Heading Toward Surgery
So things are proceeding. My surgery is set for next Tuesday and I am trying to get my act together so that I can leave everything in as much order as possible. (I am laughing out loud as I write this at the idea that I can get some order into this house.)
Wednesday, I went to New York Presbyterian for the preadmission testing. They took blood, interviewed me about any allergies I had, did an electrocardiogram, and took a chest x-ray. I also learned that I have to undergo another freaking bowel prep before surgery.
The surgery I don’t mind. But another bowel prep!!! I am not a happy camper. Shouldn’t there a state law or something against making someone do one of these more than once in a month? And, of course, the directions for this one have to be different than the one I did for the colonoscopy! This time I start the liquid only diet on Sunday, drink 10 ounces of citrate of magnesia that evening, keep drinking only fluids all day Monday, and then drink another bottle of citrate of magnesia again Monday night. Then, nothing by mouth after midnight. For some reason, these directions ban apple cider.
Today, I met with plastic and reconstructive surgeon Dr. Mark Schwartz. I need a reconstructive surgeon to collaborate with Dr. Caputo, the gynecologic oncologist because I will be having a rather large abdominal incision with a repair of the hernia. Dr. Caputo suggested it and, what Dr. Caputo wants, Dr. Caputo gets. I was a bit worried about meeting a big-time Manhattan plastic surgeon. Would his office be full of siliconed and Botoxed blondes? Worse, would he have Picassos on the wall? I mean would you trust a plastic surgeon that admires a painter that puts three noses on a woman?
Dr. Schwartz turned out to be very nice and so was his office staff. He earned my eternal friendship by telling me that I don’t look my age, and I wasn’t even wearing makeup. He sat me down and discussed my surgery with me.
Then I went into an exam room, where I was confronted with an absolutely unforgiving wall-to-wall mirror. Lord, there was enough cellulite and fat for three people. Dr. Schwartz came in and actually put me at ease in front of that mirror. Then, he checked out my abdomen. He even took pictures of me practically naked. I told him that I have very little vanity and that maybe I should go out and buy some. He laughed.
The bad news is that my hernia is not a small one, according to Dr. Schwartz. He then discussed the possibility that a general surgeon might be called in to help. We are talking three surgeons, no waiting, here. At what point will they need a choreographer?
My friend Judy met me in Dr. Schwartz’ waiting room after the exam and we went to her apartment for lunch. She did her version of home cooking: she sent out for food. Judy has graduated college, medical school, and law school, but cannot cook. But she is wise enough to know she cannot cook (unlike some who try anyway) and brave enough to not have a problem with it. When I grow up, I want to be Judy.
* * *
There is the possibility that this will be the last time I can post before my surgery. Since this is a very public forum, I figure it is the right place to make a couple of announcements. Here goes:
If something goes wrong and I go into a persistent vegetative state, like Terry Schiavo, please have someone come in and shoot me, OK? I do not want a feeding tube unless I am well enough to ask for one myself. Anything that is expected to give me back a reasonable quality of life—meaning that I am able to think and do most things for myself—is OK. If it looks like I will become a basket case, do not resuscitate me. Are we all clear?
And if, God forbid, I do end up like poor Terry, please make sure that Senator Bill Frist, Terry Randolph, Governor Jeb Bush, Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, or anyone of similar ilk comes no where near me.
And if someone goes onto my computer and sees some suspicious, and perhaps salubrious, sites in the history of my Internet browser, I have absolutely no idea how they got there. And I am sticking to that story.
Wednesday, I went to New York Presbyterian for the preadmission testing. They took blood, interviewed me about any allergies I had, did an electrocardiogram, and took a chest x-ray. I also learned that I have to undergo another freaking bowel prep before surgery.
The surgery I don’t mind. But another bowel prep!!! I am not a happy camper. Shouldn’t there a state law or something against making someone do one of these more than once in a month? And, of course, the directions for this one have to be different than the one I did for the colonoscopy! This time I start the liquid only diet on Sunday, drink 10 ounces of citrate of magnesia that evening, keep drinking only fluids all day Monday, and then drink another bottle of citrate of magnesia again Monday night. Then, nothing by mouth after midnight. For some reason, these directions ban apple cider.
Today, I met with plastic and reconstructive surgeon Dr. Mark Schwartz. I need a reconstructive surgeon to collaborate with Dr. Caputo, the gynecologic oncologist because I will be having a rather large abdominal incision with a repair of the hernia. Dr. Caputo suggested it and, what Dr. Caputo wants, Dr. Caputo gets. I was a bit worried about meeting a big-time Manhattan plastic surgeon. Would his office be full of siliconed and Botoxed blondes? Worse, would he have Picassos on the wall? I mean would you trust a plastic surgeon that admires a painter that puts three noses on a woman?
Dr. Schwartz turned out to be very nice and so was his office staff. He earned my eternal friendship by telling me that I don’t look my age, and I wasn’t even wearing makeup. He sat me down and discussed my surgery with me.
Then I went into an exam room, where I was confronted with an absolutely unforgiving wall-to-wall mirror. Lord, there was enough cellulite and fat for three people. Dr. Schwartz came in and actually put me at ease in front of that mirror. Then, he checked out my abdomen. He even took pictures of me practically naked. I told him that I have very little vanity and that maybe I should go out and buy some. He laughed.
The bad news is that my hernia is not a small one, according to Dr. Schwartz. He then discussed the possibility that a general surgeon might be called in to help. We are talking three surgeons, no waiting, here. At what point will they need a choreographer?
My friend Judy met me in Dr. Schwartz’ waiting room after the exam and we went to her apartment for lunch. She did her version of home cooking: she sent out for food. Judy has graduated college, medical school, and law school, but cannot cook. But she is wise enough to know she cannot cook (unlike some who try anyway) and brave enough to not have a problem with it. When I grow up, I want to be Judy.
* * *
There is the possibility that this will be the last time I can post before my surgery. Since this is a very public forum, I figure it is the right place to make a couple of announcements. Here goes:
If something goes wrong and I go into a persistent vegetative state, like Terry Schiavo, please have someone come in and shoot me, OK? I do not want a feeding tube unless I am well enough to ask for one myself. Anything that is expected to give me back a reasonable quality of life—meaning that I am able to think and do most things for myself—is OK. If it looks like I will become a basket case, do not resuscitate me. Are we all clear?
And if, God forbid, I do end up like poor Terry, please make sure that Senator Bill Frist, Terry Randolph, Governor Jeb Bush, Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, or anyone of similar ilk comes no where near me.
And if someone goes onto my computer and sees some suspicious, and perhaps salubrious, sites in the history of my Internet browser, I have absolutely no idea how they got there. And I am sticking to that story.
posted by Valerie DeBenedette at 11:21 PM
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