In which I tell you all about it!

The alarm went off at ten of five. I got up, grabbed the clothes I’d laid out the night before, and went to take a shower. I took an antibiotic on my way through the kitchen.

Gramma drove me over to the hospital. I found Admitting, checked in, and was led by a volunteer to a room decorated with jungle wallpaper.

The nurse showed me around, said, “Oh, Dr. T will want a UA,” and then left so I could get into my backless gown and pee in a cup. When she returned, she covered me in heated blankets.

Gramma and I chatted for awhile about nothing, and I tried not to have a panic attack. (Having developed the stupid condition, I guess I’m stuck with it. Sometimes I get into a neurochemical feedback loop and have a hard time getting back out.) My nurse put in my IV. It hurt, so I said “Ow!” rather loudly. She took it out, talked with an adorable little student mini-nurse about how the needle had caught in the device somehow, and put in another. “You’ll probably have a bruise here,” she said, and taped my hand up.

I looked at the IV. “Eewh,” I said. “This grosses me out!” and put my hand under the blanket so I couldn’t see it any more. The tape was so tight my pinky went to sleep, so I loosened it without looking at it. I don’t mind looking at your IV, but the sight of a needle puncturing MY skin makes me feel all weird.

The mini-nurse asked if she could observe my procedure and I said yes. I signed a form giving her permission, and some others stating that I understood various things about the surgery I’d be having – hydroscopy and rollerball ablation – and drugs and anesthesia. I made lots of jokes and the nurses laughed; Gramma commented that [my aunt] Peggy and I are similar in the sense that we get chatty when we’re nervous. “I’m not always nervous,” I said, “but I’m pretty much always chatty!”

I was given another antibiotic. Later, I was given a couple hits off an inhaler because I’m a smoker. After that, I was given two pills to keep me from puking under anesthesia. (They tasted bad.) The anesthesiologist, Dr. T, came to see me. I didn’t have my glasses on, but he vibed cute. He said he’d take good care of me, verified that I’d read the forms about anesthesia, and had me initial and sign them. He left. I felt absurdly pleased that all of my care providers were so attractive.

I tried to nap. I watched the drip part of my IV drip. I noticed that since they’d started the IV my mouth was no longer dry. I wondered if the saline solution in an IV is salty, the kind of salt one finds in one’s diet. I wondered if too much IV fluid would put a person over the US RDA for sodium.

Eventually they put something in my IV – I didn’t see them do it but was suddenly not sober – and rolled me down to pre-op. I said, “Zoom!” The nurse laughed. I said, “I bet you hear that all the time, huh?”

“No,” she said, “I don’t think anybody’s ever said ‘zoom’ while I was taking them to surgery before.”

(I think that’s just weird. I always say zoom. If I happen to be taking a ride across a parking lot on a grocery cart but there are people nearby, I might not say it out loud, but I definitely think it. Zoom!)

In pre-op, my zoom nurse asked my surgical nurse what a roller ball was. The surgical nurse compared the roller ball device to something in the Pampered Chef catalog. (For that, I liked her immediately.) She then asked me if I’d been offered Novasure; I described my fibroid and my periods. She nodded and agreed that the roller ball was the best choice for me, patted my head, and moved on.

Mini-nurse came over. I barely recognized her because I didn’t have my glasses on, was stoned, and she’d changed into scrubs so she was a different color, but I figured out who she was. I told her what I’d learned about the roller ball device, and she admitted that she’d asked to see my surgery because of its name. We made roller ball/disco ball/roller derby jokes until she suddenly scrambled out of the way when my surgeon approached.

“How you doing?” he asked, smiling. He was still in street clothes.

“Good,” I said. “Nervous. Whatever.”

“Ah, you’ll be fine,” he said. “We’ll get you sorted,” and he patted my shin as he walked away.

I appreciated the touches more than I can express.

A few minutes later I was rolled into surgery. It was freezing in there. They had me move onto the operating table and get my butt in the right place. I noticed that the lamps are just like the ones dentists use, only larger. I craned my head to see Dr. T. “Whatcha looking for?” he asked.

“You,” I said.

“Right here,” he said. “Now, Michelle, I want you to breathe a little oxygen for me.” He put a mask over my face. It was crooked. I didn’t like that. I took a breath, tilted my head slightly to straighten the mask, took another breath –

– and woke up in post-op, with yet another nurse standing next to me. I was warm; they’d put a heated blanket around my head. I started talking; I can’t remember now about what, but it was mostly about sensations. “I’m shivering,” I told the nurse. “And cramping.”

