I had an operation. Strange to write that but then, the entire process has a sense of other-person-ness. Nothing major, exactly. A friend explained that MINOR surgery is what happens to other people- MAJOR surgery is when it happens to you. Frankly I think major should have left a more impressive dent.
I had my gall bladder removed. It seems somewhere along the line I collected 4 stones in it (had I a choice I might've opted to carry them in a change purse but no one asked), they had lodged themselves in a bile duct and caused more than a few minor discomforts. It took some time to diagnose and for awhile it was thought I had an ulcer, acid-reflux- the darling of the over-the counter set (five year olds learn to spell Prilosec and Nexium right after McDonald's which is good because my feeling is that one eventually leads you to require the other- you do the math) and I had myself convinced, as I have before, that I was swallowing some pressing emotional issue, I have spent the past 9 months or so poking my veins for blood tests and my psyche- for tears. I ate well and I talked- to my therapist, to VLH-poor thing I told him everything I could think of that might be bothering me- as it didn't amount to a hill of beans all it did was exacerbate an overwhelming sense of foolishness and then, the day after I spilled my emotionally puny guts of every dopey thing that I thought I might be holding back a sonogram revealed the four stones. Confession may be good for the soul but it's crap when trying to gather the tattered shreds of your feminine mystique- I was about as fatale as a bowl of rice krispies and considerably soggier.
I wasn't in the mood to "wait and see" when the next attack happened. Work demands that I travel and the idea of a gall bladder attack in mid flight was too awful to contemplate. My doctor (imagine Boris Badinov with an irrepressible need to flirt- that's my doc) said that the pain from one of these attacks was comparable to childbirth. I had to agree, but only if the kid was wearing a suit of ground glass. So on Wednesday, I called the surgeon and made an appointment to meet him on Friday and an appointment on the following Monday to have the gall bladder out. Gallstones may grow IN this girl but no moss- I was a rolling gallstone.
I know I should have done research on the surgeon but- in my head there were only 2 things I wanted- he couldn't smell funny and he needed to resemble Marcus Welby. (Google it- if you are too young to know who Marcus Welby was then- you may indeed be too young to be reading this- Nic, ask your mom. ) I am certain there is some set of criteria I should have followed but- it was my gall bladder and my rules. He had no smell whatsoever and had the requisite pink cheeks, glasses and white hair so- so I took the plunge.
Aside from an eyelid surgery I have never had anything removed or altered internally without a couple of glasses of wine and candlelight so I approached the event with little or no preconceived notions or expectations. I had viewed a couple of websites about the surgery but as the description of the procedure turns into a B horror film when it's YOUR belly button being entered I closed the window so fast the pop-ups didn't even have time to come up and cookies could find no purchase on my browser. I kept busy all weekend spending time with the visiting Maryland cousins and distracted myself with a wild weekend of shoe shopping- shoe BROWSING actually as I didn't buy anything for myself- obviously though I was in denial I must have been more than a bit preoccupied to leave Nordstrom's without one single cute pair of something in a shoe box.
Denial served me all the way through the see-you later kiss I gave VLH when I left the hospital waiting room (I gave this my full attention- some kisses are more important than others) and went into an altered state. The only way I was getting into the hospital gown and robe and sickly flesh colored socks was to pretend I was dressing someone else. Here is a note for hospitals- sick people do not need to feel worse by being dressed in a burkah. I looked at the clothing they handed me and thought- this could make a laundry basket look dowdy. Drab would have been a step-up fashion statement and the poofy hat... yeesh. How about something a bit more like- well how about an adult version of the knit caps they put on newborns? It could be a sort of Seattle surgery look- grunge meets O.R. . Sadly no one asked me and Mr. Blackwell was nowhere in sight. As the nurses and doctors were similarly dressed-(at least scrubs have a waist tie and a back!) I was ok to an extent, when in Rome, you know. A word to the nurses wearing the flowered scrubs- it's not a fashion statement when you wear them- instead of looking like a medical professional you look like a Laura Ashley living room suite.
The surgeon stopped by and asked me how I was - I'm a little scared I said- "Don't be" he said and tapped me twice in the way I tap a chicken breast to test for doneness- Oh, well, that was solved (sheesh). The anesthesiologist stopped by- his name was Dr. Wu. I flashed on my friend Sharon telling me about the culture of drugs immortalized in the lyrics of Fagin and Becker (Steely Dan) and smiled. He surely would not leave me conscious for the proceedings- I would worry about waking up when it became necessary- and not one moment sooner.
