'Tis but a scratch! Day zero: Surgery

I woke up from surgery thinking, "Oh, absolutely not."

No, nope, no thank you. 

We arrived at 5:30 in the morning for 7:30 surgery. First of the day! I'd fasted, and I'd showered twice with the anti-bacterial soap, and I had the button-down PJ top and stretchy pants. 

I was ready.

When the plastic surgeon drew a Sharpie line down the middle of my chest, and then little marks like eyelashes above each breast, I was all, "ARE YOU GOING TO CUT ME IN ALL THOSE PLACES?"

And he was like, "I'm not doing open heart surgery!"

In fact, I have two small slits under each breast. I haven't looked. although I understand from the professionals and loved ones who accompanied me that they're healing very well. 

Me, I'm still freaked out by the drain tubes. But that's a whole nother post.

The eyelash lines were where my boobs used to start, and marked the upper edge where my fake-o ones would be. 

And are now. Weird? Yes.

I poke and squeeze them gently, because they're right there, attached to my body but not really mine.

I mean, yes, they're mine, but I wonder if they'll ever feel normal.

Maybe I'll just walk around for the rest of my life with two comfort boobs attached to the front of me.

I remember meeting all the doctors and residents beforehand, and saying goodbye to Nick, and telling him that I loved him, that it would be fine.

The last thing pre-op thing I remember is being wheeled into the OR with the IV in my arm and the jaunty cap covering my hair. 

And then hours later I was gently awakened. When I very much did not want to be.

They were all, it's over, and now you can wake up, and when you feel better, you can go home. 

As if.

I went back to sleep.

During my C-section, I was awake, if totally loopy and kind of thinking I was Jesus for the way they had my arms straight out from my sides like a cross. When they awakened me from the delightful post-colonoscopy propofol sleep, I was all snuggled up on my side feeling the coziest happy ever.

This time felt more like being stabbed through a demonic vortex and waking up a hell dimension.

Or maybe like if a hippopotamus trampled you but you lived through it, and then someone offered you apple juice.

These people, these persistent medical professionals, they really wanted me to be awake. They wanted me to drink something.

They'd led me sleep a little more and then wake me up and ask me if I'd like some water or ginger ale or juice.

They were relentless. 

No thank you. OK, fine. I'll have this little cup of water with the big pill. And can I please sleep some more in this terribly uncomfortable chair?

"OK. We'll let you sleep a little more,"

Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

And then mere milliseconds later, there they were, waking me up again. "Lisa? From 0–5, how is your pain?"

"Five."

They'd tell me the doctor wanted it under three, if I recall correctly, before they could let me go. So they'd leave me for a bit.

And then again with the, "Where's your pain, from 0–5?"

"Five."

I wasn't angling for the huge, heavy-duty painkillers that I know make doctors nervous. (Thanks, Sackler family, for our painkiller addiction epidemic.) They just add nausea to my pain.

And I'm not a pain complainer. 

I didn't even make a huge fuss when the nurses realized they had forgotten to connect my IV pain meds after my C-section, and just kept telling me to push the button.

And all I kept saying I am pushing, but it really hurts.

Push the button, my ass.

It was five, and I was sticking to it.

If I'd had any wherewithal or sense of humor, I'd have said that this one went to 11.

Bring me a tiny Stonehenge!

Instead, they insisted on waking me up and asking, and I continued saying five. It was five, and five, and five.

They gave me some more IV something painkilling, and more Tylenol, even though I was all, Tylenol doesn't work on me.

Tylenol is bullshit. I stand by this.

They wanted me below Pain 5 and they were very nice. Since my inclination is to always make the other person more comfortable, if I'd been more lucid, I might've been all, "Oh, I think it's at 4 now."

However.

They kept leaving me to sleep and then returning and finally after we'd played the Under Five game 370 times, they said the doctor said I could go home with five.

I...won?

Then I went to another recovery area, and Nick was with me. The nurse there took out one IV but left the other in just in case I fell and hit my head while I was trying to get dressed.

I was both impressed with her practicality and slightly alarmed.

She showed us how to empty my drains, and explained a bunch of stuff that she told me I would not remember, which was absolutely accurate.

And then Nick got the car and they wheeled me out to him, just about 11 hours after we'd arrived that morning.

I remember thinking there was no way I could actually step up into the passenger seat, but then I did. No way I could climb all those stairs to our back door. But we inched up, with Nick behind me, hands on my waist.

They said I could take ibuprofen at home, and I was all, oh, thank god. 

I really just wanted a cup of hot tea. 

I'd had to fast completely since midnight—no more than a sip of water with medication!—and I understand the very real danger of aspiration, plus I'm a rule follower for rules that make sense, so I adhered.

But I couldn't bear the idea of ginger ale or juice. And my throat hurt from the intubation, so I declined the graham crackers or cookies, though I do like a Lorna Doone.

I desperately wanted hot, sweet, milk tea. Tea of my childhood, tea that fixes so many things.

Nick made a cup for me, but then I was too tired to drink it. 

He brought up homemade soup from friends. And I was too tired.

Hours later he came up to find me kneeling at my bedside table, because it was the right height to not have to lift anything, drinking tepid tea and slurping room temperature soup from the tipped bowl.

They were amazing.

Nick helped me to the bathroom and emptied my drains, which, if you've not had surgery that requires the surgeons to leave drain tubes inside that drain out into containers, it's as weird as it sounds.

They send you home in a compression bra, which you have to wear constantly the first two weeks.

They very kindly gave me an extra. These bras, which incidentally are pink, they have plastic loops (also pink) attached so you can clip on the drain bags so they don't just hang. They're thoughtfully designed.

I mean, if you enjoy dangling things from your bra, that is.