Biopsy

Warning: for those with squeamish stomachs, you might not want to read this blog posting.

You know it’s a great start to surgery when the surgical RN jokes that there is an Asian connection: he’s Filipino, the anesthesiologist is Chinese, and the surgeon is Vietnamese. I point out that I’m a ¼ Japanese and he smiles and says: the circle is completed.

At this point, I’m wearing a purple paper gown that has me curious. It has kangaroo pockets and a hole to clearly connect something. My mom, sister, and I are shivering in the pre-op room, waiting for me to be wheeled away. Another nurse comes in and asks: are you cold? I’m sure my teeth are chattering when I nod yes. She connects a tube from the wall into the hole of my gown (a-ha!) and warm air begins to fill the area between the plastic touching the gown and me. She hands me a controller and I can adjust the temperature. I look like the Michelin man, but at least I’m warm.

Never did I think that there was such a cool tool for pre-op. In a weird way, feeling cozy in the surgical cave is comforting as well. My mother and sister are still freezing at this point, though bravely grinning through the cold.

I am wheeled into the surgical room and they are playing the radio. In the past, I recall getting prepped for falling asleep. Someone would tell me to begin counting backwards or an oxygen mask would be placed over my face. Nothing like that happened.

All I remember is waking up surrounded by 2 nurses. One was removing what sounded like a “heart line” out of my right wrist and I noticed that they had removed my hospital bracelets and put them on my left wrist. She was removing tape and telling me that this was the worst part of this. I had no idea what she was talking about and just let her finish. She begins putting on stockings on my legs and I’m a bit disoriented at what is happening. Another nurse at my left is asking me if I feel pain and I nod yes fervently. It feels like I have been shot in my chest. He says he is giving me some morphine and I lay in a daze as they are monitoring all my vitals. A little bit later, the nurse asks: "would you like some more morphine?" I say: “please, it still hurts” and grimace. Even later still, yet another shot of morphine and the pain is only beginning to fade.

The same nurse who administered the morphine is telling me that I’m doing great and I hear a moan coming from the other side of the ward. My skin prickles and I begin to think the only reason why I’m doing so great is because I’m not screaming my head off.

I am wheeled to my hospital room where a couple of nurses help move me to the bed and I’m very aware of the flames of pain on the left side of my body. They wrap my stocking legs separately with a contraption that begins to vibrate up and down my legs. I beginning to emerge from my morphine-induced haze and assume that the machine prevents blood clots. A nurse tells me to press a button when I have to use the restroom so I can be unstrapped.

I’m writhing in discomfort and I begin to compare this to my gallbladder surgery. It’s about the same pain-wise, but this one is more uncomfortable because of the location. Also, I was a relatively healthy person when I had my gallbladder removed. This time, I’m a cancer patient trying to find out the next mode of treatment. It seems so much more pathetic.

Trying to make myself comfortable on the bed so I can fall asleep is a bit like trying to fit on a jelly bean: ridiculous and not going to happen. I squeeze myself to the right side because I have slightly more leverage. My mom and sister arrange my things so I can reach them and I hear them whisper “I love you” and “we’ll be back later” as I nod into sleep.

I’m woken up a few times for food and a nurse taking my vitals. I ask for some more pain medication and pick at my food. My throat is so dry and it hurts to swallow. I drink the iced tea and spoon some mashed potatoes into my mouth, trying to get some food in my stomach.

A nurse asks to look at my drainage tube and I turn slightly to the right as she decides that it needs to be emptied. She takes a cup and squeezes the contents into it. She’s measuring the stuff while I am recoiling from the sloshing noises it had made.

It’s not until I use the restroom, when I have to ask a nurse to remove the straps and I stand bare-assed, trying to modestly hold the ties in the back of my hospital gown with my right hand and the little drainage pouch with my left hand.

I examine myself in the mirror in the bathroom and I’m surprised at all the bandages around my left breast. I see the drainage tube sticking out of me and connecting to the pouch I had rested on the sink. I recall making a face and just shuffling back to the bed, pressing the button that calls the nurse so he can strap me back in.

The blinds are closed and I can only tell what time it is based on the bit of light filtering in the sides. My family comes to visit in the evening. After they leave: more pain, more vitals, more food, different nurses, and the time just passes. I sometimes put my headphones on to muffle the consistent sound of the machine at my legs, which is much like a giant cat purring.

By morning, I’m wheeled down to have another chest x-ray. By the time I’m back, the surgeon’s assistant comes in and she looks at my bandages. She removes the drainage tube, which literally had been the pain in my side apparently. After warning me that “this will feel odd” and sliding it out, I feel some relief. She says I will be released soon.

My mom comes and waits with me as we get the final papers and gather my things.

I have a hydrocodone-laced dream upon returning from the hospital that I am working for the FBI and get shot. Then I wake up and realize it is my chest that is hurting from where they took the biopsy.

It’s the end of the rollercoaster where I think: well, that wasn’t so bad.

However, a stronger thought comes to mind: let’s not do it again.