to let him go.

The doctor asked me to stand up so that he could make some markings on my breasts. I was wearing the standard hospital gown, with nothing what so ever on underneath it. He drew some purple lines on my chest, keeping up a running commentary to both me and the plastic surgery resident that was with him. He asked me to put my hands on my hips to get under my arms, and to my horror the entire gown fell down to the ground and I was standing stark naked minus hospital slippers in front of two strange men. To their credit, though, neither said anything and my doctor simply reached down and pulled the gown back up. I was embarassed, even though in minutes both of these men would be holding my breast tissue in their hands. Go figure.

After the markings, things started moving fast. A nurse came to wheel my bed up to the surgery area. On the elevator, some people got in and I wanted to yell at them, "I'm getting my boobs chopped off!!" but I restrained myself. It didn't even seem real. Once we got into the room, I had to get onto another bed and stretch both of my arms out to either side. Everyone in the operating room had their masks on, so I couldn't really tell what anyone looked like, but a nurse with very nice blue eyes covered me with a warm blanket and told me they would take good care of me. A man bent over me and told me that they were going to start adding medication to my IV, and soon I wouldn't feel anything. The nice nurse told me to imagine myself in a place that was "far from here." The room began to spin lazily, and I was out.

I woke up in the recovery room gagging. A nurse hurried over and gave me a basin, but seeing as I hadn't eaten anything for the past twelve hours there was nothing to come out. My throat was on fire because of the breathing tube, and I hurt all over. I tried to see the new boobs, but I couldn't get a good look at them, plus the room was still a little fuzzy. I retched on and off and drifted in and out of sleep. On one of the times I woke up, the nurse was putting something in the IV to help with the nausea. I asked her if my family could come and see me, and she winked and said she would see what she could do. The next time I opened my eyes, my mom was holding my hand. She said that A* was calling a few people and would be back in a minute. I smiled, and heaved again. I know that she was thinking, "I TOLD them that she got sick." A* came back then, and just seeing him made me feel much calmer. He whispered to me again how proud he was, and I gave him a drug enduced grin. Then I threw up again.

They had to give me three more shots of medication to try and combat the nausea. By this point, I was SO over the whole thing and wanted nothing more than to go home to my bed. They made me get up to go pee (I threw up again) and then they said I was okay to go home. I sat shakily in a wheelchair while my mom pulled the car around. I don't really remember the ride home, but when I had to walk up the steps to my apartment it was agony. Every movement felt like it was ripping my breasts off my body. I threw up again, twice. I was finally, blissfully in my own bed. I shut my eyes and didn't wake up for the next thirteen hours.

This is a pretty long post, so I'll give you the rest next time. Meanwhile, I am trying to get used to being six lbs less a woman!

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