Last time, during Scotty's birth, things on the second floor were a little chaotic. Nurse scheduling issues, nurses that just didn't know what they were doing, forgetting about me for 12+ hours...it was kind of a disaster. But I was ready to give the place a second chance (since it is also 2.3 seconds from our house), it seemed like the best place to do my surgery.
So on Monday morning, Brian and I arrived bright and early at 5:30am. I clutched my little suitcase and barked at Brian as I feverishly tried to contain my anxiety. The first thing they asked me to do: pee in a cup. Um, not happening. Anxiety through the roof. After spending the entire day before um, eliminating everything in my body, there was scarcely a drop of water left. So I had to hand the empty cup back to the woman behind the desk and took my place in the waiting room with my head down, ashamed. I started fretting that if this was a precursor of how things were going to go, I was screwed.
But when the nice male nurse called me back, he waved off my performance anxiety. "Not a problem," he said, handing me a warm blanket and fuzzy socks, "we'll just do a blood test." (they had to make sure I had not gotten pregnant between my intake interview on Friday and Monday morning. Um, just take my word for it?)
Score! I felt better immediately. I looked at the nice nurse's name tag, clipped to the front of his scrubs, to thank him properly. "Thanks, Tom..." I started and then burst out laughing. "Riddle? Your name is Tom Riddle? Seriously?"
You could tell he got this a lot. He kind of forced a smile and said, "Yeah. It's actually pronounced "ry-dell" but everyone calls me Riddle. Ha, ha, I know, I'm the bad guy."
OMG. My nurse is Lord Voldemort?
(for the six of you who are not familiar with the Harry Potter books, Tom Riddle is an orphan who later becomes the most feared and diabolical wizard in the entire wizard world, Lord Voldemort. Among other things, he killed Harry Potter's parents and tries to kill Harry during the entire series.)
I did the only thing I could think to do: I grabbed my cell phone and texted several friends who I thought would get a kick of out this new turn of events. Mature, I know.
So He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and another nurse kept coming in to check on me pre-surgery, though I got the distinct impression Lord V, er, Tom, was a little irritated at me. Well, whatever. Don't be mad at me. Be mad at J.K. Rowlings and her incredibly inventive series about a clever boy wizard.
It probably didn't help that Brian kept calling him 'the nurse who shall not be named.'
And then...it was surgery time. My IV was in place, all metal had been removed from my body, and my stomach and bowel were sufficiently empty (and it was confirmed: I was not with child.) The next thing I know, I was wheeled to a freezing cold room and asked to hop from my nice comfy bed to a teeny-tiny, narrow cot. I had to spread my arms out, Jesus-style, and they put an oxygen mask over my face. That's really when it hit me - I was going to die. (Okay, yes, I was a little melodramatic, but the situation was very scary.) I started shaking uncontrollably and seriously considered calling the whole thing off when the anesthesiologist noted my near-hysteria slipped something extra into my IV and asked, "Better now?"
Hmmm....yes. Quite good, in fact.
I just kind of melted into the hard cot. Then I asked when they were going to give me the gas mask, and he replied, "We already did. Bye-bye!"
And that was it. I was out. Dunzo.
Next thing I remember, I was being wheeled through recovery by a nurse named Teresa (I'm a stickler for making sure name tags and photos match up. I do not want to be kidnapped from a hospital) screaming my head off. The only way I could describe the pain is by saying it felt like someone was hitting me in the stomach with a baseball bat while I was doing crunches. Teresa, not enjoying my wails, promptly gave me 20mg of morphine and I was out again.
That's pretty much how Monday went.
I woke up in pain, clicked my morphine clicker thing, and passed out. I attempted to eat some Jell-o and then puked it up. I tried sitting up in bed and puked. I tried to eat broth for dinner and puked. Click, click, click. All of this transpired while Brian was sitting next to my bed, holding my hand, and yes, our marriage vows were really going to be tested. I mean, in the last year or so, he's seen me puke, give birth, breastfeed, cry, have a catheter inserted, have a catheter removed, yell at doctors, yell at nurses...I've barely seen him take a cough drop. Why is this so one-sided? He's totally going to trade me in in about ten years for a newer, cleaner model.
It finally occurred to me by Tuesday morning that my pain wasn't too bad, but it was the damn morphine that was killing me and making me so sick. I requested the clicky thing be taken away and be given oral pain meds and just like that, I recovered! I was able to eat an entire breakfast Tuesday morning without it coming back up, and same with lunch. After literally starving for 48 hours, food - even hospital food - was a glorious thing.
Okay, I'm winded from typing all of this, so Part II will be tomorrow. I'll leave you with this cliff-hanger...they removed the catether at noon on Tuesday. Oh no! How did Kim's bladder respond? What will happen next? To be continued...