My Private I

Bride of Frankenstein

Mondays are the busy around the OR.  They had a pillow shortage and so I had to wad up my red fleece jacket under my head for an hour until Susy, the surgery prep room nurse ran after someone down the hall to beg for one. I knew I was in Texas, land of the obese and garguntan, because they handed me ONE SIZE FITS ALL hospital scrub pants which were men's XXXL with a drawstring.  I could have fit four of me inside. Of course, Emmanuel appreciated the plumber's butt view everytime I stood up from the bed. I had to write "YES" in blue permanent marker on the side of my neck to confirm which side the doctor was operating on. I thought about turning it into political ad- YES on Prop 348- but I never follow those arcane city elections about bond issues and saving acquifers and paving potholes on highways, anyway. 

Victoria,the operating nurse had to cut my white admittance tag, orange fall threat tag and even brighter orange latex sensitive tag off because they interfered with my IV placement.  Apparently, it's illegal to be wandering around the hopsital unmarked but I was only patient "X" for 10 minutes until they secured a duplicate set.

It's odd sensation being wheeled into the OR on a metal gurney- the last time I was pushed around in a metal contraption by an adult, I was three years old sitting in the seat of a grocery cart but it evoked the same small and helpless memory of being at mercy of those bigger and powerful.  I remember entering the OR, moving from the gurney to the operating table and they began to strap my hands and legs down. Then, everything went blank and like a jump cut in a movie, two hours fast foward I woke up to the sound of Darth Vader (oxygen mask over my nose and mouth) and a red blurry glow in the distance (digital clock) in the post-recovery holding area. 

After staying overnight in the hospital, I was discharged this afternoon with a week's prescription of Vicodin. I'm sporting a neck worthy of Halloween costume party compliments. But, since it's not October 31st I just get quiet, wide eyed stares from grocery cashiers and people in the street who imagine ballpoint pen tracheotomy after a back alley misfortune.  See below.

 

   

Left lobectomy

Q: What is the most vunerable part of your body?

A:  Your neck.

Heart comes in a close second because it breaks just as easily, without the added benefit of sound effects. There's the pop when the good guy twists the bad guy's head. A jar just opened.  Or the scrape of a blade drawn tight across the throat that nicks the skin. Eyes able to look up but not back and shallow, panicked breaths. Or consider two hands choking your neck. Gurgles and legs scissor kicking sheets.

The night before my surgery where they'll slash open my neck this is how I'm facing my fear. Seeing pain but not feeling it.   

Benign

... is the most beautiful word in the English language.

The waiting room

I find the Radiological Association clinic in a strip mall next to Gold's Gym, Taco Bell, Blazer Tag and Pinky's Pagers. It's an unlikely location for a place that specializes in nuclear medicine, musculoskeletal imaging, mammograms and interventional radiology.  While waiting for my ultrasound appointment, I am neither tempted to do leg squats with barbells, order a  Gordita Supreme, aim a laser ray gun at some pimply 14 year old amid strobe lights and fake fog or get pager model recommendations from the neighborhood dope dealer.  So, I'm left browsing the clinic's magazine rack. Sports Illustrated. No. Heal, a publication for over 9 million cancer survivors. No- it will make me cry. Trumpet, a Christian magazine for God's people.  Hell no -I'm not Christian, doubt the existence of God and I'm a person, dammit. 

There's a lone TV embedded where the wall meets the ceiling and a chirpy blond in a blazer reports traffic accidents, weather forecasts, and the cat-of-the-day adoption in one breath without blinking.  I don't know what's more disturbing, the news no one is watching or the Kiddie Zone sign. Maybe they thought they were being cute but, all I can see is a word they misspelled by adding "die" at the end. The Kiddie Zone is a dark hole in the corner with a ledge above holding a decaying spider plant  Another piece of xeroxed paper says "Please keep all toys in the play area."  I can't see any toys inside the hole. If so, it's a cruel joke.

In the other corner, there's a tropical fish tank, although the front office receptionist has just slammed a cabinet door shut underneath the tank (after taking out some forms), and the fish are clearly agitated, angry.  There's no calmness of floating underwater. There's no suspension of time and space. Scientific research showing that aquariums lower patient anxiety levels in doctors' offices didn't count them as doubling as office supply cabinets.

I hear my name being called and the sonographer can't pronounce my last name, so she stops after  "Lu" and just repeats my first name again, only louder. During the exam, I can't see her screen. She quietly re-positions the wand and clicks away at her keyboard each time to capture a new image.  She's economical with words, only speaking when she hands me a towel to wipe off the warming gel and points in the direction of the patient exit.  "We'll send these off to the radiologist and then, to your doctor within 24 hours." 

I don't bother to ask her about the blanks- what she thinks it might be or whether it's too hard to tell.  In the weeks to follow, I'll wait for other specialists to slowly fill in the puzzle of me- across and down.  Until, I'm solved.