Of scars and smiles.

It's been eight weeks since my surgery. Fourteen months since the whole ordeal began, eight months since my happy little world was given a good shake, six months since I made the decision to place myself into what turned out to be the best possible human hands. From January 20 until March 23, I worried about surgery, mostly because it was a complete unknown to me. And now? The whole thing is eight weeks in my rear view mirror. And I realized I hadn't recorded my story.

(It's lengthy but it's for me to remember. No hard feelings for anyone that skips straight to the last paragraph. Or the whole story from this point, really.)

I woke in the middle of the night & flew out to California the weekend before my surgery. I hung out with Nichole & Daniel, got sucked into Mad Men & allowed myself to be as effectively distracted as possible. The day before my surgery was scheduled, we made the trip from the Central Valley to Santa Monica. I'm pretty sure that was the longest trip I've ever taken, even though it was really only around three hours. I spent those hours staring out the window, attempting to make myself think about *anything* else...but you know how well that works.

Outwardly, other than the fact that I was a bit quieter than normal (even for me), I don't think I showed any real anxiety. Sitting in the chair in my surgeon's office though? The poor nurse listened to my heart, took my blood pressure and immediately asked if I was ok. Everyone seemed to think it was "White Coat Syndrome," but it was far more a case of "you're cutting me open tomorrow & I just don't know what to expect with *any* of this" nerves.

Sitting down with Dr P, though, put me tremendously more at ease. (My heart was still galloping though, apparently, because when he gave me a quick exam, his exact words were "You're heart is nice & strong...and fast!") He went over everything with me, right down to the number, location & size of the incisions (four of them: 11mm in my belly button, 5mm over my left hip, and two over my right hip, one 5mm & one 12mm). He told me what would happen the day of surgery, that he expected it to take 2-3 hours, but that I would be able to leave the hospital that same evening, walking on my own two feet. He read me all the "fine print" and then set my mind at ease with his own personal statistics. He answered my questions & "talked shop" with Nichole. He sang the praises of the wonderful "amnesia drug" that I would get as the first line of anesthesia that would keep me from remembering being intubated & having it removed (one of my concerns), as well as some other possibly intimidating parts of the procedure; he actually told me I would conveniently not remember anything from before I was put under until possibly several hours after I came out of anesthesia. Perfect!

We left his office, filled my prescription for Vicodin, headed over to the hospital, ate some lunch, signed some paperwork, discussed my Advance Healthcare Directive with Nichole & Daniel (holy stressful questions to think through!), had it notarized and did my pre-op labs. After which, I proudly walked around, being a butt & reminding my lovely friends that I had "giant gaping holes" in my arm. We checked into the hotel & then, under the direction of Dr P's wonderful office manager, set out for Operation Distraction: Dinner with Friends (and a couple glasses of wine), where Nichole's brother, Steven, made me laugh til I cried. My cut-off for any food or beverages was midnight but at 10pm, we headed back to the hotel, my tummy full, my mind settled, and off to bed, so I could be ready for my 8am check-in.

The morning of Wednesday March 23 arrived. The morning I had been thinking about for months. I took a deep breath, turned over all my personal belongings to Nichole & a nurse took me back to be prepped for surgery. There was a tech in pre-op who weighed me & commanded me to use the bathroom; she was the only mean person I interacted with the whole time. (Hmph.) I closed the curtain on my cubicle, got into my hopital gown, put on my fuzzy purple socks with the traction pads on the bottom & sat there to wait.

My pre-op nurse, Nona, came in. She took my blood pressure. She asked me if I was ok. (This became a running joke, really. I looked composed. I *felt* composed. My blood pressure made a liar out of me.) The first thing she did? Handed me the remote for my own personal HD tv. We watched The Today Show & talked about Elizabeth Taylor's passing while she tucked me under blankets. Then she showed me the coolest thing ever: There was a circular cutout in the front of my gown. The inside of my gown was lined with a crinkly mylar-type, plasticy material. She took a hose hanging on the wall, hooked it to the cutout in my gown & handed me a little box with a dial on it. My own personal climate control FOR MY GOWN. Then she told me I would feel some burning from the Lidocaine that would numb my hand so that she could put in my IV. (I never felt anything more than a tiny pin prick.) She hooked up my IV, sent for Nichole & Daniel to hang out with me til the O.R. was ready for me, and that was that. I was thoroughly impressed later, when neither my blood draw nor my IV left any bruising, just tiny marks at the site where my skin was pierced; I honestly had the best medical staff caring for me. (Well, except for that mean tech. Grrr.)

Around 10am, my two O.R. nurses (whose names I've already forgotten) (I *knew* I should have recorded my memories earlier!) came for me. They had me laughing all the way to the operating room, telling me stories & giving me pointers. We got to the O.R. & dance music was blasting. A tech named Justin, who was setting up Dr P's instruments, said the nurses always tried blaming that on him, but that it was really them having a pre-op dance party to get pumped up. They changed the music to classical (nope, too dreary, they decided) and then to some tropical Hawaiian -sounding music...at which point they proceeded to "hula" for me.

By the time they got me switched from my gurney to the table, Dr P was in the room. His demeanor was calm & reassuring, as I had come to expect. He positioned me on the table himself, and then, he wheeled his little stool over, right next to me, and sat there talking to me & patting my hand while my anesthesiologist began to put me to sleep. The last thing I remember was Dr P talking quietly to me about dreaming of a tropical vacation. If I had any dreams, I have no memory of them.

