Surgical Matters

The only "before" shot I can find of my stomach. Which totally isn't fair, because not only is it actually of my back/side, but also it's from May 2007 (before I'd even started this blog). Hello me 5 years ago! (Why the hell did I own a crop top? And why do I appear to be wearing brown lipstick?)

Radio silence for a year, and now I can't stop posting. Go figure.

Part of that, of course, is that I haven't really told people about all this medical whatnot that's going on in my life. I have many friends who would be putting the play-by-play on Twitter or Facebook, but I don't feel right about it. I have a little bit of decorum (which is obviously why I'm putting it all on a blog on the internet in excruciating detail).

And part is because, once again, I can't sleep. But seeing as how I was in a medically induced sleep for 2.5 hours today, and then took a lengthy (though very uncomfortable) nap this afternoon, I'm not exactly shocked by it.

I went into the hospital this morning. I was directed to the wrong ward at first, where I was handed a flyer explaining how to get to the right one (so clearly, this mistake is a common one... and also, the hospital is a labyrinth, and you get to play the fun little game of "find the right OR" as part of your pre-surgery prep). Upon arrival in OR waiting room #2, one might've thought one had found a mysterious veterinary ward in the hospital, as it smelled unmistakably of a petting zoo.

My dad works at the hospital in which I was having my surgery (and has a big important job, in the same field as my surgery falls under). Having a family member who works in the hospital feels like a double-edged sword (and not just because it meant I learned the definition of "hysterectomy" at the dinner table when I was 6). As a result, there was a little parade of doctors and nurses coming in to introduce themselves to me, as though I were some sort of VIP (something similar happened at my colonoscopy last week, but it was more exaggerated this time). But knowing who my dad was (after seeing my unusual last name on a medical chart) seemed to make my anesthesiologist nervous, which was less than comforting.

Nurse Natalie had me take yet another pregnancy test (no matter how many times I tell them that I'm not having sex and it isn't physically possible for me to be pregnant, they just keep checking), before handing me a hilarious pair of what surely must be THE definitive white cotton granny panties (surely meant to prevent a patient from ever getting pregnant, by making her feel like they will never look sexy ever again once these things touch her body) to don underneath my hospital gown (which, this time, was meant to open in the back; yesterday, it was the front. I strongly suspect that there is a conspiracy afoot, but I've no idea what benefit it could possibly being doing for anyone).

Nurse Natalie was hilarious. She kept telling me how beautiful I am, which would've been much funnier if you'd seen me in the moment she was saying that. No make-up, still wet hair, clad in a baggy hospital gown (the granny panties were not visible... but Natalie and I both knew they were there). She said she was "given the gift of gab, but sometimes I wish God had granted me another gift instead."

Another nurse poked her head in to tell me that my dad seemed more nervous about the procedure than I was (which is funny, as he comforted me yesterday by saying that he has personally performed over 1500 of this particular surgery, and has only seen complications of any sort on 3, all of which were minor). She then invited both of my parents in behind my privacy curtain.

Even more comedic than Nurse Natalie was Anesthesia Nurse Lynn. I wish I could remember the things she said, but as she arrived right around the time that I was being drugged out of my mind, I can only recall fragments. I remember my parents dying of laughter in the corner of the room at the nurse's quips, and thinking that if I filmed them they could give the parents of Olympic gymnast Aly Raisman a run for their money. I wish I could recall more. I know Nurse Lynn dryly said, "Oh good, this one's alive," as she checked my pulse. I also remember her referring to me as a "cheap date" and saying that it wasn't going to take much of a dose to knock me out. She said that right as she emptied a third of the dosage in her syringe into my IV, around which point I began slurring my words. Touché, Nurse Lynn.

The surgeon (whom I have mentally labelled as Dr. Squid, since that's easier to remember than her multi-syllabic Italian surname) showed up smiling. She had just come from "catching a baby" (doctor humor implying that the delivery was imminent when an Ob/Gyn arrived on the scene) of a woman in her 42nd week of pregnancy (gestation is usually 40 weeks, so I'm sure that mom couldn't wait for the baby to come flying out), and was in a good mood.

Dr. Squid reiterated the risks of the procedure. My parents both sat next to me. She brought in a cheery resident named Dallas who would assist, as well as a Yale medical student by the name of Alan who would be observing. I remember saying, "Ah, neat. Have fun, Alan. I hope you enjoy it." The doctor said they would be taking pictures of me internally. I asked if I could have copies (for Instagram, obviously)*. When I was a kid, my dad used to leave pictures of various patients' interior cavities lying around the house during his dictations (including in the kitchen), so I thought it would be cool to have some of my own. She said absolutely, although it seemed to have been an unusual request.

