No food or drink after midnight, the nurses said.
I hate fasting. I really, really hate it. On the car ride down to my D&E, NPR aired a story on gluten free food that made me so hungry I had to change the station. When we arrived at the hospital’s surgical center, the receptionist gave us a buzzer just like we were at a restaurant. The waiting room smelled like french fries and I wistfully watched a woman sip her grande Starbucks drink.
Our buzzer buzzed and we were led to the pre-op room, where I changed into hospital attire and joked about the handy pocket in the johnny. (The “pocket” is actually a quick-access portal to my chest in case of emergency, a nurse explained.) The OR nurses have a completely different vibe from the IVF ones. The IVF nurses always seem a little blasé and patronizing, plus they’re mixed in with the green fellows and interns, who I never fully trust. Here, there were no students– just the nurses, the anesthesiologist and the OB/GYN– and I instinctively KNEW they were good.
I was asked again if I was a medical professional. Sigh. I’m flattered, but no, I’ve just been doing this for a really long time.
The actual procedure was easy, thanks to the expert anesthesiologist. She had me completely out for the exact length of the procedure and no longer. I wasn’t aware of them putting my legs in stirrups, sticking on electrodes, doing the procedure, putting mesh panties and a pad on me, or transferring me back onto the gurney. It is really an exercise in giving up control. Sadly, it must feel like this sometimes for the elderly.
Back in recovery, I woke up crying. One of the nurses was right there beside me with a comforting hand and a box of Kleenex. I’m sobbing now as I remember. She even offered to give me a minute alone before K came back into recovery, which I was relieved about, but alas, K was already on his way in. It’s not that I’ve wanted to hide any emotions from him; I’ve just wanted to be strong for him. This time around, he’s needed to lean on me.
I’ve been happy to be strong for him, but I definitely could’ve done without making my own dinner that night. It p*sses me off and perplexes me that K does NOT have the gene to wait on me hand and foot after a procedure like this. I was STARVING after fasting all day (DUH), but he just didn’t understand that food needed to happen for me RIGHT NOW. So I put some chicken noodle soup on the stove and informed him that he was in charge of bringing it to me when it was ready. I guess that’s as close as I’ll ever get to hand-and-foot. Either way, there’s really nothing better than chicken noodle soup followed by a giant bowl of ice cream. ❤
(By the way, I'm sorry this update took so long. You guys deserved to read something substantial, so I sacrificed speed.)