Relinquishing Control

     This was my ordeal, exactly one week ago: 

  

     I wake, feeling a tad of congestion that started the night before. I wonder if it’s nerves. I practice deep breathing on the 15-minute drive to the hospital. We arrive at check-in early: 5:25 a.m. Third in line, I stand behind the guy in PJ bottoms and slippers, wondering what he’s having done and how old he is? He has cropped grayish-brown hair; he could be 40, 50 or 55. Is he my age? His wife seems young. Does he have cancer too? I can’t tell. At the head of the line, a couple kids mull around a woman, clearly their mom. I wonder who’s having the surgery? Is it the energized boy ducking under the belt barricade?
     Check-in amounts to initialing three boxes that match three brochures, something I’ve done dozens of times. We sit, then follow a nurse to a waiting room. Three other parties are already there. I choose a spot as far away from each of the others as possible. The first person called is old and frail. She has a hard time getting up and walking when her name is called. I breathe deep. Feel fortunate. At 6 a.m., my name is called. We go to Short Stay where a ginger-haired nurse shows me my bed. I don’t catch her name or anyone’s name. The next hour and a half flies. 
      Close the curtain. Strip. Gown ties in front. What’s your name? Birthdate? What are you having done today? Do you have an advanced directive? She takes my temperature, listens to my lungs. Reads my blood pressure. It’s high, 155/75, which frustrates me. I’m already doing a bad job. The nurse disappears and I grumble to Ron about white coat syndrome. Deep breathe. The nurse is back, preparing the IV, eyeing the plump vein on the back of my hand. I point to my wrist bump and say no IV at my hand or wrist; I advocate for the vessel they used last chemo, the one on the inside of my arm. She says she can’t see it. I hold my ground. She adds heat. It’s pale but works perfectly.
     I mention that when I came in for the livery biopsy, they ended up prepping me and getting me on the table ready for the biopsy, then they couldn’t see it clearly enough and opted against it. “Hey, maybe that will happen today,” I said. I was joking.
     “That’s not going to happen today,” the nurse said.

      Someone interrupts and informs my nurse she wrote the bed number wrong. My surgeon pops her head into my berth. “I checked your bed and thought ‘oh, no, she’s not here.’” Dr. Garreau is amiable and energetic. She asks how I’m doing.

     
     “I’m ready for you to do your thing,” I say. We chat. I mention apprehension about anesthesia. She says the anesthesia folks will be in soon. She says spinal blockers are an option; they inject the blocker on each side of my spine which helps with pain control in the chest area. I’m not so sure. She says I don’t have to have it. Before leaving, she asks, “Any questions about the surgery?”
     I pause, then motion with my hand. “So you’ll slit here…”
     She motions a lateral cut from the left side of the breast to the center. “I cut here and then hollow you out.”  That’s all the detail I need. She talks about the sentinel node removal.
     “Okay,” I say. I sign the permission slip for the surgery.
     The nurse brings me antibacterial wipes and has me wash each side of my chest for a full minute. She says they’ll repeat the procedure in surgery with orange wipes. She’s back and the anesthetist arrives.
     She introduces herself. I don’t remember her name. She describes risks of anesthesia. She asks for consent and I sign.
     The anesthesiologist arrives. I describe nausea from anesthesia in the past. Ask her about the blocker Dr. Garreau mentioned. She goes through the process and risks. Describes the 12-18 hour benefit for pain control. I opt against it. At some point, I’m offered Valium. I say yes. I’m a little tense.
     Surgical nurses arrive and introduce themselves. They’re peppy and warm. The surgical intern arrives and introduces herself. The plastic surgeon, Dr. Popowich, arrives, gets on one knee and draws on my breast with a purple marker. He leaves and others swarm in; they don’t seem to introduce themselves anymore. A woman at my feet wraps compressors around each of my legs; they’re like massaging bubble wrap. She doesn’t tell me what she’s doing; I have to ask. The wraps feel like shackles. I feel panic and start deep breathing again. At my left, a woman dots me with what appear to bits of tape. “This is an EKG,” she says. “I feel surrounded here,” I say with an awkward chuckle. “Oh, does it feel like you have no control?” she says in a jovial tone. “Yes,” I say. It seems we have rapport. But she’s done as quickly as she started. “That’s it?” I ask. “Yes,” she says. “How was it?” “Everything’s good,” she says, and darts off. Suddenly I’m being wheeled down the hall. We enter the surgery room. It’s lights and stainless steel. “Is this the surgery room?” I ask. “Yes,” I hear. 
     And the next thing I hear is: “Surgery’s over,” and I’m being wheeled into recovery. Good news follows almost as quickly.