Post-Op

part one

There were two surgeons, Katherine, the resident, my nurse Brandwyn and another anesthesiologist who had very large brown eyes. They were all busy getting ready as I came in.

One of the surgeons quipped that she hates it when folks greet her with tears. I wasn’t in the mood to be funny however.  I wanted to be far away from the OR, on a beach preferably. With a large girly drink in a pineapple.  An umbrella wouldn’t hurt either.

As I was wailing, saying I didn’t want to do this and was too scared, they quickly escorted me to the operating table. I was still bawling and was annoyed when I asked for some tissue and was instead give a wad of gauze. It just seemed wrong.

As the surgeon said everything would be alright, the anesthesiologists worked stealthily, applying leads here and there. Then, the surgeon boomed, “Time out!” Everyone stopped in a freeze-tag kind of way. The surgeon, masked and ready to go, said to me, “Who are you and what are we doing to you today? And what is your medical records number?” I feebly got my name out and explained they were there to break my face, which garnered chuckles from the medical team. Ha ha. Then as I was in the middle of rattling off my birthdate and medical record number (how nerdy am I that I actually have that memorized?) I was out. Those sneaky anesthesiologists knocked me out via my IV and that was all she wrote.

The next thing I remember I was being wheeled to the Recovery Room. I was tired and wanted to sleep. I looked at the clock and it was about 1pm. I wondered how the surgery went and if anyone had updated my husband in the waiting room somewhere.

At about 2pm I woke up with a start. The recovery room held eight beds and my neighbor starting hollering. She wasn’t in pain. Oh no. She was singing the praises of morphine, puppies, unicorns and teddy bears. She was high as a kite and was recovering from some sort of leg surgery. The weird thing about my recovery is that even though I too was on the morphine drip, everything was completely clear. I couldn’t get up or move much, but my mind was sharp.

I instantly wanted to throw a pillow at my neighbor. She had a beanie baby she pretended to fly over her head and then she began to babble about being in a car accident. She appeared to be in her 60s. While checking her vitals, her nurse, without missing a beat, asked, “So, how long have you been a drug addict?”  The woman replied, “Thirty-six wonderful years.”

The woman would then sort of slow down and just when I would doze off, she would start singing at the top of her lungs again.  And every time she did that, my heart would jump sending the monitors off the chart, causing a bevy of nurses to run to my bedside. I tried to tell them it was her, but I hadn’t quite gotten the knack of talking with my mouth wired shut. This happened until about 7pm when she was finally wheeled to a room.

At five minutes to 8pm, my attentive nurse Tom got antsy. He started loading up my bed and explained I was now being moved to my room. They had finally found one. Looking around the recovery area it wasn’t hard to notice that this was obviously the end of the day for the recovery nurses; monitors were being turned off and lights were going dim as folks grabbed their purses.

As I was being wheeled away yet again, I wondered if anyone had contacted my husband. I hadn’t seen him since the morning and my time in Recovery was only supposed to be an hour or two. I couldn’t worry about that for long as the hospital was like a landmine. Every hallway we entered was narrow and I had to use my arms to push chairs and carts out of the way. The nurse rammed my bed into the doorway of the elevator three times. I seriously just wanted to get out and walk.

Finally at 8:05pm I rolled into my room. I quickly glanced to my new roomie — an elderly woman and waited for my husband to arrive.

 

 

Pre-Op

I wasn’t sure whether I would actually write this post. But after tossing and turning for hours last night, I think it may do my soul some good.

I had surgery on January 7, 2011. The plan was to break my upper and lower jaws, but when all was said and done it ended up being only the top jaw.

My husband and I arrived promptly at 9:30am to begin intake for my estimated 12:30pm surgery. Of course, traffic was a breeze and I wasn’t even allowed a bit of a roadway gaffe to postpone the surgery.

I should say now that I have never had surgery of any kind before and this was all very surreal. My cell rang as we hopped in the elevator. It was a friend asking how I was doing. Good question. I seemed pretty okay I guess, but scared.

