Monday, September 11, 2006

I'm alive! And I have photos! (No, not of the surgery.)

I'm happy to report that I'm not dead, yet. I also want to say that if you're ever in need of material for your blog, just go hang out at a hospital (and by hang out, I don't mean literally, despite those wretched gowns they make you wear). It doesn't have to be a long stay. In fact, it probably won't be a long stay unless you're minutes away from death (and then it still might not be a long stay, ha ha) or unless you are the latest 74 year old woman to deliver triplets.


I realize that hospital personnel are just trying to be pleasant, but really. Can't they come up with a better pre-op greeting than, "How are you today?" How's a patient supposed to answer that? "Great, just great. Getting cancer, having a big chunk of my body removed, puking after anesthesia -- it's a dream come true!"


I did try to lighten the mood a little on the trip to the operating room. As they were wheeling me down the hallway on my stretcher, I raised my arms, roller-coaster-rider fashion, and yelled, "Whoo whee!" Then everything went black. They said later that was because of the medications, but I think they decided I was having a little too much pre-operative fun and one of them whacked me with one of those rubber reflex hammers.


But the worst part is when your little recovery period is over. They wheel you from the privacy of your room back out into the public eye and there you sit, looking like something the cat coughed up. Your eyes are going in two different directions, your nose is itchy, and you've got a sore throat. You've got your bra on, but it's backward. You've got the worst case of bed head hair in history. But the most humiliating thing by far is this:




Yes! You have to wear these lovely support hose (modeled here with denim capris) out in front of everyone, including God and His dog. If I had known this was to be my post-operative attire, I would have prepared accordingly. I'd have taken mine home beforehand, done a tie-dye job on them, and then watched the nurses nervously discuss in whispered tones whether or not to get a psych consult. Good gravy. If you have to wear clothes that scream, "I'm old and infirm!", they might as well scream with flourish.


Anyway. I'm back. Now, where were we?

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