Surgery Number Two- Subdivision A

It has taken two and a half weeks to reach this stage of the tale, not because of deliberate heel-dragging, but because there have been so many other things crowding the front of the stage, so to speak. Since the hysterectomy, I've had the recovery time in hospital- upon which more shall follow- the return home, Bert's last few days in Korea, Annie's trip to Mongolia, my staged return to work, the remainder of Mum's visit, band rehearsals and a performance, a trip to Seoul for Parent-Teacher conferences, several visitors, the one week check-up and pathology report... Girl's been awfully busy!

The details of the final days in hospital must be processed, however, and so we pick up where we left off: the preamble of the hysterectomy. You will recall that the operation was deemed medically necessary because I had thickening of the uterine wall (which was discussed no further by the surgeon, who packed me off to the gynecologist immediately) and a seven centimetre myoma on the uterus (discovered by said gynecologist with the light sabre) that might or might not be cancerous, and because the breast tumour was caused by hormones; if I wanted to remain tumour free, I needed to become uterus and ovary-free. You will also recall that the operation had been cancelled once by the insurance company because it was NOT deemed medically necessary, postponed once because the hospital did not have my blood, and prepared for twice because two of the departments involved in my case don't speak to each other, even though they are housed in the same suite of rooms and their reception staff share a desk.

Well, now that we're all on the same page, let us proceed:

When day dawned on the Wednesday, I was still a bit phased by yet another night spent with constant interruptions from nurses and trips to the restroom. The operation was scheduled to take place earlier in the day than the lumpectomy had been, so there was much less preamble. I did get a visit from the surgeon on his early rounds, however, minions in tow. He lifted the dressing from the wound for the first time to have a look at the incision, which I also examined with great interest. The wound started about an inch and a quarter to the right of my nipple. It curved up and around the areola and back down, cutting across a section of it before finishing in a flourish two inches on the left of the nipple. The whole incision was about four inches long in total, and was held together by tape rather than stitches. Above the whole area was the most glorious purple and yellow bruising, angry and swollen. 'Very good,' the surgeon said after a brief glance. He taped the dressing back and left me to fiddle with the velcro fastening on the hospital-issue bra. (I hope to return to this marvelous contraption later- a wonder!)

So all seeming well with one operation, we continued to get ready for the second. A nurse arrived with a clean set of surgery-wear and helped me into it. Another giggled into the room to take blood- this time from my leg, which seemed odd. A third, straight-talking and efficient, arrived to give me the jab in the backside (and again, slapping the area firmly really hid the fact that she was stabbing me with a very painful shot- how canny! Try it yourself next time!). Next, a trainee arrived to insert the catheter, deemed necessary for this operation where it had not been for the first. The point was that I was basically not to move after the operation for about twenty-four hours, so the midnight excursions to the bathroom were halted, as was the line-dancing down the corridor. Shame. After about a quarter of an hour, her supervisor arrived to check the work, tutted disapprovingly, removed the first attempt and did it over again herself. Yes, try to think of something more pleasant than having a catheter tube inserted twice, and you'll not have to try hard. However, compared to the nasty fluid that dealt with the rest of the necessary evacuations, and the needles, probes and scans of the previous few days, it was a walk in the park.

All this completed, I was once again fetched away by porters and crowded onto the service elevator with half a dozen other coughing/gasping/pale n' wan masked figures, and rolled away towards the operating theatre. This was in a different room from the last surgery. In fact, while I was in the operation, my whole case was going to be shifted into the gynecology department, requiring Mum and Bert to pack up our things and get them moved to a new room on a different floor. I would be oblivious, of course.

The room was more spacious and chilly than the one I had been in two days previously. There may have been as many people, but there seemed less bustle, less haste. This may have been just an impression. I was already feeling a bit groggier this time, due to the needle having been administered slightly earlier. Still, the eyes that appeared above me registered:

PoE2: Hello, again!
P: Hello- how are you?
PoE2: (Placing the mask over my face) Errr- fine. I am anesthetist! I was in operation Monday!
P: Lovely to se...

There were no dreams this time. There was no irritating song repeating itself in my head, nor absent seams of thought stretching across my sleep. When I woke again to the sound of my name being shouted repeatedly in my ear, it was all roaring. Everything was roaring. The air conditioners, the swirling figures in the recovery room, the tension across my shoulders, the uncontrollable shaking, the cramps, the emptiness, the feeling of having been scoured. I was aware that my eyes were open only because I could see my hands quivering in front of them. I knew my ears were functioning because I could hear my own whimpers and moans and woundedness. This was not a gentle awakening. There was no smug satisfaction or acerbic observations to be made about the others in the room, nor was there any awareness of the cabinets or clipboards or colours around me. I can describe nothing of my surroundings. Everything was inside, everything roared. The figure that approached and asked if I was cold barely registered. I must have said yes because a wide tube was slid between my blankets and warm air began to surround me. It did not stop the shaking.

I cannot tell you whether what I was feeling was pain. It felt lesser than pain, but as visceral. I felt savaged.

Someone must have come and removed me from recovery, but I recall nothing of the journey to the new room where my mother was waiting. I know that I arrived, because through a haze the nurses transferred me from one bed to the other, four little hustling figures shifting my moaning, shivering mass in a tangle of wires and tubes and soiled hospital cotton. The bed was lowered flat, and I was laid across it, shaking, crying, keening. I was vaguely aware that Mum was somewhere in the room, vaguely aware that she would be finding this distressing. There was nothing to be done. Absolute helplessness.

The nurses continued their ministrations: business-like, inscrutable. The wires and tubes were assembled and my modesty covered. A painkiller was added to my IV, and then an additional bottle was attached, a small plastic orb with a blue button pressed into my right hand. I was whisperingly informed that this was more pain relief and that I should push the button when I needed to. The nurse demonstrated. The fluid burned as it entered my arm, but the edges of the pain became less distinct. I was told to be still, that I was not to sit up at all, but that I could move onto my side if I needed to. I was told that my back would hurt. I cannot tell you what else I was told. Gradually, slowly, the blurs began to take shape and the world started to include the rest of the room.

I was never so glad to have my mother with me.