In the worlds smallest hospital room (bathroom was the size of an airline bathroom) I put on two hospital gowns, some really ugly booties, a blue hair net and started answering questions after getting an IV. Was I healthy? Uhm, yes? I don’t know. Has anyone in my family had problems with anesthesia? Uhm, I don’t know. Damn you family tree.  How would I rate my cardiac health? Sheesh. Guess I should have done more cardio at the gym.

The anesthesia resident was named Katherine and I couldn’t help staring at her name badge, her purple eye shadow perfectly applied for that dusty effect and wondering why she chose her profession. She must have sensed my underlying fear and snarkiness. She promised to explain every little bit as she would prep me in the OR. I then asked about her surgical outcomes. Without skipping a beat, she said, “My outcomes? Let’s just say I am damn good.” Great, I have Christina Yang as my doc.

Then Brandwyn came in and introduced herself. She would be my OR nurse. Until lunch. That didn’t make me feel better. I didn’t like the thought of nurses coming and going to go grab a turkey on rye while I am on the table.  She then loaded me on a wheelchair and we were off.

It was like a slow race. There was an Hispanic gentleman a few years older than me being loaded onto his wheelchair. We were wheeled side by side down the hall and through the “surgical gowns from here on” area. We were silent. The nurses were chatty, talking about their evening plans. I knew he was having leg surgery from earlier when the nurse pulled up the OR schedule to see if we were on time. He looked scared too.

I’ve been in dozens of ORs for work and have always been very respectful of the space. Lives are saved and lives are lost everyday in ORs. But for me to be the patient was very unsettling. Everything seemed too white. Too cold. Too alone.  It is no wonder they roll you in; that way you can’t run.

We then arrived at door one and they wheeled me inside. I saw a bevy of folks, stood up and began to lose it. Big fat tears, wailing,  sniffling and more. Suddenly, I wished I had run.

 

Friday Lurks

I never really thought January 7th would arrive. It always seemed very far off and mythical. Now, I am staring at a calendar and realizing, “Oh. I guess this Friday is the day.” Yep. The day they break my upper and lower jaws.

Fenton's, here I come.

Today, I had a fascinating and disturbing pre-op appointment where every nip and incision was detailed. It was interesting until I remembered that this is my destiny in just a few days.

Things That Scare the Crud Out of Me:

• Loosing feeling in my face. The nurse was very casual that paralysis in the face may last up to a year or be permanent. Imagine that awful Novocaine feeling full-time.
• Feeling claustrophobic. I’ve never been claustrophobic but the thought of having my mouth wired shut makes me just want to open wide.
• Eating. I don’t like soup and I can’t even eat Jamba Juice post surgery. No justice.

 

 

Weird Things I Learned Today:

• I was the second oldest patient in the mandatory pre-op class. And I was one of only two women. The remainder of the 10 patients were 19-year-old dudes who plan on being cared for by doting moms and grandmas. Ah, youth.
• One should be “zen” about the concept of post-surgical vomiting. Thank you for that image, nurse.
• They want me to eat 3200 calories a day. Even on Thanksgiving I can’t pull down those numbers. Weight loss, here I come!

The last few days, we have made it a family mission to eat whatever I want so I can expunge the cravings from my palette before the big day. It feels like some weird food contest/budding eating disorder.  Sushi, Zachary’s pizza and spring rolls are now checked from the list. In-n-Out Burger and Fenton’s are still star attractions yet to come.

I still haven’t decided if I should take pictures and post them here. My husband is a photojournalist and very keen to document my new face, so we’ll see.

 

Do I Smell Salmon?

Could I have ordered steak? I will never know.

It happens every time we eat out.

“How many?’ We answer three and yes we would like a kids menu. We are then shuttled to the obvious kid area of the restaurant where a mix of crayons and Cheerios litter the floor and where other parents are sequestered from the “real” patrons. There is usually a toddler nearby in a high chair banging a spoon or a stroller with way too much baby gear parked near the table near the restroom.

