Up My Own Ass

Perhaps you will all recall last December when I lamented about my adventures with diagnostic laparoscopy and how it really freaked me out and how glad I was to get it over with.

Clearly, I should have kept my mouth shut.

As I am allowing the Vicodin haze to lift, I feel as though I have earned the right to kvetch again.  This time it was a laparoscopic cholecystectomy.  That means I had my gallbladder removed.  It’s really best not to ante up your organs when playing Texas Hold’em.  Seriously.  Not a good idea.  Fortunately, I will not suffer a significant lack of gall in its absence.  My heart will go on and on.  I would like Drew Barrymore to portray me in the TV movie.

Part of what makes me ME is my morbid fear of general anesthesia, and the fact that the very idea of being put under makes me think that they are just dunking my head into a tub of water and holding me under for the duration of  the operation.  Obviously, that doesn’t REALLY happen, but it still freaks me out.  In retrospect, I think my adventure last December was just a warm-up for this situation.  In comparison, that was a much more touch-feely, “how are you feeling?” affair while this one was more like, “Okay, fellas, glue’er shut and bring in the next one.”

I reported for duty at 5:30 a.m., per my orders, and I was instructed to put on a gown with the logo “Bair Paws,” which featured several ventilation ducts that would allow for my gown to be inflated, should the procedure require participation in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.  With very little fanfare, I was wheeled to the pre-op area where I was not allowed to have my hubby OR my glasses, so that made for a perfectly uncomfortable 45 minutes until I was ready for part two.  As an upside, the anesthesiologist who started my IV caused me NO PAIN, and then he gave me some lovely medicine that took a great deal of the stress away.  Dr. Happy.

Since I couldn’t identify any of the medical personnel, I made it a point to ask everyone who came near me for my gallstones after my operation.  They all said, “SURE!  No PROBLEM!” except for the actual surgeon doing the operation, who informed me that it is evidently considered UNSANITARY to give me my own gallstones.  I was as indignant as a 5th of Versed would allow, and they wheeled me to station two – Choppityville. 

They made me climb onto the skinny little operating table – blind and naked, save for the paper ventilation gown – while Dr. Happy placed a mask over my face to give me “a little oxygen.”  I only recall taking two breaths.

I awoke in another bed that was positioned at the intersection of two post-operative thoroughfares with a mask still on my face, coughing weakly and completely disturbed by my total disorientation as the nurse said (in her scary, deep, sci-fi voice), “You’re all done, Katie.  You’re in the recovery room.”  My fucking side hurt like I had been in a knife fight.  In fact, if you have ever watched Youtube video of laparoscopic surgery, you would know that you are actually poked like a Capri Sun pouch (4 separate times, in my case).  As soon as the fog drifted from my eyes, we were moving again, this time to some other post-recovery recovery room.  This is like the fourth friggin’ room I’ve been in.  Now they want me to walk.  Seriously, I am about 7 minutes on this side of anesthesia, and this nurse has me up and walking.  Then she’s wondering why I can’t walk a straight line and want to lay back down.  She went and got another nurse who informed me that I can only hang around for a little while longer because they would only keep me about an hour after surgery, and I guess most of that hour I was not conscious.  Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?

With hubby’s help, I managed to get the shirt on my top half, and both legs through the pantlegs on the bottom half, careful not to disturb my Frankenbelly.  Then they dropped my ass into a wheelchair and parked me at the curb while honeydew went to to get the car.  It was hot and I was a little nauseated.

I did get the chance to ask the anesthesiologist how long the surgery took, and he said, “20 minutes, skin to skin.”  While that sounds pornographic, I can only imagine that means, “from the first Capri Sun punch to the last drop of Gorilla Glue.”  That was comforting, although I have no idea why.  I was really just glad to be done.

I am on day 3 of my recovery and, although I hastily ate some french fries today which did NOT go over well, I am actually feeling considerably better.  I have been relieved of pains that I had had since my teenage years that I thought I would be stuck with forever.  The worst part of it has been the GODDAMNED SHOULDER PAIN caused by the CO2 they inflate you with like a balloon.  They deflate you afterwards, but obviously not completely.  That hurts like your entire right side is filled with shattered glass.  Good times. 

Once again, I am on the preferred side of anesthesia and I am again glad to be done with this foolishness.  I have decided that I am putting my intention into the universe not to need any more surgery.  Ultimately, it wasn’t THAT bad, and I will do it again if I have to, but I will kvetch just as much as I damn well please.

Narcotics, anyone?