It's Done!

One Week Ago Today…

The day finally came.  I had a surgery date—Friday, November 15.  I felt like I was given the key to diffuse the ticking time bomb that was my gall bladder.  Of course, I didn’t have 100% confirmation about it until two days before the actual date, when I had a phone consultation with a very pleasant, detail-oriented nurse. 

The good news was that she was very thorough.  The bad news was also that she was very thorough.  Thanks to my overactive imagination and penchant for drama, I easily visualized the play by play she gave me of surgery day, and by the time I put the receiver down, I was in desperate need of a brown paper bag to hyperventilate into. 

After several nights of maliciously sneering at my gall bladder and threatening to take it out myself with some pliers or a kitchen knife, suddenly, having it in didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all. 

The only thought that got me through the rest of the day was that my nutty sister was coming down for the operation.  If I had to lose a body part for her to spend some alone time with me, it seemed like a good deal. What a sad state of affairs. But that’s another issue for another day at therapy.

Any old how, she came down on Thursday and claimed she would stay until Sunday.  However, as she got here, my esteemed brother-in-law called and said he had a migraine, and then deep down I knew that as soon as I was sliced and diced, she would dash across the border faster than a fugitive with a bounty on his head.

Considering I had lots to do like get my insurance cards and medication all in a row, plus sort out my six-year-old, Lanes, for the next day in between having palpitations and stress anger, I was a wee distracted on Thursday night to worry about my abandonment issues. 

Plus, I was told to shower using some special antibacterial wash and following instructions of any sort are in general, challenging to me. I was strongly put off by words like ‘caution’ and ‘pre-surgical’. They sounded so hostile.

Half the solution fell down the drain because I was expecting a nice exfoliating gel, but instead it was glorified rubbing alcohol in a bottle. I have no idea if I did it properly, but I guess I did considering I am here a week later.

On Thursday night, my nutty sister and I stayed up longer than we should have, chatting and before I knew it, it was go time.  My overly prepared spouse, P, insisted that I pack a backpack full of clothes and toiletries ‘in case’ I had to stay at the hospital. What was I? Winning a holiday vacation?

The surgeon said that if the laparoscopy didn’t work, he would have to make an incision and that would mean a few days at the hospital.  However, P was determined that either way, I camp out there for the night just to make sure everything was alright.

I mean come on. I was losing a gall bladder, which is essentially the appendix's fancy cousin. There was no need for all the caution and hoop la.

His plan was to have a word with the nurses about institutionalizing me when I was out for the count and I assured him that if he checked me in unnecessarily, considering we were married, I would literally be able to make him miserable for the rest of his life. He was undaunted and I was saved thanks to a severe shortage of beds and our over taxed healthcare system. Yeah!

There was no way I was spending a night there, especially if my nutty sister was visiting.  I was uncomfortably eating healthy all week in an attempt to silence my gall bladder so that it would be on its best behavior and I was determined that I was returning home to our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous apartment that same day.

Even if P left me there, I would grab my IV, catheter, hospital gown with exposed back and all and jet propel myself back to my own bed, even if it meant flashing half of the greater Burnaby area. I didn’t want to wake up in the night and groan ‘I see sick people’.

We got to the hospital by 5.45am but the registration didn’t start until 6.15am. I was glad we were early so we didn’t have to wait in line. I just wanted to check in and check out.  Unconsciousness was a friend of mine.

My stomach was grumbling thanks to fasting, my head was spinning due to unnecessarily Tele Mundo story-line worthy thoughts, and I was micromanaging Lanes’ morning routine in my head, mentally willing my nutty sister to do things my way while she was babysitting my precious spawn.

There was one couple ahead of us. I unkindly had mean thoughts that they beat us there through the cold and rain, but as soon as we were seated, I changed my mind.  They were close to retirement age, and it appeared the man was the patient in the relationship.  He checked out the luggage P had me bring. 