We’ve adapted to this reality even though our son is now older and has table manners. But what comes next annoys my husband and now myself as I have noticed it too. The waiter comes over, drops off water glasses and NEVER shares the specials. Never.

Is this trite? Absolutely. It was a game at first. Will they or won’t they? And now, after taking an informal count, only once in the last 6 months have we ever heard the specials. We hear other patrons nearby being told of delicate salmon prepared with rosemary potatoes, braised ribs, and all other sorts of fun things that we only dare to dream of. They are offered wine lists while we wait endlessly for bread.

My husband at first thought it was racial since we are in a mixed marriage. We live in the SF Bay Area where tolerance for everything is quite high so I shot that down. Then he thought maybe it was that we weren’t “fancy” looking preferring jeans and sneakers. But the reality is that when you are seated in the kid zone of the restaurant you may as well be in the Antarctic.

On behalf of parents every where, waiters, please don’t assume we parental folks are not interested in real food. We do eat more than macaroni cheese and chicken tenders. And yes, we do tip. So bring on the bread basket, wine list, specials and dessert menus. Chances are we need a drink after sitting in kid land.

 

Ho Ho No?

I remember the day that the gig was up. I was about six or seven years old and had asked my mom for some gum. She was in the shower and replied that I should go find her purse and help myself. I toddled off to her bedroom and found the mother lode: all my Christmas presents from Santa wrapped and ready to go under her bed.

Fast forward many years later and now my seven-year old is asking questions. Last week alone he asked three times if I was Santa. I asked where he heard such things. School mates of course. And then I asked why did he care? His response tickled my funny bone: “Because I need to know if I need to do this thing for my kids…”

I think he knows. But his eyes still glow with the magic of one who wants to believe in tooth fairies and Santa. I think I may dance around this one until January. I would love to get one more magical year of putting out cookies and leaving carrots for the reindeer.

“C” is for coffee

Found these fun gems in Columbia, California. Too bad I don’t drink coffee.

“B” is for butterfly

The Competitive Mom

I think I may have had this conversation.

“A” is for Apple

“A” is for Apple. Thanks Apple Hill for another year of family memories. The pie, cider and fritters were delicious.

The Reluctant Neighbor

Suburbia: the final frontier

When I was about six we lived on a cul-de-sac ripe with kids. We all rode bikes, had sleepovers, ruled the local park, had scavenger hunts and played kickball until sunset and relished being a kid. Then Debbie moved in.

She was one of seven kids. They lived two doors down and their house was chaos. It was a three bedroom house and there was so much activity over there I couldn’t see straight. As a then only child, so many people in such closed quarters exhausted me.

Debbie must have sensed the calm (and hefty amount of junk food) at my abode. She would practically stalk our driveway waiting for us to come home and would arrive at 7am on Saturday morning ready to play. My mom was polite but hated the constant doorbell ringing. And Debbie and I weren’t even that close of friends. It was awkward.

Flash forward many years. One of my 6-year-old son’s classmates has moved in next door. His mom seems nice enough but I can tell wants us and the boys to buddy up. After 10 minutes of casual conversation, her boy wanted to carpool, come over for dinner and have a sleepover. She then suggested babysitting, promised to call or come over this Saturday and has inquired already about our plans for next weekend.

Maybe I am a curmudgeon. I instantly had flashbacks of Debbie and was wondering if this new kid in our neighborhood would be my son’s Debbie. I threw some trash away tonight under the cover of darkness and  felt myself looking over my shoulder to see if they were running out their door.

I know I need to play nice with others and welcome this new friend but I also need to set up some ground rules. I think I will start with “mommy doesn’t do playdates before 10am on weekends.” Heck, we are still just waking up at 9am on the weekend. Ah, the joys of navigating the murky waters of classroom friendships. But I must be open to a new friend and also learn how to say no — just like back in the day with Debbie.