How, exactly, do I feel about that? Kinda shitty, to be perfectly honest. I’ve had surgery before, and even though that one was extremely necessary too, I haven’t really relished the thought of the whole process.
M asked me yesterday, while we were in the waiting room, if I was excited. Ya know, since this gall thing caused me incredible amounts of pain and anguish, the likes of which I would be very happy to never feel again, you’d think I would be ecstatic to be talking about getting that sucker sliced out of me. But it’s been almost 5 weeks since it happened, the last time. And being that far removed from it, I’m kinda forgetful of exactly what kind of evil occurred. Especially since within 15 seconds of that morphine hitting my brain, I was feeling like I could tap dance around the ER.
Pain is something I forget, easily. Physical pain, at least. Emotional pain I can bring up in just a few seconds and recreate with uncanny accuracy. But physical pain is flighty for me. I cant re-imagine what it felt like, until I’m actually feeling it. And then I’m all, “Oh yeah! That’s what this feels like. Yeah. Oh god. Its gonna get worse. Make it stop. Now now now now now.”
I remember the pain being so great that I didnt know whether to cry or scream or move or what. I remember the first time that the pain was so intense that I actually fell to the floor, crying. I remember not being able to breathe, and my daughter’s feet dancing the goddamn fandango on the actual source of the evil emanating through my chest. I remember doing the worst thing in the world and asking M to make the pain stop. Knowing full well that he couldnt do a thing and that I was just hurting him with my request. In my unreasonable stupor, I figured it was worth a shot.
But I dont remember what it actually felt like.
I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that that’s a good thing.
In any case, whether I remember the pain or not, I’m going to be getting it removed. My gallbladder is going to be thrown into a medical waste bag and will end up in a dump, somewhere. No cloning me, ya’ll.
I was 20 when my parotid gland, and its attached tumor, were removed. They kept me over night since it was my first surgery, and admitted me to pediatrics… even though I was 20. The upside was that I got chicken noodle soup and strawberry ice cream. When I got discharged, my parents took me to my place and picked up my meds and settled me on the couch. M came home from a final and took care of me. That night, my hangy down thing uvula got so inflamed from the air tube used during anesthesia that I called up the ER and asked what the fuck was going on. It happens. So this time around, I know not to be scared by that.
I know that I will have a newborn. I know that she will need me. I know that I will have to get by with little to absolutely no drugs so that I can feed the poor thing. Doc said that I will need a week to recover, but that the entire removal is done by 4 small incisions and I wont have my giant huge face scar replicated on my belly (not that I really care if my belly is a patchwork of stitches, but it might be a pain in the ass if I want to, oh, say, move around). M will probably leave the little one with my parents so he can be with me at the hospital, and she can stay away from sick people during the height of flu season. Then we’ll come home either the same day, or the next, and get on from there. I want to get it done, hopefully, the first week in November so that I can get my new digestive pattern figured out before the holidays.
I know exactly what will happen, how it will go down, and what my role in the whole production will be. But that doesnt make me any less nervous. Right now, I feel like the terrified 2o year old being wheeled into her surgery room, too scared to tell anyone that she had to pee. I’m certain that when the time comes, I’ll crawl back up into my brain and set autopilot to keep myself from crying… again. My doctor is a fantastically nice man. I’m sure the nurses and the hospital will be fantastic. But surgery is scary.