I’m lying in bed typing having survived my oophorectomy. I guess I am doing what the professional PR people call “resting comfortably”. But since I am not a movie star or celebrity, I can tell you that “comfortable” is not exactly the operative word. The Percocet that I put so much faith in made me really nauseous so my hopes for a few days of la-la land were squelched early on. But as long as I don’t move around too much, I am ok. The surgery was successful, save for the incision that had to be a little bigger than the doc had planned and the fact that it took me five tries to sit up without passing out to get home. Overall the degree of difficulty was a 5.6; the execution was an 8.7 for a combined score of 14.3. Not enough to medal, but I made my family proud.
I know the abdominal surgery is not a competition but somehow I made it one. I decided that I was going to be the best oophorectomy patient ever. This goal required me to be as friendly as possible to all hospital staff. I was sure to say please and thank you to EVERYONE. I even cracked a few jokes along the way. (Like remarking to the O.R. nurse who brought me a warm blanket that this place was better than a spa!) She thought that was funny. For some reason, I thought that the friendlier patients would get the best service. Like at a restaurant. If they liked me, they wouldn’t kill me by accident or anything like that.
It turns out I was in fine hands with my doc. I did not mention this in my previous post because it was wigging me out a bit, but the guy who cut me open and took out one of my ovaries graduated from Penn the same year as me. We didn’t know this until Dave and I saw him in his office a few weeks ago and Dave had on his Penn T-Shirt.
Doc: Hey! Did you go to Penn?
Dave: Yup.
Doc: What year?
Dave: 1990.
Doc: Me, too. I was a Sig Ep.
Dave: I was PIKA.
Awesome, dude. (That was me thinking)
So while I was actually glad that I didn’t know him at Penn (or at least didn’t remember him), the last person I wanted opening me up was a guy who (chances are) got plastered in the same bar that I did, even back in the day. I wanted Marcus Welby or even Doogie Howser. And somehow the universe had given me a Sig Ep brother. There were a few people I could have asked for more information about him – but decided I really didn’t want to know.
So I am convalescing, which means I get the remote control to the TV and ALL my food brought up to me to eat in bed. It also means my Mom has come to help. Dave is a great nurse and has been very attentive and wonderful. But he is not my mother. When I was little and sick, Mom would ply me with a cool wash cloths on my forehead, serve ginger ale with a straw and toast with apple jelly, and every time I would get up to go to the bathroom, she would “freshen up” my bed and re-fluff my pillows.
This time around she made me a grilled cheese and suggested that I might want to take a shower. (Hmmm – you can’t be looking or smelling too good when your mother asks.) So I hobbled to the shower, and it made me feel like a human being for the first time in 24 hours. I made it back to my bedroom doing my little Yoda shuffle and there was my bed all “freshened up” with the pillows fluffed and ready for me to climb in and fall asleep again.
I love my Mom. And I’m going to be fine.
