So I went through some surgery yesterday. Very interesting. Today I have a fat lip from a tooth puncture and a ginormous sore spot under my left chin. Not that I have two side by side chins—I have two vertical chins. But the right side of my top chin feels fine, while the left side feels like someone hit me with an uppercut in my sleep. Which, I’m pretty sure, is exactly what happened. And since the nurse who kept my airway open while I was snoozing was a giant Atlas-type guy, I’m blaming him. Secretly. In a blog. So he won’t hit me again.
I hesitate to mention exactly what this surgery was for. I don’t want to ruin your breakfast. Honestly, it was a pretty boring event and doesn’t really deserve blog space. Let’s just say it was outpatient girly stuff and that my husband has proven himself a saint once more.
I was pretty nervous going through it all. The thing is, I haven’t been put to sleep like that since I had my tonsils out at four years old, and I was pretty sure things had changed since then. Back when I was four, Ben Casey and Dr. Kildare were king and when I grew up I wanted to work as their nurse. I even had a Ben Casey doll, although I wished it was Dr. Kildare, cuz he was way more handsome.
So imagine how excited I got when they wheeled me in to the operating room fifty years ago and there, under that big bright light, was Dr. Kildare telling me to count backwards from ten. I think I made it to eight before falling asleep, but I woke up with a brain cramp and a sore throat as thanks for all my effort. Backward numbering just seems like a lot to ask of a four-year-old. I stopped watching Dr. Kildare after that. And I gave up on becoming a nurse.
Yesterday they didn’t make me do any mental gymnastics. They just wanted to know my name and birthdate and why I was there—over and over and over again. You know, it’s not like I wanted to be there. It was my doctor’s idea. I had to explain myself so many times to so many people, by the time they rolled me down the hall on a gurney, I was engaged in a full-blown identity crisis with a side order of insecurity.
Now that I’m awake, though, I’m pretty sure they’re the ones with the memory problems. I think I’ll send them a book of Sudoku puzzles as a thank you gift. They really need to get it together there—after all, I was wearing an I.D. bracelet that they gave me.
Really, the hardest part of the whole thing was the anticipation. That and the fact that they wouldn’t put me to sleep as soon as I put on that attractive hospital gown. Don’t you think they should knock you out right away so you don’t have to remember looking like a giant blue sack of potatoes with socks?
I’m glad it’s over. I hope it’s another fifty years before I take a tour of an operating room again. But should the need arise, one thing’s for sure. I’m wearing protective headgear next time. And getting my name tattooed on my arm. With my birth date. But not the name of my blog.
I don’t want to make that Atlas guy mad at me again.
Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinker-tailor/4226907020/