It was no surprise that people were eyeing us. We looked like we were dressed up and waiting for a cruise ship that never came. Or that we were moving to another country. The only thing missing from our paraphernalia was the family goat and a satellite dish. 

After a few seconds, the man asked me if I had a chocolate stashed in there somewhere for him. Ironically, I was looking at his wife’s handbag and thinking she looks like a lady that would have a good Kit Kat stashed in her purse.

Was this man my long lost twin? Who else wants candy for breakfast? This is why I was losing my gall bladder. I warmed up to the like -minded couple at once and we immediately launched in a fatty food loving, fasting bashing conversation.

Plus, he readily admitted he was anxious too.  We were both whisked away from our respective spouses soon after. We were weighed, examined and prepped like produce before a cooking show.

The only thing worse than getting a huge needle in a tiny vein for the IV was having to wear knee length puke green stockings and a shower cap. Don’t even get me started on the hospital gown. Haven't they heard of zips? Buttons even? Velcro?

Other than that, we were sitting in the most enormous comfy chairs and given fabulous heated blankets. Again, sensing what I was thinking, the man called from across saying that it felt like we were in a spa and too bad we were there to be chopped. I agreed that I’d rather be getting a manicure and we both decided to make a dash for it since we were momentarily left unsupervised and we had cold feet despite our amenities.

Sadly, at that moment the nurses brought in our spouses and our plan was foiled. Telepathically linked, the man asked his nurse if anyone ever woke up during a surgery. How did this man have this uncanny ability to say whatever I was thinking?

His nurse claimed she was new and didn’t know.  My one was very matter of fact about everything. The type of gal that would glove up and give someone a suppository and tell them point blank that it would hurt.

I expected her to say no either way just to keep me calm before surgery--wouldn't that be protocol? Instead, she said ‘oh yes, it has happened before’.  Not what I wanted to hear. Luckily for my mind twin, he had already taken out his hearing aid.

P was next to me, clinging onto all my worldly belongings, like a lonely Sherpa with no mountain to climb.  If someone made a cartoon out of us at that moment, his caricature would have had several sweat beads flying off the side of his face. He muttered something that sounded like he questioned my sanity for asking such a thing.

He began to alternate between praying and asking me not to worry. I was resigned to my fate by then, bolstered by the camaraderie I felt with my new like-minded friend, but P was looking a lighter shade of pale.

A very young chap, claiming to be in charge of the anesthetics, came over to talk to me. He was very kind and calm, but I tried to speed things along because surely, he had to report to his homeroom before the first bell rang at school.

Soon after, a very tall, angelic nurse floated in from the operating room.  She had a very soothing way about her and I sailed along with her, lulled by a hopefully not false sense of security.  I am not sure what happened to P by then. 

He looked worried and I hoped my nutty sister was done taking Lanes to school and that she would be there to accidentally trip a patient or set off a fire alarm and thereby distract P. I was relieved for two things when I stepped into the OR.

The first was that I had been de-spectacled. I would have freaked out if my vision was 20/20 and I could witness all the instruments and machines in all their glory.  The second was that Doogie Howser was not my anesthesiologist and that he was actually an intern.

They led me to the operating table, which was really probably the piece of wood they used as the plank in the last Disney movie featuring Captain Hook.  Had I been any wider, I would have fallen off.

With one last look at my ethereal OR nurse, I quickly reminded her about my allergies—my last attempt at any control over the situation, and then it was lights out.

I woke up surprised to feel like I had heartburn and aches and pains in my shoulder, back, and chest. Did I just come out on the losing end of a wrestling match? My first question to a bewildered nurse was whether Lanes got to school safely. For some reason, I assumed she would know.

She dipped me down for all the gas they pumped into my abdomen to leave and then the shoulder pain went away. Next thing I know, I was given the chalkiest most disgusting heartburn meds which I only downed because I was not yet fully in charge of my faculties.

