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.

 

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.

Brace Face. Metal Mouth. Tinsel Teeth.

It is weird to look into the mirror and wonder what may be looking back in a few months.

For years, dentists would say, “when you getting that fixed?’ But there was never a good time to have braces and surgery. Looking back I should have had this all done when I was 14 during summer break, but alas my mom was not keen on the idea when she heard what they wanted to do.

Apparently I have a crazy jaw. I can’t eat like normal folks and have learned over the years to adapt and make it work. Oh, and if I yawn? My jaw gets stuck wide open and I have to call 911 to pop it back into place. Do you have any idea how annoying that is? I basically have TMJ and a bunch of other malocclusion stuff. Whatever.

All I know is that I have braces as an adult which is less than ideal is oh so many ways. And in January, surgeons will break my lower and upper jaw and realign everything allowing me to eat, breathe and continue living.

The details are fascinating albeit gory. I will spare you details (no, it is not like Face Off), but let’s just say as the months creep closer to January I am wondering what I was thinking. If it wasn’t for the pesky “you have five years to live without this surgery” warning from the docs I wouldn’t be doing this.

So, wired jaws, mushy foods and lots of Jamba Juice are in my future. It will be surreal to see my face change. Hopefully the “Big Book of British Smiles” is not in my future.

Nine Years Later

Nine years ago today I awoke to a phone call. I rolled over, sort of annoyed that anyone was calling before 9am since I am a notoriously cranky morning person. I had moved back home with my mom and siblings after being laid off in San Francisco during the now infamous dot com days. It was my boyfriend (now husband) and photojournalist on the phone.

Him: “Turn on the TV.”

His voice had urgency so I knew I needed to wake up. Me: ” What’s going on?” I then looked for the remote and turn the channel to the NBC affiliate.

Him: “I am okay. I am going to New York.”

Me, still groggy: “Looks like just a really bad fire.  Why does the station want you to go to New York for just a fire?”

Him: “It was a plane. They are thinking terrorist.”

Me: “Whoa, another plane just the hit the tower!”

Him: “No, that is the video from the first.”

Me: “No, another one just hit live on TV! Be safe!”

Him: “I gotta go.”

I spent the rest of the morning glued to the TV. It was horrendous hearing stories of lost loved ones and imagining the terror and fear of those trapped in the towers. Hearing and seeing people fall from the towers and wondering if it was by choice or false step that made them tumble. And as the daughter of a firefighter, it was wrenching to see and hear of so many first responders simply disappearing into a pyroclastic cloud of metal, heat and dust. I watched paper work flutter to the ground and wondered if the work represented there was from people who no longer were alive.

That evening I had to pull myself away and get something to eat. I drove to the local market and it was so eerie to be in a market, with muzak playing calmly overhead. There wasn’t more than 20 people in the store. Everyone was glazed over and the place was silent. Not a noise or voice broke the silence.

Today, I awoke next to my husband almost to the moment as when I awoke nine years ago. I looked at the clock and felt grateful to be alive, thankful for people like my dad, and sorrow for the many people that never had the chance to see this day. Moments later our seven year old son climbed into bed with us and proceeded to snuggle in. Precious.

Just a few hours later, we were off to celebrate a friends birthday party. Part of me still felt it odd to be celebrating something like a child’s birthday. September 11 still feels too sacred. On the way, there was one woman waving a flag over the freeway overpass with a sign that said, “Never Forget.”  And I never will.

The Power Moms

You can spy them from a mile away. Every school has them, but they take on different persona’s and outfits. At our elementary school the uniform of choice is work out wear to reinforce that they have the luxury of working out midday, hair coiffed in a way that suggests that no effort was made when we all know it was, minimal make-up, fancy purse and a minivan. These are the Power Moms.

And so it begins.

Every year our school hosts a “Welcome Back Day” where parents walk through a seemingly endless line of enrollment form queue’s only to be greeted with a request for “suggested” financial donations to the school. This is testing ground for the Power Moms. Here, they run the queue’s and seek out their potential brethren. The outfits here are always perfect, down to the manicured toes and matching lipstick.

These are more than just PTA and soccer moms. They are high-powered female executives who left mighty careers to raise their kids. And they bring that same energy and efficiency to the school yard.

A few days later on the first day of school, after the kids are settled and the tears are wiped away, all the parents gather in the cafeteria for coffee, sweets and judging folks from afar. Okay, I made that last part up.

I dread and look forward to this event. I instantly revert to my high school nerd self, watching in awe as the pretty cheerleader-type laughs and tosses her hair over her shoulder with such ease. Instead, I guard the cookie plate and pretend to look relaxed. I wonder how these women find the time to get so dolled up at 6am and I wonder if they were indeed high school cheerleaders. I was in the marching band. And I apparently am still marching to a different beat.

This year, one of the Power Moms waved to me. Then she realized I wasn’t who she thought I was. Awkward. It is weird how I want to hang out with these women. Wait, that is not entirely true. Part of it is pure amazement that such people exist and pull it off so easily. I am sure they are nice and lovely folks too. And there is some jealousy. I would love to work out at 10am and then “do lunch.”  Heck, I would settle for just the “do lunch.”

If this year is anything like last year, I can expect some uncomfortable planning meetings for school events, re-introducing myself three or four times, guarding more cookie plates, and being assigned the less than desired volunteer jobs. At least there are cookies.

Summer Yummy