I'm writing this post from the bedroom, where I've been propped up and writing for the last couple of hours. The cats love that I'm still in bed and they keep coming back to visit, tussling and rolling around on the comforter. Ice coats the windows and an airplane drones overhead.
It's weird to still be in bed, but it's definitely the most comfortable place. It still really hurts to get up and down and to walk around, even though I make myself do it a fair amount. I keep thinking about the massive amounts of pain killers I would love to take, were I not pregnant. My Tylenol extra-strength just isn't cutting it. But then again, if I were chewing Vicodin by the handful then I probably wouldn't be very productive and, as it is, I've already finished two freelance assignments today.
I'm still processing this whole experience. I kind of can't believe that the surgery happened at all. It was seriously one of the scariest things I've ever been through. When I was waiting in my gurney in the pre-surgery room, I couldn't stop crying. I was so filled with anxiety and I felt so alone, even though all the doctors and nurses and residents were as nice as could be.
And then I was wheeled into the surgery room and it was the most surreal moment. The room was so bright and so large and cold, like something in a movie. The surgical table was in the middle of it all, under football-stadium bright lights and surrounded by little tables of sharp, shiny instruments. I had to sit on the edge of the table while they administered the anesthesia to my spine -- all this time, fully awake and trying desperately to concentrate on my breathing.
And then I was lying down as the anesthesia seeped upwards from my toes, eventually paralyzing me from the ribs down. Then my arms were strapped down on either side of me and a curtain was raised separating my head and chest from the rest of my body. I stared up at the ceiling and listened to the doctors on the other side of the curtain as they began to cut me open.
I could feel so much more tugging and pulling and pushing in my abdomen than I anticipated and I tried to make small talk with the anesthesiologist who sat behind my head, a nice man with two kids of his own. I grew constantly dizzy, feeling as though I was going to black out, and would verbalize this in a shaky, soft voice as I kept my eyes focused on the ceiling. Then they would administer more IV fluids, bringing the room sharply back into focus.
Halfway through the procedure, my doctor had to call in an oncology surgeon to help her. I found out later that the cyst had been much bigger than they anticipated and that it was intwined in my intestines and colon, my urethra stretching across it. The oncology surgeon carefully removed it and took my left ovary and tube as well. My doctor explained some of this in real time but I was too busy keeping my eyes focused on the ceiling and trying to make sure I was still breathing to really understand.
And then it was finally over and they were sewing me up. The whole procedure only lasted about 45 minutes. While I was still on the surgical table one of the residents asked me if I'd like to see the cyst and I nodded yes, turning my swimming head to the left to see her holding it out in a little pink, kidney-shaped dish. I could hardly believe how big and real it was: flesh-colored and larger than a grapefruit. They gave me pictures of it, but you should ONLY look at them if you really think you can handle it. View this photo.
And then it was finally over and I was all sewed up. A nurse brought in a doppler radar and we all heard the fast beating of the baby's heart beat before I was wheeled away to post-op, where my head would swim for another hour before the feeling finally came back into my limbs and I was taken upstairs to see Gregory.
Writing it all out just makes me shake my head even more. I can hardly believe any of it happened. But I'm glad it did. And that it's over.
