Yesterday started out much like any other surgery day – I went with my mom downtown to NMH, with me driving her car of course, so as to avoid the huge spike in blood pressure that ensues whenever I’m in a car with my mom as driver. Then we get to the waiting room there, and yet again, I note that their computer’s homepages are set to some hospital webpage rather than my own informative blog. Sigh. Must I fix everything around here?
I’m then taken to the pre-op room – same one as before the last surgery – and lo and behold, who should soon come walking in but my old friend, Dr. Marcus the anesthesiologist! The nice one, not the other guy who rolled his eyes at me when I didn’t answer his silly questions fast enough. Hey pal, brain injury, okay??
Me: Well, fancy meeting you here!
Dr. M.: You again? I mean…..you again!
Me: So you remember that I don’t like the forgetting drug beforehand, right?
Dr. M.: You mean the one we give you here before you get wheeled to the operating room?
Me: Exactly! I hate that!
Dr. M.: We could just forego putting you under altogether and….
Me, aghast: God no, that’s crazy talk! I don’t want to know what’s going on during surgery. I just don’t like the part where I’m putting the little cap on my head before I get wheeled down and then poof, next thing you know I’m waking up from surgery, even though I know I was awake for some of that but I don’t remember a damn thing. Umm, that makes sense, right?
For some reason Dr. M. is looking at me a little strangely.
Me: I mean, that’s probably pretty common, that people want to remember being awake and engaging in witty banter and all that, right?
Dr. M.: Actually, no. Most people are a bit tense so they want to forget as much of things as they can, and for that to happen as soon as possible.
In the meantime, I have one nurse working on putting in the IV, and she’s the one surly nurse I encounter all day. I really don’t understand these people who are immune to my considerable charms, but nope, she doesn’t even crack a smile. Hmm. Odd. Perhaps she’s jealous of my stature as a Triathlon Goddess – it’s been known to happen. Okay, not really, but there’s a first time for everything.
But then there’s Michelle, PA to the Stars (me), who has the best news of all:
Michelle: So we’re doing nipple recon on the right, a lift on the left…..and you know, we can leave the ports in, just in case we want to do some future adjustments.
Me: Seriously?? I get to keep my adjustable Boobages? Sweet!! That way I can keep the dream of a Pamela Anderson look alive!
Dr. M.: But she got deflated, didn’t she?
Me: Yes, but then she got re-inflated! She went big again! A girl needs her Boobages, you know….
Resident: I’ve never heard the term Boobages….
Me, modestly: I tend to make up brilliant new words. Feel free to use it! Oh, before I forget, how long before I can go back to my regular activities, for which “the little people” look to me for inspiration? I *am* a finely honed triathlete, you know. And cyclist.
Resident: Well, easy biking you can do – just don’t go racing those guys on the lakefront who are hunched over their triathlon bikes zooming along.
Clearly, my reputation precedes me.
And you see, this is the kind of charm and wit I’m known for, which is clearly why all my doctors adore me. Though they never seem to take my calls, but I’m sure that’s because they’re really super busy and all.
But it’s not all laughs and idle chit-chat. Dr. M. is asking the important questions, so I try to pay attention.
Dr. M.: And you’re 5’6?
Dr. M.: Weight?
(We interrupt this blog posting due to unforeseen transmission problems. Please stay tuned.)
Oh, sorry, I’m not sure what happened there, must have been a glitch in the subwarf integrated circuits or something. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. The questions.
Dr. M.: And what are you taking the Celexa for?
Me: Umm, so I don’t go into a frothing rage and kill people on a regular basis? Any more so than usual, that is. Oh, and so I don’t break into uncontrollable weeping at those Pedigree commercials with the shelter dogs.
Dr. M.: And the Prevacid for heartburn, does that work?
Me: Kind of sort of.
Dr. M.: ?
Me: Well, sometimes I still take a Tums or something.
Dr. M.: Does that coincide with anything, eating something in particular?
Me: No, not really, though it does happen more often when I don’t eat anything. You know, fasting all day in a futile attempt to lose the weight that FatSurly makes it impossible to lose, and is the reason I want to shoot myself on a daily basis.
The room is silent, but I think that’s because everyone is just industriously working away at their respective tasks. At the same time, something does occur to me, and that’s this: anyone who ever puts forth the notion that one can ever strike up a patient-doctor relationship of some kind of is, quite simply, on crack. Because here we have Dr. M., a perfectly lovely fellow who likes hockey, and he knows me as a fat and surly psychopath. Dr. Fine will see me as I’m in all likelihood drooling on his operating table. And let’s not even talk about Dr. Merkhottie, treating me in the days of the broken collarbone AND brain injury. Those were some stellar moments there, let me tell you.
Finally, the man of the hour, Dr. Fine, comes in, and I greet him in my usual manner.
Me: So Dr. Fine, Cori is really happy with her foobs, and I’ve seen Jen’s and they’re spectacular, so I’m expecting nothing less than complete and total perfection here with my own. Oh, and I write about you on my blog, so the whole blogosphere is also expecting perfection. Just so you know. No pressure or anything.
Finally, I’m wheeled down to the OR, yammering the whole way, about my theories on doctors and how they engage in googly eyes and flirting and such over the patient during surgery, etc.
Resident: Where do you get your ideas on how doctors operate? Grey’s Anatomy?
Me: Exactly! I mean, what could be more accurate then a hospital where the residents are constantly getting it on in supply closets, and the operating rooms are all so darkly lit that the docs can’t actually see what the hell they’re doing, and oh yeah, the person with advanced brain cancer is miraculously cured, because she’s a hot blonde? Right?
For some reason, they now put the little mask over my mouth even as they’re still prepping, but I think that’s because they recognize that someone of my highly honed athletic physique will take longer to knock out.
Next thing you know, I’m done with surgery, sent home, and lo, there it is 8PM and we’re doing Shots Across America, drinking to: Kim’s birthday, my spectacular Boobages, my great doctors, PamB and her awesomeness, Kim’s awesome running abilities, Kona at the Day Spa, the Hooters to Hooters half-marathon, our hooters in general, and I forget what else. It was a long and glorious night, and I am fortunate indeed to have such great friends.
One final thought – is it wrong that I keep peeking down the front of my shirt to admire the new girls? Because admittedly, the Frankenfipple is a bit scary at this point, but the lift and symmetry? Truly a wonder. Dr. Fine is a genius. And as I always say – what’s the point of getting cancer if you don’t get anything out of it?