and THEN

So where did we leave off? Oh yes. Our heroine bravely struggles through surgery and a night of overheard puking which results in no sleep. She is all on her own, cruelly abandoned by her unfeeling family, possessing of a phone with a dead battery, an iPod with a dead battery and a tube of Burt’s Bees lip balm which has now fallen off the side table and rolled under the bed. Oh and more surgery on the way. Things do not look at all rosy. (This is part 2. There might be a part three. I don’t know. Depends on how sick I get of typing all this up.)

Surgeon number two comes in and draws me a nice diagram of what is going on inside my body, and what he’s going to do about it. (All the surgeons and nurses and really every single person there was very nice. They took time to explain to me everything that was happening and make sure I understood it. I was impressed with that.) Surgery is scheduled for 1 p.m.. I am sleep-deprived, dehydrated, sore and cranky and lonely and scared. My parents are not there. I call them on the hospital phone to tell them that I have surgery at 1 p.m.. “I don’t know if we will be there in time.” my mom says. “We have to go to the vet’s office to pick up refills on their prescriptions.” “But they’re not out of medicine yet.” I told her. “We know, but it might snow.” WTF?

“IT MIGHT SNOW?” I wanted to yell. “SERIOUSLY? It might snow? Guess what? I am FOR SURE having surgery. I understand it MIGHT snow – but it’s 100% positive that someone is going to sedate and cut me open AGAIN today. You might want to, I dunno, BE HERE for that shit? Seeing as you’re my mother? And I am alone? And this sucks ass? And is scary?” But I did not yell those things, as there didn’t seem to be a point. Then pukey’s guests for the day arrived. All six of them. And their toddler. Who had a laser toy. Overnight, pukey had learned my name, and subsequently was telling stories about me to all of her offspring. They felt an overwhelming need to come and introduce themselves to me, and ask how I was doing. Now see, I subscribe to a lot of invisibility theories when it comes to stranger interactions. I do not think it’s at all wrong to pretend that people I do not know, yet am forced to be in close proximity with, are inaudible and invisible. It helps lubricate society, the invisibility theory. But no. All of them had to come over, say “Hi.”, inquire as to my health (obviously sketchy as I am hospitalized) and then nudge back the flimsy curtain separating my half of the room from pukey’s half. I kept leaning up and trying to push it back closed, and they kept using their asses to push it back open as they crowded around pukey’s bed. They were very loud. One of them actually sat in the chair at the end of MY bed, and stared at me. Seriously she did that. The nurse came in and I quietly explained to her that I was about to lose my shit if these people didn’t fuck the fuck off, and what was with the kid? She said “I know, I keep wanting to ask them – doesn’t anybody have to go to work?” She was a funny nurse.

It was 12:30 or so and surgery was looming. No sign of my parents, but I peed one last time and waited for someone to come get me. My mom finally showed at 12:50. “We’re here!” Like I was supposed to be surprised and grateful? “Did you bring my phone charger?” was pretty much my only grumpy query by that point. She had (the accomplishment of necessary, practical things, aside from actually showing up, is my Mom’s forte.) I asked her to plug the phone in, then a nurse came to get me to take me to the second surgery. They wheeled me down to the surgery area, and they explained to me that this was a much nicer surgery, as I was not going to be fully unconscious, but was going to be “twilighty.” I explained with great fervency that I had no desire to be “twilighty” and that I in fact wanted to be “knocked the fuck out.” We got to the room, which was not like a proper surgical area and was more like a place where they take you for x-rays. I had to climb a little step stool and get up on the table. Then they told me to lay on my stomach. With some alarm I inquired as to whether anyone had informed them that I had had surgery on my stomach quite recently, in fact less than 24 hrs prior. They did know this, and yet wanted me to lay on my stomach anyway. I did so, as I am a trooper, and was also outnumbered. They started sticking things to me, and then got this big white sticky square, which they said was going to be cold when they stuck it to my back. “What’s it for?” I asked, and then wished I had not when the answer was “To ground you.” They then stuck this plastic gag thing with a hole in it into my mouth and strapped it in with some kind of rubber band. This was so I did not bite down on all the shit they were going to stick down my throat. It was Not Sexy. Then Pam, the anesthesiologist said “You should be feeling sleepy. Are you feeling sleepy?” Frantically I shook my head, I was not sleepy AT ALL. After this, I knew nothing.

