The day started just like any other: I got up, rubbed special cream on my boob, and sealed it in saran wrap. Then Ben and I dropped the boys at their school and drove to MGH for my surgery. Yes, we were late. Anyone who knows us knows we are time-challenged (this was what I told the elementary school principal last year when she called because my kindergartner was late a lot). In our defense, on Tuesday, there was still a lot of snow on the ground and people were driving like schmucks. So it was mostly out of our hands and nothing like the time Ben decided to stop and get a coffee at Starbucks while I was well into labor with E.
Anyway, on this occasion our tardiness did come with benefits; we were expedited through all the pre-surgery stuff. Before I even had a chance to potentially freak out over what was about to happen to me, I was in the operating room, well sedated, and then completely asleep.Next thing I knew I was awake in some room where the clock said 7 pm and Ben was at my side. I think we had some conversation but I remember little of it as I kept falling asleep as Ben tried to talk to me (nothing new). I do remember him watching some nature channel on the TV that had no voice over, which was an odd but I suppose respectful choice. He then changed the channel and started watching a teen jeopardy championship, which we both agreed was more like an SNL skit. Then I slept as best as I could until morning (more from noise then from pain).
In the morning, I was visited by periodic strangers requesting a quick peep show. The plastic surgeon who came by was impressed by her own work, which I take as a good sign. Everyone kept asking me how my pain was and I kept saying, "I don't really have any pain." They attributed this to the nerve block I was given before surgery. As the day wore on, however, they started to doubt it was still the nerve block. I finally ate something, peed about seventy times (do some people really have trouble peeing after anesthesia because I apparently had the opposite reaction) and felt well enough to go home. Since coming home yesterday, I have taken Tylenol twice, more for discomfort than for any actual pain.
I can identify only two possible reasons I have been so lucky in my recovery thus far:
Theory A) I was so well protected under my moldy green blanket of love and healing that nothing could hurt me (thank you very much everyone! You did great. I think I even had a vision of Matt Damon in a teal sweater fighting Brad Pitt for my attention while visiting my happy place)
|You can really find the strangest shit on the Internet|
p.s. this blog would likely be funnier if I was on some serious pain meds...