Saturday, May 25, 2013


“SIX POUNDS, SEVEN OUNCES! Congratulations!! It’s a benign uterine fibroid tumor! You must be so proud!”

My last conscious memory on Tuesday morning was getting wheeled down the hallway on a gurney, and reminding my mom to wake me up in time for the season finale of 'GRIMM'. As soon as I turned a corner, that’s all she wrote, folks, as the phrase goes. Lights out. So I didn’t have a clue what was going on around me for the next eight hours. George Clooney could’ve been reprising his E.R. role as Dr. Doug Ross, and I still would’ve been in anesthesia La-La-Land.
I had some groggy moments later; flashes of a room of gurney’d folks...medical staff sporting blue scrubs, with faces lit up by computer screens suggested I’d made it through the procedure.

So, I guess having stayed up til nearly 3 a.m., making out my ‘Last Will & Statements’ was moot. But, ya never know. Better safe than sorry. 
After gaining full consciousness, I was pretty much in the moment: tender in the middle of myself, and not feeling quite as ‘scooped out’ as I thought I would be, but knowing I was. The morphine definitely took the edge off, and I liked it up til the point it made me nauseous, thirteen hours later. (And, boy! Does it come on fast!) Also, one doesn't appreciate that incision pain until you have to sneeze. Talk about "Ouch!" :(

The nurses that looked after me were a great bunch. (Mary, Gayle, Bridget, Tamara, Iris, and Katie) And—I beg you to believe me that I’m not 'tooting-my-own-horn' about this—apparently, I was a dream-patient. I wasn’t one of those ‘Call-button-divas’ they dread. (“Bring me more drugs, dammit! I’m in pain!!” “Where’s my Jell-O?!” “Why haven’t I seen my doctor? She said she’d be here!”)  I can only assume that my caregiver background made for a more empathetic and humored approach regarding the staff. IOW, I was able to ‘talk-the-medico-talk’.
And, when it came to my surgeon’s interns needing to do a wound-check of my incision, I was as courteous as one could be toward one of the opposite sex. I’ve always preferred female physicians; regarding my lady-parts, one of my medical-professional requirements is that one must also have lady-parts. So, I dipped into my Downton Abbey lady-like self, and asked the male intern who showed up if he wouldn’t mind “stepping out with my Mom for a moment so that I could consult with the ladies.” 

He got the message. No hard feelings.

I thought I’d be able to go home the next day, but even the hospital has its requirements before you can say Au revoir…and it involves more than just holding down food. But I’ll spare you the graphic details. So, I wrote, read, and watched T.V. with a Zen-like affirmation that any accidental bun-in-the-ovens were a thing of the past.

Where were my visitors though, you ask? There were none, as I was keeping this procedure on the Q.T.  As I said a couple of entries ago, it’s nobody’s damn business by my own. (And what I choose to share in here, of course) Some of my family members tend to be a little too melodramatic about such experiences. (Code for ‘blabber-mouths’)

The after-care instructions are gonna kill me though; no driving for two weeks! Now, how the hell am I gonna get my Starbucks??

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