The surgery was really a piece of cake. Before we went in, I took the requisite two showers with Hex-a-Cleanse, which sounds like a curse remover but apparently only works on microbes. We were at the hospital (or "Surgery Pavillion," as they are calling it now--as if I were having a lovely civil ceremony) early in the morning, and right away people starting asking me my name, over and over, and I confused them, over and over, by going by my middle name. Then I signed my boob (sure sign of a good party). A doctor--not my doctor--came in and said, "I'm Dr. Blahblahblah. I'm here to help Dr. Person with . . . . ."
There was a five minute pause. Mom and I raised our eyebrows at each other.
"I'm sorry, I'm in complete disarray this morning."
Mild panic.
Meanwhile, a nice Asian man jabbed my right hand several times with the IV. This was the worst part of the whole thing--my hand is still black and blue. Why do they have to put it in your hand, anyway? The back of your hand is so fragile.
Anyway.
Eventually they wheeled me back to surgery and I lay down on the surgery table and stared up into the very white lights, as in very many movie scenes. Just before I passed out, I asked in a panicky way if my own doctor was going to show up, as I did not want to be operated on by Dr. Disarray. But Dr. Person showed up, and everything faded to black. I don't remember anything else until at one point I woke up and said something like, "I think I'm starting to wake up and become aware of what's going on down there, and I'd really rather that didn't happen."
The next thing I remember, I was sipping apple juice in recovery. Thirty minutes later, I was home.
Ever since then, I've been reading and sleeping and eating things my mom cooks for me. People have been visiting and sending me flowers and candy, and I have a whole bunch of Percoset--it's been great. I recommend it.
I'm a little bit nervous and sad about going back out into the real world of rain and databases, all by myself with nobody cooking me bean soup.
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