When I woke up from this surgery it was to great excitement from the nurses. “YOU HAD SIX LARGE STONES IN YOUR BILE DUCT! It was almost TOTALLY BLOCKED!” they seemed to be cavorting with joy around my bed. I held up my hand for a high-five, as this seemed somehow warranted. “I dreamed we were at the Deacon.” I told them. “What’s the Deacon?” they asked, which is when I started to realize where I was. “It doesn’t matter.” They handed me a color photo of the inside of my pancreas, filled with white mucous-y looking things, ostensibly for a treasured keepsake. I clutched at it and drifted in and out of consciousness. After 62 years of laying there freezing to death, they wheeled me up to my (new, private) room. My mom was there. “You had SIX LARGE STONES!” she said proudly. “Where’s my bra?” I asked.

So I was installed in the new room, my phone was charging, my breasts were back under control, my bladder was emptied. I settled into my new bed and saw that it was around 4:30 p.m.. I looked over to my mom, expecting she’d want to sit and hold my hand, or commiserate with me about the pain I was in, or hear stories about the night before which was so hellish, or get me a glass or water, or tell me how worried she’d been, or amuse and divert me with funny tales of people we knew. “Well, if you’re all settled in, we’d better get home to the dogs.” she said. And then they left.

(It is a strange thing, they way we react to illness. I know that I am a grown woman, and I know that I should be independent and not expect my mother to take care of me. I am also a private person, and would not want or expect most people I know to come hang around my hospital bed, observing my dishabille and accompanying me to the toilet. I DO expect that kind of thing from one single person though, the person who birthed me. Once she decided to have a kid, she assumed a life-long responsibility to hold my motherfucking hand when I am injured. I am sorry, I don’t think there’s an expiration date on that. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I am childish. But being left all alone, two days in a row, post-surgery, by the one person in the world I felt I could legitimately ask to help and support me in such a scenario, was absolutely shitty. I am trying very hard to get over it, but it sucked in ways that I want to temporarily resume therapy to explore.)

That night was so much better than the night before. My private room was a-maz-ing, and then they informed me that I could have Demerol shots in my IV every four hours. Those are floaty and magical, and I recommend them most highly.  I had my working/charged phone so I could talk to my friends, and I chatted with some people which cheered me. Katie and Jason sent me flowers, and they were very pretty and made my room smell nice and made me feel quite a lot less sad-bastard. Overall that second day, especially without the specter of more surgery floating over my head, was restful and nice. I watched the Olympics (ice-dancing, yay!) and floated in and out of consciousness. I also had my handbag, having wrested it from my mother’s worried grasp, and in it I found some earplugs, which I inserted to block out the rest of the hospital noise. I slept like a baby.

The next morning I was told that if I could eat solid food I could go home, and some weird hospital fare was delivered to me. I ate it, I could tolerate it, my urine was back to yellow, I was discharged. My parents were coming to pick me up (I thought) and I was warned not to drive. Of course, when they got there my mom informed me that no way could she drive “in the city” (Brentwood?) as it was way too nerve-wracking, and I was either going to have to leave my car behind, necessitating them coming back another day to help me get it, or I was going to have to drive myself home. Guess which of those I chose? So we all went in a big ridiculous troupe over to Dierberg’s so I could fill my prescriptions and get some food for the house, and then they followed me home. They installed me in my bed with my laptop and painkillers, and then they had to rush home to the dogs. God forbid the dogs have to spend any time on their own. They might get lonely. At this point, safely at home, I was desirous of their absence anyway. And for the next three days I think I slept 20 out of 24 hours.