Some of us surviving

Surgery day

I get up and dress like the badass warrior I am: socks that say “It’s a beautiful morning….don’t fuck it up” and my axe-throwing, rifle-snipering t-shirt that says “Do Epic Shit.” Awesome Friend Peg is driving me to surgery, and while I was nervous in the days leading up to it, now I just want to get this shit over with. I’ve also brought my usual brownies, as I do to every surgery. I figure, they haven’t killed me yet so obviously it’s working. Far be it from me to mess with success.

I’m disappointed that the bureaucrats at the hospital have deemed it necessary for people to wear hospital socks into surgery, the ones with the bumpies on the bottom, as if to say that people not slipping and falling and cracking their heads open is somehow more important than cool socks. Bah.  Dr. W. ,Surgeon to the Stars, bounces in and I insist on showing him my socks.

Me: See? “Don’t. Fuck. It. Up.”

Dr. W.: Hmm. I like those, but….

He takes them and folds them over so that only the “It’s a beautiful morning” part is visible. I look at him skeptically. I’m not sure my curmudgeonly self can truck with this kind of Pollyanna-ish nonsense, but on the other hand, he’s the guy with the scalpel. Robot. Whatever. I graciously let it slide.

Off to surgery! I always refuse Versed so that I can dazzle everyone with my witty banter, but for some reason, they always seem to put the mask on my face right away. Odd. Before I know it, I’m at the bottom of a well and someone is talking. “Blah blah…benign…lab…….test…..blah.” I gather that the Borg is in all likelihood benign but they send it to the lab for testing. Everyone is so damn nice at this hospital, but they kick me out later that day anyway. At least it’s not like the wayback hospital in my beloved Dodgeville, WI, that wanted to send me home when I had bleeding on the brain and a crushed collarbone after my bike crash.

“Oh look! She’s fine!”

I believe at that point I was offering everyone a teacake and insisting that I had Ironman in 3 weeks. Repeatedly. But yes, I was fine.

That night

Peg drives me home, and after a nap, I start looking for festivals I can attend the next day, also as per tradition. I’m doubtful there’s anything like the Polish Fest I went to in Chicago the day after my concurrent cancer/broken collarbone surgery, but perhaps an Oktoberfest? (I’ll note that I was on heavy psychotropic drugs at the time of my visit to Polish Fest, unlike my friend.) (*cough* Deanna *cough*)

Recovery

I can’t seem to find a local Oktoberfest or anything similar, and my disappointment is palpable. So instead, I decide I need to go pick up my foster dog in Salem – the almost-2-year-old very hyper bouncy pup who I had fostered before surgery. This seems logical.

Otherwise, well, I’ve had so many surgeries I could pass them out like cheap party favors, as I like to say. I’m sore, big deal. I’m back working the next day. I take a total of two oxy, one the night after surgery and one the next morning, and am done with them. Neighbor Laura brings me food, Awesome Carlyn sends me dinner by delivery service. Lab tests confirm that the Borg is benign. Fuck yes.

Final post-op appointment

Being back at the doctor’s office is a revelation, because everyone’s so damn happy. This is good, of course, but a bit different, until I remember oh yeah, this is an oncologist’s office. Where if things have the not-so-good outcome, you have ovarian cancer, which is brutish and cruel.  So hell yes, no cancer, let’s party! I’m contributing to the festivities because I brought Dr. W. a jar of boozy cherries and a jar of gin pickles. I even get to see a picture on his computer of the Borg!

Me: Wait, that huge thing, that’s it?

Dr. W.: Yep. Just took it right out. And I checked your liver too, looks good.

Me: Oh, it does look plump and happy!

Dr. W.: …….

Me: Anyway, I make boozy political jams, but if I don’t know people’s leanings, I give them the more neutral ones, like Boozy Cherry Bitterness or Slim Gin Pickins.

Dr. W.: Political ones would have been fine too! Anything to help deal with that goober who’s in office right now.

Now, normally I’d look askance at anyone who uses that kind of terminology in my presence, but I then realize the ingenuity of this approach, ie of using ridiculously innocuous words in certain circumstances, and appropriately salty language in others. People will be so shocked, you’ll be able to get away with anything. Nicely played, Dr. W., nicely played.

I also belatedly realize that yes, one probably can read between the lines to tell if a scan or appointment is good or bad (beyond the obvious grim faces and “so here’s a referral for a specialist”). Thinking back to my MRIs, the right hip one in Silverton and the rogue ones in Illinois:

Silverton MRI tech: You’re talking to your doctor about these right away, then?

Rogue MRI in IL tech: So you have an appointment with your doctor as soon as you get back, right?

Now that this saga is over, I’m trying to get back to the important things in life. That is to say, cycling. And the quest for Hot Cowboy. Or, as I described my vision to HockeyWhartonCraig:

“So far my tactic of riding my bike in the hinterlands until I have a mechanical and am winsomely standing by the side of the road and then a Hot Cowboy pulls up and says "Hey darlin', need some help?" and then his dog jumps out of his truck chasing after a jackrabbit and we go running after the dog and accidentally fall into a muddy pond and the Rage Cows gather around and stare at us like we're insane........well, it hasn't quite happened yet.”

Hope springs eternal.