*(Don't worry, kids. That was a joke. I want to see pictures of my organs, but I realize that not everyone else does. No matter HOW cool my appendix looks.)

Once again I was wheeled down a hallway, and that's where the memory stops. I don't even remember them putting that blue shower-cap thing over my damp hair. There is a foggy memory in which someone said my boyfriend Phil had called to check on me (which happened post surgery, but pre-actually waking up), but that's all I've got. Apparently the doctor came in and told me all about the surgery, but, as she predicted, I can't recall a second of that.

In the end they found... *drumroll*... nothing. The photos were normal. The tests were negative. I have absolutely no useful intel (unless you count "ruling out even more potential problems" as useful, which I'm reluctant to do at this point), and I have two shiny new scars (which I can't even see yet, because I have to keep the first bandages on for 48 hours, and will have steri-strips and stitches for another week after that. There was one thing that looks vaguely weird in the photos, but both my dad and Dr. Squid agreed that they don't think that anything is wrong with that.

My two incision sites, covered by what appear to be cotton balls and clear medical tape. I find the belly-button obstruction a bit unsettling. Also a hospital bracelet. And a bit of unflattering hospital-grade granny panty, which I just noticed now. And, purely coincidentally, a shirt from the American Medical Association. I'm also wearing Eiffel Tower patterned pajama bottoms that say "I see London, I see France, which now seem more appropriate in light of the visible granny panties.

I was nauseated when I left the hospital as a result of the anesthesia. And then I started having all the pains that Dr. Squid predicted I would have, but which all seem unintuitive. My shoulders hurt, especially the right one, just as she said would happen. I have pain underneath my rib cage, which she said would happen. And while I do have some pain in my abdomen, it is neither in the places where I normally have pain, nor at the sites of incision. It's all very strange to me. Dr. Squid said the pains will probably last a couple of days.

My right shoulder and my ribs, though. Wow. I don't have words to describe the pain. It feels like a pitched an entire softball game, and then got tackled by a linebacker about 3 times. And for a non-athletic person, that's pretty insane. (So non-athletic, in fact, that you should be shocked that I know what linebackers do.)

[TMI ALERT: I'm also now having symptoms of overactive bladder disorder, which I hope are temporary and assume are the result of catheterization. And that sucks.]

I cannot be in any position without pain. I'm typing parts of this entry just with my left hand in order to try to maneuver my right arm into various angles to try to lessen the pain (unsuccessfully, I might add; I think I'm actually making the pain spread into my neck). At one point tonight, when I talked with my brother on the phone to tell him how I was doing, I started having a shortness of breath while sitting on the couch from trying to talk and manage my pain at the same time. I had to hand over the phone to my mother because I couldn't focus enough to talk anymore. That's how bad I am at dealing with this pain.

And here's a laugh: they didn't give me any awesome pain meds. No vicodin or oxycodone for me. You know what they gave me? "Prescription-strength ibuprofen". Which is a joke. One prescription-strength ibuprofen is the same dosage (400mg) as two regular strength ibuprofens. I'm allowed to take 2 every 8 hours. Which is 800mg. Why is this all so funny to me? Because when I have my normal stomach pains, my doctor told me to take 800mg of ibuprofen every 4 hours. Which means 800mg over 8 hours isn't going to cut it, because my body is used to more. (My father was very upset upon learning how much ibuprofen I normally take, and is insisting that it's going to eat a hole through my stomach lining. Great.)

[Just remembered that I was able to have another dose. Went out and popped more pills. Sorry, Daddy.]

If I had to do it over, I'd still have the surgery. At least now I don't have to wonder about whether the surgery might be able to diagnose something (my dad has been telling me to have it for over a year now).

I don't know where we go from here. I think my gastroenterologist might try me on some medication, and I'm going to go back on the other medication from my Ob/Gyn. I might have to go on a reductive diet (although I really, really don't want to have to say goodbye to carbs or dairy, even temporarily).

But I'm not going to worry about that now.

My plans for the next two days:
- Get my shoulder to stop hurting.
- Finish the SAG-AFTRA paperwork for my short film.
- Find an amazing dress for my high school reunion.

That's it. Nothing more.


May you always know what your next step will be.

~A~