Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Adventures in Unremarkable Organ Removal

Distraction was the key to managing my pre-surgery jitters when last week I finally got the guts (*cough*) to have my gall bladder removed. 
The drugs didn’t come until later.
It was my husband, Fred, who accidentally cheered me up in the waiting room by trying to make a “basket” with my wadded up wet facial tissues. He missed so many times it was like watching a Laurel and Hardy movie.  By the time he finally sunk it, a crowd was engaged, Fred was red-faced from bending over and I was snorting.
“Whatever entertains you,” Fred said, embarrassed.
Next, I was kept busy trying to put my sterile gown on all by myself. I was required to ASSEMBLE the gown from scratch, snapping material together to create sleeves and various ties (A – D) threaded through various holes (1-6).  The technology was dizzying.  Finally “dressed” and on the gurney, some guy came along with an EKG machine and promptly undid everything. 
The pre-surgery fun continued with my shin wrap fitting.  These wraps inflate and deflate so you don’t get blood clots.  The irony is--I’m way more “motionless” and, thus, “blood-clot fertile” at home in front of the TV than I am during a 1 hour operation, but after a few minutes I rather liked the massage feeling my calves were getting.  It almost felt like a spa treatment. 
I was finally all hooked up to IVs, massaging shin apparatuses in place and draped in my masterpiece snap-together gown.  Naturally I had to use the bathroom.  I kept the nurses busy readying me for my bathroom trip, which resulted in approximately 2 teaspoons worth or pee.  Back to bed, I was hooked up again. 
“Do you SERIOUSLY have to go again?” Fred inquired, moments later. 
“It’s just the “idea” of “not being able to go”,” I said, pulsing the nurse-button.
For all the grief “Gally” the gall bladder had giving me these many months, I half hoped it would emerge in the operating room covered with barnacles and spikes to the horror of all who gazed upon it—an “Alien” hissing organ that fought to survive, bopping and weaving away from the surgeon’s pincers like a boxer. 
“Did the doctor write anything about my gall bladder?” I inquired, doped. 
“No, he usually dictates his notes later,” a nurse replied.
“But, did YOU see my gall bladder?” I asked.