*wanting to prove that I can, in fact, write a post here that doesn’t include hockey*
*is going to be a big challenge*
So on Friday, April 11th — one month after having my pre-op consultation — I got up sickeningly early to hop in the shower, continue to have nothing to eat or drink, and then drive myself to the outpatient surgery center with dear hubby in tow. Surgery was scheduled for 7:30 AM, check in was an hour and a half prior.
If I have failed to mention it, I had a lump on the back right side of my neck, just where my neck becomes my back. I’d had it for a few years but in the midst of that span of time, it abscessed and had to be lanced in an emergency room. That was quite possibly one of the worst experiences of my life. I was assured by the ER doctor that it would not come back, although there was a chance it could.
I knew immediately that it would.
And it did. And I felt that I had to deal with having it removed “properly” before it had the opportunity to abscess again. . . and I’d go through the whole ER ordeal, have it grow back a third time, etc., etc.
After a few days thought after my consultation, I’d decided to be sedated for the outpatient surgery. The surgeon said it was small enough I could go with just a local, but seeing that I’m prone to anxiety attacks, depression and was diagnosed bipolar a couple years ago, he recommended general anesthetic. I thought the general was an overkill, so the sedative was a happy compromise.
After checking in, I was lead back to be undressed and redressed fairly promptly, and then they let dear hubby come back to keep me company until my time (which seemed like an eternity while I was curled up on a strange chair and shivering in a hospital gown, but in actuality was probably only ten to fifteen minutes). I then had to relinquish my glasses and was led (blindly) down a few corridors and into an operating room.
My legs were weak and my heart was racing and I remember having a great respect for people throughout history who have walked to where they knew they would be executed. I don’t know how they managed to do it. (Especially if they were innocent.) I was escorted by one nurse, and then joined in the operating room by a second nurse, an attendant and the anesthesiologist.
They settled me onto the table, covered me in three or four blankets (it was under 70 degrees in there, and they’d turned on the heater to try to warm things up), got a blood pressure cuff on one arm while the anesthesiologist made quick (and impressively painless!) work of getting the IV/catheter in my arm. I requested he attempt the crook of my elbow as opposed to the top of my hand (which is where I’d had my only other IV experience and it HURT!!!!!!). The guy was an absolute expert. 
I had my eyes closed meanwhile, to try not to throw up, freak out or start crying.
When I opened them, I found myself looking at the giant OR lamps and I was shocked at how quickly I knew the sedative was going to work. The lamps looked FUNNY. And I felt a little woozy. So I asked if I could just take a nap, if the sedative made me sleepy enough.
The anesthesiologist said “sure, but I doubt you’ll be able to sleep.”
I remember talking to them (relaying that I was actually eager to have this experience for use as a reference in my writing) and hearing the nurse comment that the surgeon was around, but running late.
I fell asleep.
I remember rousing when I was given the local (I wasn’t really aware of any pain, just sensation) and then rousing again with what I assume was the installation of my stitches.
The next thing I know, the anesthesiologist is pulling the oxygen tube from my nose, asking me to turn my head, and the nurse is telling me to sit up slowly and get into a chair they had next to the table.
Sedatives and painkillers are funny things. I was aware of what was going on. I was awake. But. . . I felt good. I was apparently very talkative and amiable, and relieved as hell the worst was over.
I was given a small cup of ice water (the first thing I’d had to drink or eat in over twelve hours by that point), followed by a small box of orange juice. I seemed to take everything very well and was excited that I’d come out of the sedative easily. (Ha.)
The surgery took much less time than they anticipated, and I was released from the surgery center in half the time I thought I’d be.
On the way home, we stopped by Target to fill my painkiller prescription at the pharmacy. (Oh, hydrocodone, how I love thee.) Everything was going REALLY well until it suddenly wasn’t. We were a few aisles from the pharmacy and I was starting to feel terrifically nauseous. I knew a faint was coming on. Rather than fall on the floor and risk injury, I crouched with my head tucked as far down as I could get it. When that wasn’t alleviating the problem, I got down on my knees, then rolled onto my back and laid there with my eyes closed. Wow that got me plenty of attention from the Target employees!
My wonderful pharmacist expedited the process and we were escorted out of Target and to the car.
After feeling so fantastic and then suddenly feeling so horrible, getting home was like walking into paradise.
I spent the next three days popping the hydrocodone ’round the clock to stay on top of the pain.
I ended up missing almost a full week of work on top of it.
Meanwhile I watched TV, slept (especially with the painkillers because they practically knocked me out) and wrote. Surprisingly, what I wrote during this time, turned out to be some of my best writing. *weeps*
A few pictures from this trip:
We got home, I settled on the couch with the ice pack from the hospital on my neck and my giant, beloved stuffed Reuben in my arms. I was OUT.
My kitties Phobos and Miranda didn’t leave my side for most of my recovery.
On the phone checking in with my mom (who was REALLY upset she couldn’t be around for this– I didn’t think it necessary for my family to make the 50-mile-each-way drive for something so trivial), while Miranda looks on. That pad on my lap is while I’m working on Tegwen’s story. It REALLY bugs me that my writing is better while I’m hopped up on painkillers.
Things are looking much better now. I do have photos of the progress of my neck but I’ll spare you the gore. 
