Humour is my most effective weapon during my cancer battles. For instance when I decided to go ahead with my liver surgery, I promptly announced that I did not want to wake up in the recovery room to the smell of onions. Now the title of this blog might make some sense. Incongruity is a wonderful thing for dissipating some of the overwhelming potency of stressful situations. I didn't say they were good jokes, nor are they meant to entertain anyone but myself (much like this blog).
So the lazy days of summer have come to a close. Fall is my favourite season and I had bittersweet feelings for undergoing surgery at this time. Some dark thought long entertained by me prior to my cancer: not when I would pass, but in what season. Fall I want to enjoy. Fall heralded not only a change of season but a new beginning, likely because of my many years in school. My job changes also have occurred around this time of year. So for me, the Fall was the start of a new adventure. One always starts off a new adventure with optimism and hope.
Surgery day, Wednesday September 22nd. Another early morning start, there are no other surgeries before mine. There is only one such procedure in any given day. My sleep the night before, as expected was light with lots of anxious glancing at the clock to see if I had overslept. Surgery itself was scheduled for 8AM, as always it seems. My morning routine that day was spare, showered, dressed, no breakfast. I would bring only my wallet with my Health Card. No phone, no extra clothing, no computer. What I needed most that morning was what I brought within me. I was calm, perhaps because of the by-now familiar process. The mechanics of the registration, the relocation to the surgical-preparation floor where I would change my street clothes for a Hospital gown, no longer be Terry McAlinden, but MCALINDEN, T -- PATIENT. I write from memories of that time, and find myself overwhelmed in emotion, literally unable to read what I write through blurred vision. At the time of the surgery I remember being outwardly calm, for had I not gone through this process once before and emerged with mind and body more or less intact? I could do this again. That was the plan. Always back to the plan, this helped my resolve time and again.
The experience of being in a Hospital gown and booties, with my freshly-inserted IV in the back of my hand are still vivid. External noises are muted as I focus my concentration inward. Calm on the outside, nervous on the inside. Waiting is the worst. My nurse is aware of my nervousness and the small talk we make while this or that is being done to me helps. I didn't have a medical entity beside me, I had a person compassionate and kind who genuinely cares about me.
Accompanied by family and my nurse we walk to the OR room. I'm given a bed that will serve as the vehicle which brings me into the surgical suite. Until then I am covered in warm blankets. I am cold. The chill is not all from the air conditioning. More waiting. Enough of being nervous, just get this show on the road I think to myself. Bemused that I am bored. Nothing to read. No computer, idleness as a distraction to surgery. The incongruity momentarily amuses me, but the thought is fleeting. My OR surgery nurse introduces herself. My Surgeon stops by, and marks a large 'X' on my right leg with a marker. I won't see him again until after my recovery. The rails are now up on the bed, I'm being moved. I murmur my goodbyes, and I feel the bed glide down the corridor and we go through the doors to the surgical room.
Have I mentioned how cold it is in these surgical rooms? Colder now as I am slid off one bed and roll onto the operating table. Have I mentioned how narrow they are? I am remembering the exact feeling six months prior. Everyone is masked, I can't tell my doctor from the anaesthesiologist. Oh, she's the one having me sit up as the epidural is placed into my back. My "HappyDural" I tend to call it. My glasses are removed and I lay down. Someone is talking, wonder when this will star----
ICU is my first conscious memory. Sleepy, someone is talking to me. I am hugged, people are glad I am awake. My awareness is slow to return. Questions are asked, and my answers are found satisfactory. In the back of my mind there's something I want to ask. I can't think of it. I sleep some more. I wake up as my vitals are being checked. The process repeats, how often I do not know. My nurse comments that I am a light sleeper. The radio is playing the same annoying song every time I wake up. Katy Parry's "California Gurls". Beach boys did it right the first time. Wednesday has turned to Thursday morning, and I am alert. I made it through a major surgery once again. I sleep yet again, feeling the emotional relief envelope me.
Barely 24 hours after surgery I am being asked if I can sit up from my bed in the ICU. My monitoring equipment shows I have OK blood pressure. I sit up. Immediately I collapse back to the bed, my blood pressure dropping. Dizziness passes, the nurse indicates that my BP is already back to normal, and we try again. Slowly. I can stand, on very unsteady legs, but my body is not listening to my wishes. My nurse has me, I do not fall. I walk, the five steps to the nursing station. I turn and walk back. It's true what they say: 10-step programs are hard!
Walking those ten steps permitted my release from ICU to my bed on the sixth floor, where I once spent 7 days in my previous life. My scheduled length of stay this time was for 8 days. I fully anticipated that the process would more-or-less follow what I had gone through before. Life is not so predictable, and I would encounter challenges that would take all my strength to overcome, and force my self-perception to change once again.
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