She reacted immediately. “What’s your pain level, between 1 and 10?”

“Three,” I said, “or four.” She gave me something anyway, and I was stoned as hell. Stoned-er. I’d just woken up, so I was already pretty toasted, but whatever she did made it more so.

My legs were freaking out. I’d been in stirrups for 45 minutes or more, and my muscles were pissed. The nurse put another heated blanket on me, took my vitals, kept me talking. My legs shivered and shook, but stopped after awhile. I asked how long the surgery had taken and she said 45 minutes. I asked what time it was, and I think she said ten. I’d been out for awhile.

My surgeon came in, checked my pad, pressed on my uterus. We might have talked; I don’t remember. I barely remember him being there; I registered his visit only because it meant I wasn’t hemorrhaging. If that hadn’t been a particular fear of mine since the miscarriage from hell I doubt his visit would have made it from short-term memory through all the drugs and into long-term so I could tell you about it now.

After some unknown interval passed, I was rolled back to my room. Someone – another nurse-in-training, I think – took my vitals every 15 minutes or so; she was trying to count my breaths but I knew she was doing it so I couldn’t breathe normally. She went and told my first nurse that my breathing was erratic, but that worthy simply stuck her head in the door and asked me if I was breathing all right. “Yeah,” I said, “but when she’s counting, I can’t. Oh, and I have cramps.”

She got me some Demerol immediately, even though I’d said my pain was only 4 or 5.

Another nurse checked my pad, tsked, went away, came back, gave me a fresh gown and some disposable hospital underwear. I changed in the bathroom. Disposable hospital underwear rocks! It’s so weird! It’s all stretchy and meshy and square. I discovered I was coated in that red swab stuff they use; it went all the way around my legs and I smelled like chemicals. I also discovered I’d been shaved. I knew they’d do that, but for some reason it still startled me. I started giggling, but I was so high I forgot I was giggling and stopped.

I couldn’t believe they let me alone in a bathroom, but when I opened the door the nurse was standing there. I remember thinking she was really pretty. I liked her make-up. She had lots of blonde hair. “All you nurses are tiny,” I told her. I didn’t care if she laughed. She put me back in bed with my blankets. People checked on me. I couldn’t sleep, but I wasn’t properly awake either. I can’t quite remember it all; it’s jittery, with holes in it. Someone came and took my IV out. I looked at the two tiny holes in my hand.

At eleven, I was sitting in a chair in my room, calling Gramma to come get me. I was taken to the car in a wheelchair by an old man, a hospital volunteer. The rug under the wheels was nubby.

We went through the drive-thru at Walgreens so I could pick up a prescription. They kept asking me questions. I wanted them to fuck off.

At noon I was home, eating a couple of soft-boiled eggs with buttered toast Gramma had fixed for me.

I tried to sleep but kept jerking awake every twenty minutes, so around two I just wandered the house for awhile. I spoke with some people on the phone. I slept. Gramma fed me a green salad and a baked butternut squash for supper. She’d made a Dutch apple pie for dessert. (She makes the best pie crust in the known universe – it’s like shortbread.)

I spoke with more people on the phone, I slept again, I woke up with my throat sore as hell from whatever it is they shove down it while you’re out. I decided that that, along with the soreness I’d encountered when peeing, was reason enough to take a Darvocet. I slept again.

Somewhere between nine and ten, [my aunt] Teri came over bearing gifts. She gave me flowers, a cute card, and a bag full of books to read. She was in and out like a whirlwind; she’s always busy. The flowers are gorgeous. I looked through the books and went back to sleep.

This morning when I woke up I expected to be in pain, but I wasn’t. Not enough to matter much, at any rate. You’d think that having had the lining of my uterus destroyed by heat, I’d be crampy and achey and in pain… yet it’s still swallowing and peeing that hurt the most, and those pains are maybe a 2 or 3 at worst.

I took another pain pill this afternoon, though, and felt much better for it. I don’t hurt, but my body knows it went through some trauma and the drugs take the edge right off. It’s nice.

These are the jokes that were texted to me:

A skeleton walks into a bar and orders a beer and a mop.

And:

A baby seal walks into a club.

I know, right? Aren’t they wonderfully awful?! (I so totally *heart* you, Vuboq. You’re teh onleh one who texted me jokes.)

There is very little bleeding at all. Depending on how the ablasion went, this will be the last time I bleed for a very long time, perhaps ever. How kick ass is that?