megram - Index

megram - 55JunGTA - Index

October 12, 2007
Time for the pre-operation information
session, blood tests and X-rays.
I am guided through the details of
what to expect before and after surgery.
The nurse warns me I will have
some pain and should accept the
Tylenol 2 or 3 I will be offered.I will be
hooked up to a drain that will siphon
off excess fluid for four or five days. I
must learn to empty it twice a day.
The vision of the plastic tubing
attached to the small bottle upsets me
more than the thought of the lumpectomy.
The nurse assures me that the
homecare nurse will help me through
the procedure and goes on to describe
the staged exercises I must do after
surgery.
It seems odd that I will be home
the same day after surgery this major,
but both the nurse and the homecare
case worker assure me this is the current
norm. Medical supplies will be
delivered to my home the day before
the surgery and a nurse will visit me in
the evening after the operation.
October 13, 2007
Bone scan time.The only problem
is the strutting, officious technician. I
am relieved that this is the only day I
have to deal with him.
October 14 to 17, 2007
Time to clean house, change beds
and change all the kitty litter boxes.
Time to shop — I won’t be able to
drive or lift heavy items for a while
after surgery. I also head for Value
Village to find a nightdress and sweat
suit that are buttoned or zipped all the
way down the front. I won’t be able to
manage back openings or over-thehead
clothing for a while. I add doing
an extra load of washing to the list.
Time to finish off various writing and
editing projects. I take the dogs for a
long run.
A friend sends a bouquet of flowers
to wish me well. A card from my
son arrives in the mail. It helps to
know people are thinking of me.
October 18, 2007
On the way to the hospital,we deal
with a couple of errands at local stores.
My husband delivers me to QCH
Admitting and I pass my OHIP card to
him after the clerk has checked the
number. I am now without any identifying
documents.
I am directed to the day surgery
change area and waiting room. The
routine is to strip down to two gowns
— one tied at the back and the second
at the front as a makeshift dressing
gown — and funny foot coverings
(laughingly called slippers). Street
clothes go into a plastic bag, which is
placed in a numbered locker.They will
be brought to me in the recovery
room after the operation.
I and three other people, dressed
in the pre-op uniform, meet in the
waiting room.“This is the great leveler,”
I say. The man smiles. The two
women are too tense to respond.
A nurse calls me into her office
for further instructions.The routine is
to have me tell her about the operation,
confirm the side to be operated
on and repeat the surgeon’s name. She
makes sure that I am not wearing any
jewellery, that I don’t have false teeth
or caps and that I have not eaten or
drunk anything since midnight.
I have my regular medication (for
heart and thyroid conditions) with me.
One should be taken with food, the
other with water. I assumed I should
not take them this day.She tells me that
I made the right decision (despite the
contradictory note in the booklet
handed out at the pre-op session).
The bag of medication is added to
the clothing in the locker for collection
later.I still have my glasses,so that
I can read for as long as I want.They
will be stored in a box on the lower
shelf of the bed.I am struck by the efficiency
of the routine.
The nurse tells me that my doctor
has ordered a painkiller suppository.
Do I think I can manage to deal with it
myself,as it has to be administered rectally?
(Is there any other way with sup-
June 2008 • 53 • Fifty-Five Plus Magazine
positories?) I figure I can cope. She
provides rubber gloves, lubricant and
medication.
Soon after I return to the waiting
room,a porter calls me.We walk down
the corridor to a bed. I climb aboard
and he wheels me towards the operating
room. I am parked outside, under a
sign bearing the surgeon’s name and a
downward arrow. (They are really
making sure that they operate on the
right bits of the right patients.) He
sticks a cap, a good match for the
makeshift slippers, on my head and
covers me with a light blanket,
warmed to the perfect temperature.
The anesthetist swings by to introduce
himself and check on crowns,
caps, angina and any other condition
that might cause an issue while I am
anesthetized. My surgeon comes to
see me. He marks the spot to be
incised with a black pen, pats my
shoulder, smiles and says, “Don’t
worry.We’ll look after you.” I am confident
that he will do just that.
The operating-room nurse also
visits me. I notice the smile in her
eyes. She tells me she will be by my
side through the procedure.
A few minutes later, a patient is
wheeled out of the operating room.
The man pushing the bed calls to no
one in particular, “The next one’s a
breast, isn’t it?”
I raise my hand. “That would be
me.” I grin at him, pointing out that it
isn’t politically correct to refer to people
by their body parts. He laughs and
pats my bed as he passes.
I am taken into the operating
room, fully awake. I see and hear the
instruments being laid out and point
out that the chinking of the knives is
not the most comforting sound.
The anesthetist is by my side. As
he inserts a needle to carry the anesthetic
in my left hand, my nurse holds
my other hand. Good night, everyone.
In seconds, I am asleep.
Iris Winston is a regular contributor
to Fifty-Five Plus.