Well, same day but two different posts. The surgery went very well; apparently the post I had from yesterday didn't go through and well....here we are. I am very sore right now but so very happy. Not from the Vicadin (which I always spell wrong I think) either. It was everything that was to be expected; got there at 7 and as soon as we walked in there was a woman behind the counter waiting. I walked over. She looked up at me for a split second before lowering her head. I said my name and she didn't acknowledge me with her eyes, or a smile, just a "yeah." Sign this, mark here, insurance card please, sit there and we'll call you. All without making eye contact once. Pretty impressive. I really like that the people that they have behind the desk welcoming people before they go under the knife is so pleasant.

And then the waiting. I'm convinced that if I added up all the times I've waited in the past nine months, I could get a whole three days back. Walked into the back room ; my mother came with me. She's a nurse at that hospital, so everyone addresses her instead of addressing me. Half the time they think I'm 16. It's actually really annoying. Not that I mind my mother speaking up and giving information that I may have left out, but I do mind when they speak with her instead of me as if I'm incapable of giving an accurate recount of my health history. But eventually I tell them to please direct their questions to me and they respect that although they do sometimes think it makes me a little difficult.

Then you have to take the pregnancy test. Now, since all that has happened to my body, they tell me my chances for getting pregnant at some point in the future may be the same odds as the Bills winning a superbowl. However, and without fail, every time they hand me the illustrious cup to pee in, a nurse must tell me the story of how her friend/sister/neighbor/cousin/coworker/friendssister'sneighbr'scousin'scoworker also had cancer and low and behold now she's got three kids. It's very sweet; but funny because everyone does it. Plus at this point in time I'm like--uh, no kids is fine by me!

Then the inevitable IV for the anesthesia to come later. I always tell my mother she can not come to recovery until I am completely coherent. I do not need her asking me about whatever questions she has about my teenage and early college years. Or now even. Not that she would, but I would think that it would be tempting for a parent to find out exactly how many parties were held in their home. I remember one time my friend L and I both told our parents we were staying with the other one for a week. And then both sets of parents went away. I'm lame and wouldn't let anything happen to their house but sure had fun with the freedom at L's house. :-) Well, she didn't even need to ask me under anesthesia. She could just read this.

Then you walk down the hallway. Now you only have those horrid hospital robes on and you have to take off one of them. So trying to maintain your dignity is a little hard, clutching the back and lying down on the table to make sure nothing is showing. Because in five minutes while you might be lit up like a Christmas tree and not care, at that moment you do care, because there's a cute tech in the room, you have that horrible blue hat thing over your head and the hospital booties and the mumu (sic?) hospital robe is not helping your chances. Well, there was no chance anyway, but still...then you're on the table having things stuck to you and strapped in and it's all well and good because they're starting to sedate you and you're not having a care in the world. You feel like you could get up and walk out of there towards freedom just the way you are--much like Barbara Streisand at the end of "Nuts". Only there's still a receptor in your brain stopping that from happening. Then you're out but then you're back! And the OR is hopping. I can hear the chatter but not sure what they're talking about and slowly I came to and realized that they wanted to put music on in the OR but it might be Eminem. Hmmm. Okay as long as it isn't Britney or Jessica Simpson massacring a perfectly good Berlin song, I'm fine. One, two, three the port is out you're in the recovery room being hooked up to the final monitors of the day. Yay! But you know what is always inevitable with me. They always forget to take off one of those stickies. Always. So today as I was changing, there was one last sticky thing, which I don't mind them taking off when I'm feeling no pain, but now I'm feeling all the pain and it just sucks ripping it off your skin. But now it's time for lots of water, good ER reruns, sleep and some sympathy. And the port is GONE!