In Case You Were Wondering . . .

Where the Hell I've Been, Part I

At 7:30 am a couple of Fridays ago, I ended up having surgery.

I only cried once, very briefly [for like 5 seconds], in the bathroom, holding onto an IV and telling myself in the mirror that it would all be o.k.  I almost feel bad for the nurse standing outside who probably overheard me, but then I figured I just gave him a hilarious story to tell his friends later, so I'll just call it even.

I had a hernia that needed to be taken care of. According to my doctor. According to me, it was just fine as it was, thanks, and I would continue to work around that bit of intestine sticking out through to my skin.  I named her Alice.

But I succumbed to "medical science" and went to the hospital for outpatient surgery.  The husband drove and as we went along, I kept reminding him that we didn’t have a will, but be sure that the girl got whatever she wanted and also be sure to understand that unsecured creditors and student loans were not to be paid back [FUCK YOU, CITIBANK AND SALLIE MAE!].  I also told him that if he was going to remarry, he should marry our friend who has two girls, because she and the husband get along well, and the girl likes her daughters.  He agreed to that pretty quickly.

We got to the hospital at 6:03am and I was immediately whisked away for urine samples and changing into awkward gowns and me constantly mentioning/wailing to every nurse / anesthesiologist / technician who entered my curtained cubicle that I was prone to anxiety and panic and was afraid of medication.  I’m sure I was quite charming.  I’m not sure why the anesthesiologist kept mentioning that he had something that would make me relax and forget everything that happened until I woke up. 

My doctor, a man of VERY few words, came in to check on me and poked and prodded Alice and said, “Fix this. And then everything is fine.” And started to leave. I asked about recovery time and resuming yoga and showering and all sorts of life things, to which he replied, “Everything fine. Rest today, start normal tomorrow.” Um. Do I look like a robot?

The surgery went fine.  My mom and dad came to sit with me and the husband for a bit and my sister showed up in time to take my post-op drug addled picture.  I went home awfully, awfully quickly in my opinion – I was back in my house by 11:30am.  After having had general anesthesia, I would have at least thought I rated a whole day of being taken care of by nurses.  I mean, my recovery nurse was efficient [and really, really pretty], and I wouldn't have minded being taken care of for at least 24 hours.  I'd even shut up about the anxiety and panic [note: that's probably a lie].

Also, I had a vicodin, and I was less than impressed.  I ended up with Tylenol 3 to "manage the pain", which I highly recommend. Mmmm . . . codeine.  I was so thrilled with my ability to take medication and NOT COMPLETELY FREAK OUT that I may try Xanax.  WOW, right?

The sexy nurse told me to keep the bandage on and that I should sleep today and start slowly getting into the swing of things tomorrow.  And that I could shower, and not worry about getting the incision and staple wet.  Staple? WTF? I chalked that up to the vicodin and anesthesia. Mmmm . . . anesthesia.

The husband helped me get dressed [I think this is why people partner up in life], and I made sure my Einstein hair was appropriately tamed before I sat down in the wheelchair to be wheeled to our car.  I almost asked if I could rent a wheelchair to zip around our tiny house, but then realized there isn't room to maneuver, and let that dream die.

Once home, I entered my convalescence period, which I will tell you about next time.

Coming up . . . Recovery at Home, or How I Managed to Get Up Off of That Low, Low Couch.