(Spin Cyclers: When you are done here, come see my post at
The Women's Colony. Mrs. G. is my hero!)
And really, what kind of ingrate puts up a Spin Cycle post without linking to the beautimous Jen at Sprite's Keeper? One on some pretty good drugs, that's who! Sorry, Jen!
"What's your full name?" she asks, as always.
"Mary Lillian Wyatt, date of birth, 8-10-63." I anticipate because I am nervous, as always.
"Date of birth?..oh...right," she replies, momentarily taken off guard. "Did you bring a...yes, I see you did. You can just take that around the corner to the lab..."
I interrupt and finish the spiel, "and then up to the third floor to Endoscopy," I say, as I am already heading out the door, "Thanks!"
Thank goodness these people are all very nice. This routine I have memorized is not the most pleasant. It's not like remembering all the little ceremonies that open the Master's at Augusta, or knowing when to shout the obscene funny things at the college hockey game. This is the routine of injections, of experimentation, of pain relief.
There are thousands of children who experience illness and much more painful procedures than what I will go through. Unlike those brave children, I am a total wimp. And in my wimpitude, I reserve the right to whine occasionally. This is just such an occasion (Fortunately, I always keep my feathers numbered...).
At the lab, they will stamp and copy my paperwork, and hand the original back to me to take upstairs. A short walk to the elevator later, we are on our way up. Since I will be anesthetized, I am required to have a driver. Some crazy regulation about not letting you operate large machinery for 24 hours. I can't get them to include the washer and dryer in that classification, dammit. So either Husband, or one of my teenagers is with me as I ascend. Today, it will be Husband.
The routine continues, completing the paperwork, what is your pain level right now, pregnancy test is negative, are you allergic to anything besides penicillin, you'll need to get completely undressed, then put this gown on with the opening in the back. Good Gravy, how I hate the gown. Tissue paper thin from hundreds of washings, the gown features ties at the neck and waist which frequently defeat my caffeine-deprived attempts to secure them.
Did I mention the routine of the night before? Nothing to eat or drink after midnight. Including. Coffee. I've been known to beg for it upon coming out of anesthesia. If they ever tell me something of life-threatening importance, they'd better wait until the caffeine starts to circulate, or don't bother with the information. My hands, eyes, and ears operate only with coffee boost.
Rita has had her coffee, which is wonderful because she is easily the best at painlessly inserting the IV in my hand or wrist. Joan is good, too. If Amanda comes around? I just play dead until she leaves.
After the IV is inserted, I just need to wait my turn. The wait can be anywhere from 5-55 minutes, usually on the shorter end of that. Once across the hall in the surgical suite, Dr. R. greets me with a grin, and asks if I have any questions before we get started. It's always the same one, "Have you had your coffee this morning?"
"Of course," he smiles back, and I transfer from the bed to the table. A blood pressure cuff gets attached, and PulseOx monitor, as well. Leads are attached to my back to monitor my heart, and Dr. R., who sterilizes his own field, says, "Cold comin'." He's right. The solution they use is always frigid. I don't know why, but it takes my breath away for a moment. Soon, I know, I'll be out.
Sometimes, I monitor the conversation of the team of people around me. Last time, they were talking about going to your "Happy Place," visualizing someplace that relaxes you, and were trying to decide the most beautiful place they could think of. "Wailea Beach, on Maui," I said, as I could feel the sedative taking hold, "Here I go..."