The nurses took excellent care of me and put up with my incoherent complaints regarding aches.  For me, the entire point of getting that blooming gall bladder extracted was to be free from pain.  Each time, they patiently explained that I had just come from surgery where I had an organ removed and it was only natural to feel this way.

If I was a nurse, and had a patient in denial like me, I would have said ‘listen you fool, you done lost a body part, what you expect? Now zip it!’.  I would have been called Nurse Wreched.

The rest of the recovery was uncomfortable and I was drifting out of consciousness only to be brought back by pain in the abdomen and the incessant sound of chatter. I was also in fear that my nutty sister would visit when I was out for the count because she has a tendency to go nuts pressing buttons on hospital beds just to see what happens.

The last thing I needed was to be instantly forced upright or pumped with 20ccs of morphine by accident.  I remember vaguely seeing her once but P was with her so I felt safe.

When it was time for me to be mercifully released, I was asked the names of my next of kin so that they could come in and help me get dressed. I was very whoozy and my throat was sore so I couldn’t repeat P’s name multiple times—they were just not getting it.  So I said, he is the anxious looking male in the lobby, and they at once registered who it was and brought him in a jiffy.

Apparently, my nutty sister had gone off to get some food and pick up Lanes and so I was left with P to help me with my clothes. Considering my brain was not telling me where my limbs were, my upper body was sore, and P couldn’t tell my shirt apart from my sweatpants, it was a challenge to say the least.

We were given several instructions that I was not alert for, and for once I was glad for P’s overly methodical take charge nature. He was one step ahead, booking follow up appointments and preparing schedules for me. I was relieved that for once, I didn’t have to poke my nose into anything.

The nurses decided I was definitely in capable hands and they were rather pleased as punch with him.  While I’m sure I came off as jelly-legged and fuzzy brained, he came out looking like the poster boy for Husband of the Year. Poor P. This is the most attention he has had in ten years. Good for him.

Between extreme dizziness and nausea, I have no idea how I got to our apartment. All I remember is upchucking massive amounts of bile and collapsing onto the bed after a quick outfit change with the help of spouse and sibling.

Lanes was back and she snuck a peek at my wounds and immediately decided to make her aunt her instant security blanket. Meanwhile, P had all sorts of medication and food around me and he was breaking rest to drug me every four hours in attempts to stay ahead of the pain.

I was drifting in and out and longing to hang out with my nutty sister. In between, I drove her and P crazy because I deliriously tried micromanage what they were doing from my sick bed. They were amazed that even sedated as I was, I had to make sure things were running my way and that the kitchen was not a mess.

As predicted, though, my nutty sister announced she would leave the next day and not on Sunday and I was determined to fight the codeine and try to stay up to spend time with her. I think the drugs won that round. My head felt like it was on the spin cycle of a washing machine from the 1980s.

I must say that despite all the times I have complained that P never listens or spends too much time hogging our one and only bathroom, he took meticulous care of me. I woke up each day to find everything I could possibly need by my bed. 

Even though he has no time in the morning thanks to getting a grouchy Lanes up and running, he lovingly made French toast for me because that was the only thing I felt up for eating. So I guess, he does get Husband of the Year. Good boy. I hope he won't think I've bumped my head after reading this blog--compliments just don't come easy to me. I express love through sarcasm and synchronized eye rolling.

Now I’m off the pain medication but I made the mistake of researching life post surgery.  Charming side effects such as bile salt diarrhea, flatulence and cramps have had me in fear.  I have been eating carefully due to this.

Ok, I lie. It’s mostly because my nutty sister and P have cleared the apartment of any fatty foods and I’m too weak to call the local Chinese delivery. Plus, the menus are suspiciously missing.

This weekend, though, I have to try an iced coffee or french fries, to take my new digestive system out for a spin. I wouldn’t want to find these things out at a dinner party—not a good way to win friends and influence people.

With that I must sign out. More musings from BC next week…unless P has me committed for being uncharacteristically charming and sweet to him this week. Oh and below—a cartoon of what would have been had my nutty sister been around me for the surgery: