Monday Oct 5
And so, the former health nut who prided herself on never having spent a single solitary night in hospital (gave birth to daughter squatting on bedroom floor, seriously!) is now packing for another two nights at St Johns and wondering just how many moisturizers I will have the energy to slather on. It’s very drying in hospital rooms and a gal can’t help but feel that a general anaesthetic sucks the life out of both body and facial skin..And here’s the good news, no school lunches or homework to nag about for two days but could there be anything more aggravating than a 7 pm surgery and an entire day without FOOD, water or coffee . A friend comes to collect me and am teensy bit tense and irritable as we fight our way through peak hour traffic from Hollywood to Santa MOnica and I realize that I will in fact be there long after the 5pm check-in time. As a result everyone seems to have clocked off for the day and the place is like a ghost-town…There are two other very sweet friends meeting me inside the hospital and we’re all non-plussed as we wander up and down, take the elevator to different floors and resort to calling out “Hellloooo”, literally, trying to find some humans who might be appropriate to the situation.
Twould be laughable if I wasn’t dying for a vodka and a fag – but finally, passing janitors and floor-cleaners, we come across a dimly-lit admitting desk in an inner lobby straight out of the Shining. The gals there seem cranky and crabby and when they realize that no pre-op bloodwork has been done they start to whisper and I find myself defending Dr Bob and explaining that as he thought my breast was about to explode there simply had not been time for any pre-op niceties and besides, I say, I was here a few weeks ago. I am very healthy – “Except for the exploding tit” snickers one of my pals and they both collapse in hysterical laughter. A humorless scowling nurse hustles me into a pre-op cubicle and her colleague joins in and vitals are taken. I point out that they were taken a few hours ago at Tower Oncology but they ignore me and the usual dull questions are asked about allergies and crap and then they ask who will be driving me home and I say that I am to be admitted for two nights and all hell breaks loose and they insist they have NO knowledge of a sleepover whatsoever !!! They are very indignant about it and I actually scream as one of them, who may or may not be trying to emulate the drug-crazed Nurse Betty on the new TV show, inserts an IV with all the finesse of a panda bear wearing snow mittens. My two pals appear in the doorway as the other nurse repeats over and over that there is NO paperwork that will allow me to stay the night and I keep insisting that Dr Bob said I WAS!! It’s farcical and surreal but TERRIFYING too and both pals are now suggesting, with total candor, that perhaps it’s best “we leave now and come back another day”. I am sorely tempted but Nick is now staying the night at a friend’s and I would hate to waste that. And then I’m asked the dreaded question –“What procedure are you having?” and I have to say in my own words “Well they’re taking it all out – the expander, the alloderm and leaving me …empty.”
And in the nick of time, here comes Dr Bob –or God to the nurses and both women seem to relax. One of my girlfriends, a New York toughie, demands to know why it all seems so chaotic and disorganized. I am mortified. He’s a SURGEON, for fuck’s sake. You can’t demand to know anything. But Dr Bob really doesn’t have any of the arrogance or sense of superiority that so many have and he is totally unruffled and pleasant as he tells soothingly it’s all ‘under control’. (So he lies a little..) He confirms to the nurses that I am indeed staying and that’s that. Indeed, I don’t have the energy to go home and come back another day- even though, Dr Bob has bags under the bags and I ask him when he last ate. He just smiles and attends to paperwork and I search feverishly in bag for a protein bar thinking that may revive my flagging surgeon. Damn. Nothing. I suggest a cup of coffee, prepared to personally run to the nearest Starbucks—but he doesn’t seem tempted. Well just give ME some drugs then, I shout to noone in particular. Am ignored. Pat on some eye-cream and rub lotion on hands and then it’s off with the goddamn ’undies again. I make one last cell phone to call Lola and then, as the girls are now chatting merrily, already charmed by Dr Bob, I try to get their attention for a farewell. But they’re distracted. They want to make sure they have an ‘in’ with someone who’s renowned for doing stunning faces and eye jobs.
It’s so late in the day, no one bothers to put me under before I am wheeled into the operating room which is scary and messy with boxes piled in one corner and the white tiled walls are a little dingy. It’s certainly not as gleaming and groovy as on Grey’s Anatomy. At least there’s a gloved, masked person attending to very large long sharp instruments—but where are my drugs?….Ah here’s the drug man and all I can think about as he chats wearily to me is that it is nearly 8 pm and aren’t all these folk tired and hungry and desperate to get home?? They must HATE me.
And I’m out.
But only till midnight when I come around. This was a quickie—just a 90 minute surgery. I don’t feel so bad—but then I remember – and like some tragic amputee, I feel for where my left breast was… Nada. Flat as pancake. GREAT! Even though I knew it was coming, it SUCKS.
And on top of it all, I am bloody starving and all they can find is a cranberry juice and some dry stale crackers as they give me yet another round of IV antibiotics. I try to tell them that I’ve had my antibiotics as 2pm but have no energy to argue and thus can’t even go to sleep till about 1.30am.
Okay—I’ll admit it. This is no longer fun. The nurses barely come anywhere near me for over two days. The lunch ladies come in and give me food. But two or three times I have to get up and make my own bed so I don’t have cold tootsies. Aren’t nice cheerful nurses meant to do that? One tit and cold feet. Give me a fucking break.
And when two sweet friends do come to visit, it ‘s so tiring having to chat and entertain them that I suddenly have such guilt at the amount of time I spent trying to divert and amuse my old dad during his endless stays in hospital.
By 2 pm on Wednesday I pack up and wander off past the nurses station to meet a friend who has come to pick me up who is waiting in the car park. I don’t even bother to say goodbye to anyone—they don’t seem to care.
It hurts like hell as I, A NEWLY MINTED MONO TIT, schlep all my belongings to the car and head off home. Moments later I make a dash to pick up the teen who grumbles a lot but I can tell is secretly pleased to see his mum. But I’m embarrassed when he gives me a gorgeous giant bear hug back at the apartment and I shrink back slightly so he doesn’t feel the lack of a bosom on one side. Does he even know what has happened? Not important – there’s a heap of homework to nag about.
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