Through no fault of your own, I seem to be back on an accelerated schedule in my writing. Maybe it’s the time off from work, maybe it’s the need to publish after these long hiatuses, but more likely it represents a sadistic desire to have you all share my pain and triumph, but mainly the pain. Ahem, be that as it may…
When last we left off, our heroine was fervently checking her alarm and bemoaning a combination of hunger and a freshly sanded back door. I had just fallen asleep when the alarm went off on schedule. As per my standard, I gave myself enough time to ready myself in a hurry, and then stare at the wall for an hour until it was time for the car service to pick me up and take me to the hospital. The car was due at precisely 5:30 sharp, and by 5:40 I was in a total panic as the creepy lightless street remained headlight free. I was right to be in a Tijuana tizzy as this always seems to happen to me. If a name is going to be left off the roster, it’s always mine. Usually it’s because my last name usually sends me over to the back of the page that no one ever checks. Zelda Zyxzz, you know what I’m talking about girl.
OK, everyone calm down, the car did come after two hissy fit calls to the dispatcher and the ride to the hospital was uneventful. I couldn’t help but notice we passed a gorgeous looking Sheraton right near the hospital with fun looking eateries right nearby. This would haunt me in the days to come. I have to say, the Lower Bucks hospital staff was fantastic and acted like people blew in at the wee hours of the morning every Tuesday to have some major remodeling done to their tackle. A beautiful calm settled over me, which is totally unusual by the way, and I went through the motions of donning the faded backless gown and socks with the little treads on them. For once I didn’t worry about tucking; if anyone had to guess what I had down there, I was in deep shit.
The wheeled me in a gurney to the pre-op area where I was delighted to see that Heather, the PA from Dr. McGinn’s office, also kept drastically early hours. With the best bedside manner ever, she went over the standard mountain of paperwork with me, most of it indemnifying everyone in a 40 mile radius in case anything went wrong. I had to wonder if anyone at that point said, “yeah… fuck that”, hopped off the gurney and went to hunt down their gear. I realized my relaxed state was mainly due to the promise of sweet, sweet anesthesia right around the bend that would take away my hunger pangs and give me some solid shut eye. Hard to have performance anxiety when your primary role is to act like you are sleeping one off. Dr. McGinn dropped by briefly but rushed off like she had something important to get started on for some reason. Shortly thereafter, they wheeled me into a surreal room.
I immediately understood why Target was always short on 1500 watt bulbs as the eastern seaboard supply was simultaneously lit in the operating room. I squinted my eyes as masked men helped me shove my fat ass on to a table nearly identical to the one I was already on. People shuffled around looking professional, very busy, and yet like it was the usual Tuesday morning hump at the same time. I caught another glimpse of Dr. McGinn. I’m going to be able to eat right after this, right? “Um, no.” Dammit. A friendly man put a clear mask over my face after giving me a shot in the arm. Determined to fight the effects for as long as I could, you know, just for kicks, I faded to black.
The piss about anesthesia is that you wake up microseconds later still tired, but the clock is indicating you accomplished nothing all morning, you useless sack of crap. Immobile and disoriented, I was grateful to realize I was in no pain below the waist, though from the neck up I was a hot mess. I once read of an Inquisition era torture technique where they would use water to force a piece of scratchy adhesive linen down the throat, and then yank it out to tear out the esophagus lining and I was reasonably sure this had been done. Fuck, my check to the hospital must have bounced. These guys don’t play around, do they? Let’s just hope they didn’t install additional testicles down there. No, it was just the intubation that somehow managed to produce the same tortuous effect in a caring medical environment over 400 years later.
I yearned for the tiniest sip of water to ease the smoldering wreckage that was once my throat. I painfully croaked my desire to the approaching nurse. “Sorry dear, no water for a while for you. Oh, and here’s the phone. It’s your mom.”
Stay tuned for the thrilling next episode in our serial in which Michelle figures out the exact timing when the morphine pump goes live again, receives visitors, and manages to hump her ass out of bed early to the ire of the other patients.