Here, Not There

Before hitting the road for PMH, the BFF and I had a little fun with a Sharpie.  I want Team Ta-ta in a good mood, today!

We arrived right on time at 7AM, which is ugh-worthy on an average day, much less the day of surgery.  I had expected to sleep badly, but woke up with the nose hose in place, and feeling rested.  It was a busy day on the Short Stay Unit, so there was no room at the inn.  We decamped to the visitors’ waiting room and unpacked the BlackBerrys.  A couple of working girls on a tear.

At 9AM, we relocated to the third floor. The BFF was summarily hauled into a separate waiting room, and I cooled my heels within shouting distance – but not sight – of her.  I refrained from shouting.  Nearly an hour later, still in the same hallway, it was revealed that my imaging (i.e. original mammogram films) were nowhere to be found, and they ushered me in for a fresh mamwich.  Now things were moving, if only slowly.

Over the course of the next two hours, I had three wires installed:  one under mammography, a second – and, unexpectedly, third – under ultrasound.  It turns out I would have been a standout in Victorian England:  I swoon with the best of them.  Hence, the need to be prone after the first wire went in.  Number two was perfectly positioned – and then didn’t deploy properly.  So, we went for three.  By the time I got outta the breast imaging department, I looked like a high tech porcupine.

Back upstairs, there was still no available room, so we hunkered down again in the visitors’ lounge.  1PM comes and goes.  1:30 comes and goes.  When does my gurney arrive?  Two o’clock comes, goes.  Three.  Finally, someone checks out of the hotel PMH, and a room comes available.  At almost 4PM, it’s go time.

Off to the surgical suite, where things move quickly.  IVs are installed, the Grim Sleeper and The Dutchman come by, admire Rita’s handwriting, and I’m transferred to the OR.  Five minutes later – as far as I know – it’s 5:10, and there’s a mambo rhythm beeping from the monitor above my head.  I’m awake, the surgery was successful, and I have “extra beats”.  Heart beats.  In my drug-addled state, more seems better than fewer, but they need to check that out.  So, I get a 12-lead ECG, which I apparently pass, as I’m released back upstairs for the final time, but not before snagging a couple of jumped-up Tylenol 3s for the road.

It’s 6PM, and I can’t go home until I’ve been to the bathroom without help, and had a little nosh and kept it down.  Truly, the bar is set at the three-year-old level!  I’m so hungry I could eat furniture, but, oddly, nothing on the hospital tray is appetizing, except a pear and a container of what appears to be grape Koolaid.  So, I knock those back, drink a half-litre of water and wait.

And the angels sang.

The sports bra goes on, the departing paperwork is delivered, and I’m off home with the BFF.  It’s nearly nine o’clock.  Five months after the screening mammogram, phase one is over.