I remember the operating room was cold. And much more room-like...where was the gallery (too many medical shows...)? I remember a heated blanket on my legs and missing my red wool socks. I remember the anesthesiologist peeling one arm off my chest and laying it to one side and the needle prick. I remember the nurse peeling back the second arm from my body for a blood pressure cuff and then the table fell away...
"This is the hard part" she said moving me from the operating table to the gurney- a table designed to make you feel like meat on a slab. And then helping me to a lazy-boy recliner chair in a room with curtained partitions. Pain radiated from my center- it felt like kittens trying to claw their way out of my mid-section but thanks to the pain meds while I did have pain I was zonked-out enough to believe it was happening to someone else. And then they brought VLH in. I think I may have worn the face he had on in the presence of a sick loved one but I had never seen a face like that aimed at me. It was a combination of relief, love and fear. Happy I was alive, and myself, and scared that there wasn't anything he could do for me. Had I the words (or a tongue) at that moment I would have told him he did everything I needed just by walking into the room.
And then I was home. The floaty sensation of the after-effects of anesthesia and the addition of Vicodin made the next 12 hours a blur. There were two things that stuck out- I was NOT prepared to be unable to sit up by myself. No one told me. I felt like something out of Kafka lying on my back limbs flailing unable to rise and not being a good sport about it either. The second thing was ... a bit about this particular laparoscopic surgery- the upside is- teeny little cuts. Old school gall bladder surgery left you with a scar 12-14" long. Laparascopy leaves a little scratch about 6" above your navel and two holes to the right of the belly button that look like you were poked with knitting needles. There is also a cut
inside the belly button- I haven't looked- have you ever TRIED looking in your belly button? Not possible. Well- when they make the small incisions they go in with a camera and light to find your gallbladder- I imagine it is like human spelunking. In order to get some space to work they puff your belly up with air, to get a better look. I guess they get as much air as they can out before they close you up (imagine the belly button as the opening in a balloon making that pttttttttttttttthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhppppppppp noise as air escapes- I did and found out laughing hurt too). Late at night when I woke that first night I could hear myself ...fizzing. In addition to the pain of things being cut and resewn internally you get little pains- bubbly pains. While the surgery pains seemed bearable the pricking pains were...disturbing. Not really pain just- uncomfortable. Somewhere that first night as I drifted in and out a thought came to me, an image really of dozens of tiny little old ladies sitting inside my belly putting me back together. It's funny how clearly I could see them- hairnets, large lensed glasses magnifying watery blue or brown eyes and flowered house dresses, droopy support hose and carpet slippers sitting in chairs with skeins of pink yarn in baskets by their sides determinedly knitting my insides back together. I would feel the tiny bubbly pains and pictured one of the ladies dropping a stitch or having a slip of the needles- perhaps knitting when she should have purled.
I spent about 2 days in bed- I didn't realize I could do that but it was actually pretty easy. I had lots of help, J and Z babysat and though VLH had to carry on with the business of belt vending he checked in frequently, more often than not finding me half asleep. Day and night sort of blurred and sometimes in waiting for the right time to take my meds I would lie in bed feeling my pain and the little ping and poke and it helped through the discomfort to think of the ladies pulling me back together one stitch at a time.
Each day I felt a bit better, by day three I was out of bed for several hours at a stretch, by day four I could sleep on my left side and by day five my left and even found myself able to head over to the doctor with Z that day. The thing about the process was that just living and doing really small things seemed like such a triumph. The first time I stood up by myself I thought I could easily imagine how a gymnast feels when she sticks a landing- 4.0. Things like eating, or drinking were intensely wonderful and even my first post surgery hug from VLH (imagine a big teddy bear trying to hug a soap bubble- he was that tentative) felt incredible. Lying next to each other at night I was especially grateful for skin- his and my own.
As ever I rushed back into life and work. Even then the little knitters held me in check- whenever I overexerted myself I would feel a poke, right in the navel that said "Hey- still
workin' here" I pictured now just one lone knitter stitching cleanup by the light of a bare bulb in my stomach.
I am now about 11 days past the surgery- the band-aids came off and then the steri-strips (tapes that replace stitches in this kind of surgery) and my biggest dilemma became the inability to get the adhesive off my belly. "Try acetone" suggested Syd. "You want me to pour NAIL POLISH REMOVER on an open cut???" I said. I forget Syd did her post grad work at Lucretia Borgia University.
Friendly advice aside, as I said it all feels like something I watched someone else do. Aside from not being able to eat very much (not the worst thing) as a full tummy doesn't feel so great I have most of my energy back. Unlike other times in my life when I start to fade- I let the dishes or the writing or the drawer reorganizing wait and take a little lie-down. You often hear the saying- comfortable in your own skin...for me it's even better, thanks to the care of many specialists, I am grateful in mine.
