TheBanyanTree: Surgical Interventions: PreOp

[Monique]

First of all, why aren't I asleep at this time of day?
 
Pre-op was yesterday. This is an elaborate exercise we're put through in
order to test our resilience and commitment. I think I passed, but marks
were not immediately given, so who knows? I did remember to take a
number two pencil, though it turned out that wasn't required. 
 
We showed up on time, and I only had to pause to check the floor number
once. Three or four? I knew we had to take the elevator up, so that was
a good thing. It's not like I haven't been there before. They charged me
$15.00 for my copayment. I think that if they request that I be there,
they should pay me $15.00 instead - it's not like I asked to go in this
time. But nooooooo, I still have to pay. Does that even seem fair? I
didn't think so either. 
 
First I was given a sheaf of papers to review, fill out, sign, and affix
my mark with drops of blood. But there was no time to fill those out
yet, because the doctor arrived, so promptly, and gave me yet another
form to sign. Something about how I authorized them to use sharp objects
to cut into me while I sleep - it all seems rather surreal, not the sort
of thing one should be allowing others to do to them, but she projects
an air of authority so I went along with it. 
 
She explained about the procedure. It's simple enough, I suppose,
depending on what they find when they go in. I've apparently authorized
exploration. I'm all for exploration. Shackleton's my hero. After all,
where would we be if Marco Polo hadn't discovered pasta? And where is
Newfoundland, anyway? But this appears to be a different kind of
exploration. More like poking at my innards to see if something rather
alien-like pokes back. They hope to cut horizontally instead of
vertically. Her gestures over her own abdomen to illustrate the point
were not particularly helpful. At least I didn't think so. "Aha!" I
thought, "easy for you to say, on Friday you'll be using a sharp
instrument, quite a difference from making slashing marks through the
air!" I didn't say that, of course, which is why I just said I thought
it. 
 
The form she'd given me to sign listed risks and things that could be
found and things that could possibly happen, though it's inconceivable
that any of it will of course. Things like: "possible loss of right
leg." "Amnesia." "Repetitive stress injury." "Increased appetite."
"Decreased appetite." "Sudden loss of gullibility." "Inability to pay
attention, pay bills, pay mind." 
 
You're on to me. I made those up. The real possibilities are too boring
to even mention. I've put them out of my mind altogether as they aren't
going to happen, other than what we've arranged to have happen and
expect to have happen. 
 
(And yet I wonder: what if I wake up Friday morning and I'm cured? What
if they cut into me and find nothing there but healthy organs? Won't I
be embarrassed? This is the kind of thing that keeps me up nights,
thanks to a childhood of not being believed about anything: What if I
really am making it all up and there's nothing THERE? The fact that they
can see something there, and feel something there, does not dissuade me
because the fact remains: I could wake up on Friday and it could be gone
. . . before I've even arrived at the hospital.)
 
My doctor said I'd be in the hospital 2 or 3 days. TWO OR THREE DAYS?
Like I don't have a life. I am incredulous. I am stunned. Okay, not that
stunned, but still. 
 
My partner asked about visiting hours, the healing process, the recovery
process, what to expect, how to take care of me, my chances of
reproducing, when he could see me, how long would it take, visiting
hours, and a plethora of other questions. Well, perhaps not a plethora.
He'd made a list of questions to ask but had forgotten them in the car,
so he was making them up as we went along. (Yes, I mentioned visiting
hours more than once because so did he.) The doctor said that there
shouldn't be a problem with him getting in to see me on Saturday even
though he doesn't get off work until late since he's my husband and all.
 
He's not my husband, but we let that slide. Close enough.
 
The doctor listened to my heart. I have one, which I think is a good
sign. Listened to my lungs. I am breathing. Apparently these are two
requirements that must be met in order to have surgery. Breathing, with
a heartbeat. I can't say it's a bad policy. Otherwise, what's the point?
(Other than an autopsy, of course, but I'm not really ready for that.)
 
Then we were sent to Step Two: a meeting with a
nurse/scheduler/explainer of all things. She also arranged my surgical
packet neatly. It has forms in it, and talks about things like advance
directives and living wills, none of which are applicable in my case and
which I assume were put in there accidentally. I let it slide. It's not
nice to point out the innocent mistakes of others when no harm is
intended or can possibly result. She told us what I should be doing
before the surgery, in order to prepare myself and present myself in the
best possible light come Saturday. I only wish I had enough time for a
complete makeover before then, but they'll have to take me like I am.
After all, it's not like it's a job interview. She was quite specific
about the "no eating or drinking after midnight," which I thought was a
fine policy, until she said I didn't have to be at the hospital until
11:30 am on Friday? What? That's still two hours before surgery. And I
can't eat after midnight the night before? I'M GOING TO BE HUNGRY.
Doesn't my comfort count around here? Oh sure, then they'll give me a
general and I won't care . . . but see how they care when they're making
their incisions and my stomach does one of its amazing growls that it's
capable of when it hasn't been fed in awhile. I picture the entire
surgical team stepping back, their eyes wide, while they wait for
something capable of a noise that big to crawl out of me . . . 
 
I think I've seen too many movies where things crawl out of people,
don't you?
 
My partner asked about visiting hours, and when could he see me. And
other things. I reviewed my advance directive paperwork and thought
about the poor person who would need such a thing that they'd obviously
gotten me confused with.
 
We were then sent to Anesthesiology. While I could certainly do with
anesthesia three days in advance of the surgery itself, it turned out
this was just a ruse to get even more people to tell us TRUE AND AMAZING
hospital stories. This time an anesthesiologist. We talked about what
some people are thinking when they turn their tongues into pincushions,
and she had me open my mouth wide and say 'Ah" so she could see if I had
a passage that allowed air to flow in and out. I do. It's one of the
things I'm most proud of. I think I signed a consent form, but I'm not
sure. Maybe I just imagined it. By that time I'd given permission for
secret government tests on stray anatomical parts, and I wasn't really
interested in reading the forms anymore. It was enough to know that some
administrator somewhere would be made happy by my signing a piece of
paper. 
 
Then to the lab! We'd been slowly making our way downstairs during this
process. I had to give samples of two bodily fluids, one which they took
from me, another which I had to voluntarily provide, which was a very
labor intensive project. I half expected they'd then escort me to the
inner workings of the lab and have me test my bodily fluids myself, so
labor intensive was the "donation" process. (Donation my ass. Donation
like paying my phone bill is a donation: if I don't pay, they shut me
off. At least this is what I hear: I certainly wouldn't know for sure.) 
 
We were then free to go. With my packet of paperwork in hand, prime
directives and living wills and "Seizure of Assets" notices and all
that. So we left as quickly as possible. It's not that I don't love
hanging out in hospitals. Really. They're one of my favorite places. 
 
Pre-op. Just another way of saying, "you belong to us now."
 
M