This whole time, Nichole & Daniel were able to use a number to track me on screens located throughout the waiting area. There were no patient names, just numbers, and only the people you gave your number to could identify you. They could see when I was in the O.R., when I was in recovery. Apparently the surgery went even better than Dr P anticipated. He was finished in a little over an hour, came out & spoke with Nichole & Daniel, and even gave Nichole photos from my surgery, as well as the whole thing recorded & burned to a DVD so she could watch & ask him any questions as a fellow surgeon! (Dr P is absolutely one of the coolest, *nicest* people, in addition to being an outstanding physician and a top-notch surgeon.)

The next thing *I* remember is hearing someone saying "Don't rub your eyes, sweetie. You'll hurt them!" I started waking up & asking a few questions. My recovery nurse, Carmelita, was awesome. She gave me my glasses when I asked for them. She told me the surgery was a success, that it had only taken about an hour, that I had been asleep for another two hours after that in the recovery room. The worst part was that my mouth felt like an over-sized cotton ball had been stuffed into it.

I rested there, fading in & out of wakefulness, and eventually they said they would allow one of my friends to see me for a few minutes. It felt like an eternity. I remember thinking "I wish they would hurry. I am so bored..." although my perception of actual time was all skewed, like I was in Alice's Wonderland or inside the Wardrobe (you know, from "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe"...? I digress.) Daniel visited for a little bit but then they shooed him away again. I spent a lot of time listening to the various beeps of the monitors, feeling the pressure cuff on my arm & the boot on my leg alternately inflating & releasing, and watched my heart rate go up a bit every time I would start to slide down inside my gown & then push myself back up into a more comfortable position.

Carmelita came back from her break around 4pm & asked me if I needed to use the restroom yet, but considering I hadn't had more than IV fluids for the better part of 18 hours and I still had a catheter in? I didn't feel like I did, though I was more than willing to try. (They wouldn't discharge me until I had shown my bladder was working properly.) Carmelita did a quick ultrasound on my bladder, shook her head, removed the catheter (I didn't feel a thing) & turned up my fluid drip. She left & returned with a cup of ice chips & a remote for the tv. I don't remember what I watched but a little over an hour later, she unhooked all my various tubes & wires and I (slooooowly) made my way to the restroom...where nothing happened. (It is really difficult to pee for an audience!) She giggled, turned on the faucet & said she would step outside in case my bladder was shy. I have no idea how much time passed but it felt like years. And I had produced maybe two drops? I was starting to get nervous that they were going to say I couldn't leave, especially when she checked & shook her head. I asked for just a few more minutes & when she came back again, I swear there hasn't been that much excitement over my bathroom successes since I was two years old!

I went back to my room, got myself dressed (slooooowly) and declined the Percocet she offered. I hadn't eaten anything in many hours & the anesthesiologist had pulled out all his tricks from his magic bag, at my request, to prevent nausea. I didn't want to undo it all with one ill-chosen pill, plus I really wasn't feeling more than slow & a little sore. They put me in a wheel chair, wheeled my woozy self down to the ambulance bay so I could be loaded into the car under cover, since it had started raining, and that was that.

We made an attempt to drive home that evening but the weather & the traffic were uncooperative so we returned to the hotel for one more night, where I was propped up in bed, fed sorbet for dinner & was dosed with Advil every 4 hours. (Thank you, Dr Nichole, for waking up in the middle of the night to make sure the Advil kept my pain under constant control!) The next morning, with BooBoo the medical canine (an awesome soft, floppy stuffed dog Nichole & I had found in Brookstone before dinner the night before surgery & named by Steven) strapped in as a buffer between my incisions & the seatbelt, we set off for the Central Valley. It had snowed in the mountains the night before, so as we crossed the Grapevine, Daniel pulled over & gave Nichole & I each a handful of snow.

When we arrived at their home, I settled into their comfy chair, was fed well (and abundantly!), watched a *lot* of Mad Men, and set about the task of recovering. I never touched a single Vicodin; Advil suited me just fine for the first few days & after that? It was nothing I couldn't tolerate. I was mostly just sore & tender & a little swollen (the swelling threw me off a bit). I finally worked up the nerve to let Nichole show me the photos of the surgery & ummm...whoa. I can't believe how much smaller the end result was. (Let's just say in the first photo, before any removal had taken place, my uterus was the size of a large grapefruit, when a normal uterus is about the size of a kiwi maybe? Yikes.)

The following Monday, I had an appointment with Dr P. He checked my incisions (and...things) and said I looked remarkably well for someone five days post-op. I had color & energy, I was moving around reasonably well and I was in good spirits. He told me that I had no stitches to be removed--the internal sutures would simply dissolve & the surface wounds were held together with steri-strips that would begin to peel off when they were no longer necessary. He warned me that I would be fatigued longer than I would be sore & to give my body rest when it asked for it. I was cleared to fly the next day.

I was out of work the rest of that week & then returned to work on April 4. I lived in yoga pants for about three weeks post-op because the location of the stitches made regular waistbands uncomfortable & the incisions would protest. At my four-week post-op appointment with Dr P, he marveled at my recovery, at the healing of my incisions, even that the swelling of my uterus was far less than he was expecting to find. I've had a few "recovery symptoms," but nothing that won't go away in time. It takes a while for all those parts to heal after they've been messed with.

And...here I am, eight weeks post-op. (And here *you* are, if you were crazy enough to actually read all that!) It is a done deal. The surgery is behind me, it was successful, it went more smoothly than I even dared to hope, and all my original parts remained not only intact but fully functioning. All I have now are three small scars that I wear proudly--my badges, showing that I navigated through this mess (with lots of wonderful support, of course, but ultimately I know that *I* was the only one who would actually go under the knife), that I was strong & composed & a good patient (not my words, but Carmelita's, Dr P's and Nichole's--they're the experts, so I take them at their word), and I emerged victorious. I don't care if my scars fade or not. I am not embarrassed by them. They make me smile now.