How to Make God Laugh
To continue our story: When we last left our heroine--me--I had agreed that a biopsy of the tissue behind my eye was needed and we scheduled it.
At this point, I thought the procedure would be a needle biopsy. They would stick a large needle behind my eye and suck out a little bit of whatever is back thereanalyzese it, and everyone would be happy. Well, I would not be ecstatic, but I figured that they would give me enough drugs to make me happy.
Oh no, Dr. Della Rocca said. "I have to make an incision in your eyelid and go back there to get a bit more tissue than that." He showed me the tip of his little finger to let me know how much was coming out. I asked him if he could do an eyelid lift on both eyes while he was at it. He said no. He also nixed a tummy tuck.
The biopsy would be done at New York Eye and Ear and it would be a same day procedure. Get there in the morning and go home that night, or this is what I was assured. The date was set for Oct. 21, a Friday.
I went home and alerted my freelance clients to what was coming up and went to the bookstore and alerted them. At this point I thought I would need one or two days of recovery time before coming back to work, and everyone would be happy.
Finding someone who would drive me down to Manhattan and then back home was going to be a problem, however. All the people who had time to do it did not want to drive in Manhattan. Those who would drive in Manhattan could not make it that day.
My church, St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Brewster, came to the rescue. Rev. Terri stood up and announced that I needed a ride and could anyone do it? Immediately, Lori Beninson, a new congregant stepped forward and volunteered. Lori is an EMT in New York City and said she was working in the city anyway. She could drop me off and pick me up that evening after I got release and everyone would be happy.
The saying goes that the easiest way to get God to laugh is to make plans. Based on these plans, God wet his pants and snorted milk out his nose.
I had packed an overnight bag just in case and brought two books, some knitting, and a good attitude. I also decided to play it safe and I went through my wallet and removed all but one credit card and I left my cell phone at home. These were such smart ideas that they came back to bite me later.
Lori picked me up at 6:30 in the morning on the day of surgery. We had a fun chat on the way down. The best part was that we switched cars in the Bronx to Lori's official EMT vehicle, which had lights and a siren. No matter how much I begged, she would not use them, however.
She dropped me off at New York Eye and Ear and came in and found out what time she should be back to pick me up. She gave me her business card and wished me well.
My surgery had been slated for 11 a.m., but by the time I got to the hospital, it had already been moved to 1:30 p.m. So I got dressed in pale blue hospital pants and top and a robe and was directed from place to place. They gave me a locker to store my stuff. This locker was about the size of a number 10 envelope and I had a tough time stuffing my overnight bag into it. I and the rest of the ambulatory surgery patients looked like guests at a really boring pajama party.
I got checked out by a nurse and a doctor, but it was pretty much hurry up and wait. I had my knitting. I finished reading The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. I was happy.
Finally, at around 3 p.m., I get led into the operating room and put on the table. I was singularly not nervous, almost preternaturally calm.
My next coherent thoughts involve Dr. Della Rocca leaning over me and telling me that I have to stay overnight because I bled a lot. Lori is standing next to him telling me that I have to stay overnight. I argue groggily with both of them. They win.
Dr. Della Rocca explained that I bled more than expected. He had actually closed up the incision and had to reopen me and remove a clot. Because of the bleeding, he placed a drain in the incision, a short tube to the outside with a test tube hanging off it to collect blood.
By 7 p.m. that night, I was settled into a room and realized that I was not sure how I was going to get home the next day. I remembered that Lori had said something but I could not remember what.
I was out of it, but awake. At one point I was talking to the family of the lady in the next bed about how hungry I was. They nicely gave me a piece of fried chicken that they had brought in. Hey, I was on prednisone. I was hungry, OK? I even ate the dinner that had been brought up for me, a tray of food that may have been floating around that hospital for the past 15 years. It was meatloaf, but it could have been used as a roof shingle.
Around 8 p.m. I got up to go to the bathroom and saw my face. My upper eye lid was a bright blood red. My lower eyelid was, I swear to God, green. I could understand the red. But how on earth did Dr. Della Rocca do that green? I looked like the Italian flag. And there was a test tube hanging off the side of my face, for that added textural interest.
The next morning I was feeling better. I was not in any real pain but my face was tender to the touch. I woke up to find Dr. Della Rocca sitting next to the bed taking notes. He examined me and decided to remove the drain, which he did with a quick yank. That was about the worst pain that I experienced. He also said that I could go home that day.
But how was I to get home? I called Lori and left a message. She called me back and told me that she was at a workshop on Staten Island and that she could pick me up around 4 p.m. That sounded good, but I then found out that unless I was out by 1 p.m., the hospital would charge me for a second overnight. I tried calling several friends and relations, but didn't have anyone's phone number with me, because I had sensibly left my cell phone at home. I ended up taking a car service home, which involved the driver stopping at my house to allow me to pick up my ATM card,which I had sensibly left home, and then driving me to the bank. It worked.
When I got home, my cats greeted me in their usual where-the-hell-is-the-food manner. There were several messages on my machine asking how I was.
I took a photo of myself for posterity. I wanted to have a permanent record of the worst black eye I had ever seen.
