Post-surgical Glee

The surgery was a breeze.

A cakewalk.

Easy-peasy.

No big whoop.

You get the idea.

We rode to the hospital in our ragtop, a 1988 VW Cabriolet convertible, with the top down. Might as well start the party early, I thought.

No traffic, just brilliant sunlight reflecting off the East River as we headed north on the FDR.

No screw-ups with my name when we registered.

Everyone was very nice.

We even got a vibrating beeper, like they give out at Outback Steakhouse, to let us know when it was our turn to give all the usual insurance info, etc. This led to many jokes in which Zach affected his best Crocodile Dundee impression. Trust me, they were hilarious.

Then I was whisked off to change into a gown and robe and those attractive non-slip socks, have my vitals checked, and give a urine sample. I'm usually pretty coordinated, but this time I managed to pee all over my hand in the process.

When I came back, little cup of pee in hand (but no longer on hand), Zach was waiting for me in lucky Exam Room 13. He tried to take my picture with his Treo (aka his new toy), but I gave him the death glare, and that was that.

I was unaccountably giddy, but that's pretty much how I've been before all of my surgeries. Not sure why. I wasn't faking it, either. I think I was just glad to be getting the show on the road.

A few minutes later an escort came by to take me to the next stop on the pre-op tour. Zach and I said our goodbyes, to each other and to my ovaries. He gave me a big kiss on the abdomen, and we saluted their heroic performance back in February.

Then off I went, along with another, much less giddy, patient. Our escort was walking in slow motion, or so it seemed. I couldn't tell if this was for our benefit or just her maximum speed. But it was better to trudge behind her than to ride in a wheelchair, so I didn't mind.

After another short wait, I met my O.R. nurse, the assisting surgeon, and the anesthesiologist. I gave my medical history a few more times, verified my name and D.O.B. again and again and again, signed the consent form, and gave my speech to the anesthesiologist about my drug allergies and general drug sensitivity and the off-limitness of my left arm. I got a good vibe from her, so I figured everything would go smoothly. Then the lead surgeon came in and asked me a couple of last-minute questions before the anesthesiologist and I walked down to the O.R.

Operating rooms are generally kept at meat locker-like temperatures, so I was grateful for the surgical cap on my head and the warm blankets they piled on top of me. By then I'd literally disrobed, but I still had the attractive gown on. (The orange panties, lest you think I forgot to wear them, were back with the rest of my clothes and shoes and baseball cap, in a plastic "Patient Belongings" bag somewhere.)

Speaking of the surgical cap, it was one of those puffy kinds that look vaguely like a shower cap but are made of some paper-like substance. On the way to the O.R., we passed a dispenser of these fashion accessories, and now I know that they are called bouffant surgical caps. Try Googling if you don't believe me.

While I was waiting to be knocked out, someone strapped my legs to the table (think heroine tied to railroad tracks and you'll have a pretty accurate visual). Turns out they sometimes have to tilt the operating table to one side or the other for better access and, well, they don't want the patient going overboard right in the middle of things. Someone else put those lovely inflatable sleeves (think water wings, but longer) on my legs to prevent blood clots. It's a good thing I wasn't having second thoughts about the surgery because at this point, I was pretty well trapped.

I remember three other things before going under. First, the clock on the wall was the most blatant example I'd seen so far of drug-company swag. Forget retractable ballpoint pens and colorful notepads, ladies and gentleman. Mere child's play! We now have anti-depressant-branded timepieces for your operating rooms! Is this some sort of subliminal advertising for the patients? Are people waking up after surgery and asking for a dose to go with their apple juice and graham crackers??

Second, I, word freak that I am, had been thinking about the origin of salpingo. As in salpingo-oophorectomy, which was the name of the procedure I was having. (It refers to the Fallopian-tube part of the proceedings.) So I asked the assisting surgeon. (Word freak that I am, I know that there must be an official—or at least better—name for this person. It would be second chair, if we were talking about trial lawyers, but I doubt that it's second scalpel. Although that does have a nice ring to it. . . .) He thought it meant "snakes." Which kind of made sense but also kind of weirded me out. (Turns out it's from the Greek and means trumpet or tuba, which makes less sense but at least is more lyrical.)

Third, the anesthesiologist numbed my arm before starting the IV, which I thought was very considerate. No one's ever done that for me before. She did that and then shot me up with Versed, the precursor to the heavy-duty drugs. "Just chills you ever so slightly," in the immortal, and perhaps misquoted, words of Joan Cusack in "Working Girl." Well, maybe more than "ever so slightly" in my case, because that's the last thing I remember. No mask, no counting backward from 100 by sevens, no nothing until I woke up in the recovery room.

I was there for a while and apparently received a visit from the surgeon, of which I have absolutely no memory.

Then it was goodbye IV, hello wheelchair for the ride to the place-without-a-name-that-they-take-you-to-before-you-get-to-go-home. There I was reunited with both Zach and my clothes. It's also where I discovered my post-surgical accoutrement: a belted sanitary napkin, right out of the 1960s. Or some other prehistoric decade. It was far superior to the dreaded surgical drain but still not exactly welcome.

Oh, and I also have four little incisions, arranged in a diamond-like cluster starting with my belly button, then going out toward my hips, then back to my lower pelvis. They must have shaved me for that bottom one, but you can hardly tell. (I did say that the hair loss was near-complete, didn't I?)

The only real issue I'm having is that because the surgery was done laparascopically, they filled my abdomen with nitrous oxide or some other kind of gas first (the better to see your insides, my dear), and, well, they don't exactly deflate you when they're done. So I'm walking around with the distended belly of a pregnant woman and burping like a truck driver. It's a very attractive combo.

Other than that, the pain has been minimal. I didn't fill the Rx for Tylenol with codeine or dip into the leftover Vicodin I have lying around. I took some Extra-strength Tylenol and one Aleve yesterday but nothing so far today.

I haven't yet had my first real dinner, but only because I filled up on a bunch of snacks yesterday—Zach's homemade guacamole, some yummy bread and cheese, and the best minty-lime cooler known to woman.

It's going to be a quiet day today. Zach booked a job earlier this week and is out shooting it today, and I am just hanging out.

And burping.