Trapped Cats, Nibbling Rats, Grey's Anatomy, and Me

     Okay, so remember how I compared myself to a cat trapped in a closed skylight because I had to have surgery and there was no escape? Well, I managed to wiggle my fingers through an opening and hit the remote control to open the skylight just a tiny bit. I've re-scheduled the surgery for January instead of October, so I'm getting a little bit of a reprieve.

     While the surgery is necessary and important, if I'm careful, I'll be okay to wait until the first of the year. The doctor agreed that I've had a rough go of it the past couple of years with two scheduled surgeries and one emergency surgery and said I could give myself a little break.

     Before I had my first surgery, I always watched shows like Grey's Anatomy and wondered how anyone voluntarily showed up at the hospital to let themselves be cut open. (By the way, although Grey's is one of my favorite shows, I can't watch it for a month or so before a scheduled surgery and right after a surgery, my family doesn't enjoy watching it with me because I tend to yell, "Yeah, right, like it really happens that way," frequently. As the scar and my memories fade, my enjoyment of the show increases to my pre-surgery levels and my family allows me to watch with them again.) I thought if I ever had to have life-saving surgery, my goose was cooked because I wouldn't be able to force myself to show up at the hospital and say, "Cut away." I figured I would be likely to just disappear a few days before the operation, using fake IDs and a stolen license plate so my family couldn't track me down and guilt me into having my life saved.

     But for me, once I got the call from the doctor telling me I had to have surgery, instead of going on the run, I went to a spiritual place that can only be achieved by either taking large quantities of drugs, or in my case, being paralyzed with fear. It was as though my brain heard the doctor and sent a message through my body like, "Red Alert! Red Alert! We have a situation that is too intense for subject to handle! Shut down all thought processes immediately and go into default semi-dazed mode!" Some of the thoughts took longer to shut down, as evidenced by my nervous narration to my poor, poor nephew who had the misfortune to catch me in my driveway in those early days after finding out and was treated to a detailed description of why his aunt needed her lady parts cut out. I still cringe for him every time I think about it.

     But after that unfortunate encounter, my brain closed the loopholes and I floated from day to day, buying supplies I would need post-surgery, writing letters to my loved ones just in case, doing the chores  I would be unable to perform once home from the hospital, and researching every scrap of information about the surgery on the internet. The night beforehand, I was actually able to sleep, even though one of my daughters sat up all night by my side in case company was needed.

     The morning of, things moved in a dreamlike state. I dressed without using lotion or deodorant per the rules, brushed my teeth without swallowing any forbidden water, and talked normally on the drive to the hospital with my family. I registered and was led to a private room to change. I re-joined my family and had only moments with them before I was ushered away to the pre-surgery area. I thought there would be heartfelt goodbyes and pledges of undying love before I left (and maybe some prying of my fingers off the doorframe) but it was calm and unremarkable. The worst part was probably lying on the gurney next to other surgical patients waiting for my turn. They took my glasses, which is the same as blinding me, and they didn't give me any good drugs to make my dreamlike state complete. I used the breathing techniques that got me through four labors and deliveries to keep my panic at bay. Funny how the same techniques got me through both the most productive times for my lady parts and now their retirement.

     Finally, the doctor with the drugs showed up and although the Valium was just supposed to relax me, I'm a lightweight (not literally, but in the holding-my-drugs sense) and I don't remember anything else until I woke up in Recovery. My parts were out, the verdict was in---ovarian cancer, but a form that is less aggressive than most. It had spread to my lymph nodes, but they thought they got it all and that I would be okay. They cut me from belly button to groin and recovery would take almost a year, but it was over and I hadn't jumped off the gurney on the way to the operating room, used my shoulder to cross-check a few male nurses, and hid behind the dumpster of medical waste with my butt hanging out of my hospital gown for the rats to nibble. I was relieved.

     That is until a checkup with my surgeon a year later when he said, "Ut-oh!" You never, ever want to hear a surgeon say ut-oh. Chances are he or she is not going to say, "Ut-oh, I charged you too much for my services and I owe you money," or "Ut-oh, I made a mistake reading the scans and you don't have to have your spleen removed after all." No, mine was ut-oh, your organs are pushing through the muscle we cut open for your surgery and you now have an incisional hernia that needs to be repaired with another surgery. Ut-oh, indeed.

     That's exactly the way it would have happened on Grey's, except they would have discovered the hernia after I was hit by a train while running from an abusive boyfriend who they discover has a rare deformity that only they can fix with surgery. Oh, and my surgeon and the boyfriend's surgeon would be involved in an intense on-again off-again affair which they discuss openly across my unconscious body.

     Great TV. I'll have to stop watching again until March.