I shall continue this story and eventually catch up to the present, I promise.
At this point, I thought the procedure would be a needle biopsy. They would stick a large needle behind my eye and suck out a little bit of whatever is back thereanalyzese it, and everyone would be happy. Well, I would not be ecstatic, but I figured that they would give me enough drugs to make me happy.
Oh no, Dr. Della Rocca said. "I have to make an incision in your eyelid and go back there to get a bit more tissue than that." He showed me the tip of his little finger to let me know how much was coming out. I asked him if he could do an eyelid lift on both eyes while he was at it. He said no. He also nixed a tummy tuck.
The biopsy would be done at New York Eye and Ear and it would be a same day procedure. Get there in the morning and go home that night, or this is what I was assured. The date was set for Oct. 21, a Friday.
I went home and alerted my freelance clients to what was coming up and went to the bookstore and alerted them. At this point I thought I would need one or two days of recovery time before coming back to work, and everyone would be happy.
Finding someone who would drive me down to Manhattan and then back home was going to be a problem, however. All the people who had time to do it did not want to drive in Manhattan. Those who would drive in Manhattan could not make it that day.
My church, St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Brewster, came to the rescue. Rev. Terri stood up and announced that I needed a ride and could anyone do it? Immediately, Lori Beninson, a new congregant stepped forward and volunteered. Lori is an EMT in New York City and said she was working in the city anyway. She could drop me off and pick me up that evening after I got release and everyone would be happy.
The saying goes that the easiest way to get God to laugh is to make plans. Based on these plans, God wet his pants and snorted milk out his nose.
I had packed an overnight bag just in case and brought two books, some knitting, and a good attitude. I also decided to play it safe and I went through my wallet and removed all but one credit card and I left my cell phone at home. These were such smart ideas that they came back to bite me later.
Lori picked me up at 6:30 in the morning on the day of surgery. We had a fun chat on the way down. The best part was that we switched cars in the Bronx to Lori's official EMT vehicle, which had lights and a siren. No matter how much I begged, she would not use them, however.
She dropped me off at New York Eye and Ear and came in and found out what time she should be back to pick me up. She gave me her business card and wished me well.
My surgery had been slated for 11 a.m., but by the time I got to the hospital, it had already been moved to 1:30 p.m. So I got dressed in pale blue hospital pants and top and a robe and was directed from place to place. They gave me a locker to store my stuff. This locker was about the size of a number 10 envelope and I had a tough time stuffing my overnight bag into it. I and the rest of the ambulatory surgery patients looked like guests at a really boring pajama party.
I got checked out by a nurse and a doctor, but it was pretty much hurry up and wait. I had my knitting. I finished reading The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. I was happy.
Finally, at around 3 p.m., I get led into the operating room and put on the table. I was singularly not nervous, almost preternaturally calm.
My next coherent thoughts involve Dr. Della Rocca leaning over me and telling me that I have to stay overnight because I bled a lot. Lori is standing next to him telling me that I have to stay overnight. I argue groggily with both of them. They win.
Dr. Della Rocca explained that I bled more than expected. He had actually closed up the incision and had to reopen me and remove a clot. Because of the bleeding, he placed a drain in the incision, a short tube to the outside with a test tube hanging off it to collect blood.
By 7 p.m. that night, I was settled into a room and realized that I was not sure how I was going to get home the next day. I remembered that Lori had said something but I could not remember what.
I was out of it, but awake. At one point I was talking to the family of the lady in the next bed about how hungry I was. They nicely gave me a piece of fried chicken that they had brought in. Hey, I was on prednisone. I was hungry, OK? I even ate the dinner that had been brought up for me, a tray of food that may have been floating around that hospital for the past 15 years. It was meatloaf, but it could have been used as a roof shingle.
Around 8 p.m. I got up to go to the bathroom and saw my face. My upper eye lid was a bright blood red. My lower eyelid was, I swear to God, green. I could understand the red. But how on earth did Dr. Della Rocca do that green? I looked like the Italian flag. And there was a test tube hanging off the side of my face, for that added textural interest.
The next morning I was feeling better. I was not in any real pain but my face was tender to the touch. I woke up to find Dr. Della Rocca sitting next to the bed taking notes. He examined me and decided to remove the drain, which he did with a quick yank. That was about the worst pain that I experienced. He also said that I could go home that day.
But how was I to get home? I called Lori and left a message. She called me back and told me that she was at a workshop on Staten Island and that she could pick me up around 4 p.m. That sounded good, but I then found out that unless I was out by 1 p.m., the hospital would charge me for a second overnight. I tried calling several friends and relations, but didn't have anyone's phone number with me, because I had sensibly left my cell phone at home. I ended up taking a car service home, which involved the driver stopping at my house to allow me to pick up my ATM card,which I had sensibly left home, and then driving me to the bank. It worked.
When I got home, my cats greeted me in their usual where-the-hell-is-the-food manner. There were several messages on my machine asking how I was.
I took a photo of myself for posterity. I wanted to have a permanent record of the worst black eye I had ever seen.
I shall continue this story and eventually catch up to the present, I promise.
posted by Valerie DeBenedette at 11:12 PM
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