The Big Hole - Part Two

Today was the day. Sam and I headed to St. Luke’s South for my appointed check in time a full 2 hours before my scheduled surgery. I thought it would be like visiting the doctor’s office and I would spend quite a bit of time waiting, but in fact I was busy right up to the moment I dropped off into the dreamy world of anesthesia. Everyone was unbelievably nice, and although it was clear that it was a full day for the staff, they treated me as if I were the only patient there.

I visited with the nurses, met the anesthesiologist, and talked with my doctor, each time confirming my name, date of birth and planned procedure. And I reminded my doctor that I wanted pictures – lots of pictures - of the offending cyst growing inside me. He thought that was funny, but promised he would have the camera ready.

My veins were a little uncooperative and I had to be stuck 3 times (2 of which hurt like hell) before they were finally able to make a connection. I was grateful once the IV began to flow because I knew the Versaid wouldn’t be far behind. I'd been remarkably calm about this impending surgery, but now that the time had arrived, my anxiety was growing. I watched as the clear liquid snaked through the tube towards my hand and within minutes I began to feel drowsy.

Drowsy. Isn’t that a wonderful word? How often do you really get to feel drowsy? I’m more accustomed to ‘beat’, ‘exhausted’ or ‘worn out’. But drowsy? Not so much. Drowsy feels more, well, sort of luxurious. Drowsy implies that deep, sound sleep is on its’ way and there is really nothing you can do but give in to it. And I did.

I don’t remember Sam kissing my forehead before I was wheeled away. I don’t remember the bright lights or the cool air of the operating room. I don’t remember the tube they placed in my throat to keep my airway open. I didn’t know that the surgery took nearly twice as long as it was supposed to. And I don’t remember Dr. Arroyo coming to tell me that he was unable to save my ovary, although he did tell me, and I cried when I heard the news.

I do remember waking up and seeing the nurse standing beside me. She told me about my ovary and since I was hearing it for the first time (or so I thought), I cried when she told me.

Because I only had one ovary anyway (story for another day), its’ loss meant that I’d just been thrown into surgical menopause. I use the word ‘thrown’ because when your body abruptly loses its ability to produce hormones, it’s a lot like slamming on the brakes of your car while driving 70 miles per hour. My doctor has already prescribed replacement hormones (air bags if you will), so we’ll see how it goes.

The good news is that after weeks of going back and forth in my mind over whether to have a hysterectomy in the event the ovary could not be saved, I'd finally decided just days before to tell the doctor not to do it. Despite his and others' inclination that I have my uterus removed, I decided it should stay. I didn’t want to create an unnecessary hole.

Dr. Arroyo was true to his word and took 16 photos. Sam showed them to me after my surgery and pointed out the cyst. It was completely obscuring my ovary and looked awkward and lumpy. It clearly didn’t belong there and although I hated that it had overpowered my ovary, it was clear it needed to go.

But next to the offending cyst was my uterus. It was pink and smooth and shiny and vibrant and healthy, and if I do say so – beautiful. Just beautiful. It was clear to me that it was happy living where it was and I was glad I’d not made a decision to disrupt that.

So I did come away with a hole today, but just a small one. And for that I’m grateful.

Let the braking begin.