Tuesday 30 November
We got into Phoenix late last night, and checked into our hotel. It seems nice enough but they don�t have any rooms on the first floor, which is what I requested when I booked the room. They should have one for us by the end of the day today, which is good. I am dreading the bowel prep but am already sick to my stomach from too much dairy, I think. Three protein shakes per day, made with skim milk, whey protein and sugar free Nesquik is a lot of lactose to digest, particularly for someone who barely ever drinks milk. I think Ill be trying soymilk for my post-op shakes.
The bowel prep goes fine. In fact, apart from the horrific taste of the stuff (like liquid salt) I have had bouts of the stomach flu that have felt worse. I imagine my colon is clean as a whistle. I take my Ativan and go to sleep.
Wednesday 1 December
We get to the hospital early, 8:45 when they told us 9:00 am. I wish we hadn�t. The volunteer told us we�ll be waiting an hour or so before they even call us back to pre-op. The husband cannot come with me until I�m almost ready to go and even then he just can come back and say goodbye before they whisk me off to the OR. We sit around watching Montel and looking at the other people in the waiting area. I look longingly at the water fountain approximately every 1.5 seconds. I am so thirsty. Finally, I get to go back around 9:30 or so.
I brought a book with me, Trace by Patricia Cornwell, a Scarpetta novel. I love her work, so it�s easy to get engrossed in the novel and not in what is happening around me. I get an EKG done, and it�s embarrassing because the tech is a Hispanic guy who has to move my boob around. I imagine I am anywhere but on a gurney in the pre-op ward.
The anesthesiologist comes in and he�s very nice. I tell him I need to be completely sedated by the time they wheel me into the OR, or I�ll panic once they start to tie me down. He assures me I�ll be very comfortable. The husband comes in and the IV is in. I can�t believe I�m doing this, cannot believe that I am oddly calm in the face of this potentially life threatening, and most definitely life changing, procedure.
Dr. Zahn comes in and rubs my shoulders, tells me it�s time to go and he�ll see me back in the OR. The bed starts to move but I�m already feeling warm and fuzzy.
We�re in the OR and I move to the table. The nurse splays my arms out and tapes them down and buckles me to the table. I am detached, not really involved in this.
What�s that terrible smell, I ask.
That�s the medicine the anesthesiologist tells me. I barely hear him. I�m out.
�Wake up you did great!� I hear. I am alive, I think. I didn�t die. I feel like a truck hit me.
The next few hours are a total blur. I know the husband is there, petting my head and asking if I want ice chips. All I want is sleep though.
I finally come around at about 5:00 pm or so. I get out of bed and move a bit, trying to pee. I can�t remember if I have gone or not, that afternoon is clouded by Demerol and morphine and other glorious narcotics.
I remember my roommate has her family with her, two daughters in their twenties and a three year old grandson who keeps trying to surf on the IV poles. The husband is angry but I tell him not to worry, I couldn�t care less. I am sore but not in terrible pain and ice chips taste like champagne. I get up to go to the bathroom and have nauseous dry heaves. It feels as if the entire contents of my stomach cavity may burst through the incisions. The nurse is so sweet, and the husband talks me through it until she can run back with the Phenergan shot. It works and I am no longer nauseous but my stomach muscles remember the heaves and I am scared of doing it again. The medicine helps me sleep.
The husband leaves around 8:00 pm and I am alone, in the dark. The roommate has her TV on until midnight, but I am drifting in and out. Nurses come in to give me pain meds, heparin shots to thin my blood, check the inflatable booties that are pumping on and off, on and off on my feet.
At 3:00 am a tech comes in to take some of my blood. Why this is necessary at 3:00 am I have no idea but apparently it is. He�s from New York City and we talk a while about the differences between city life and desert life. He�s nice. I wish he�d stay and talk because once he�s gone, it�s just me alone in the darkness, listening to the roommate snore. She can sleep on her side, the lucky bitch. It�s 3:30 am and I am beginning to get the full impact of what I�ve done.
There is no going back, no reverse, no way to turn back time and undo this. I want to cry but I am afraid it will hurt too much. The morphine shot kicks in and I sleep.
ciao - 08 July 2005
Give Us Candor - 29 June 2005
Not even Johnny Depp is better than sleep - 26 June 2005
breathe - 25 June 2005
the joy of pepsi... or something - 22 June 2005
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