This morning's check-in time was a very civilized 10:00. Unheralded for the BFF, we arrived early -- likely an indication of how keen I was to get on with it. Or how little shampoo I require after my pre-surgery haircut saw me leave the salon, last night, looking like a baby seal. Between that and the freshly shaved 'pits, I feel virtually bald from the waist up!
Right on time, the BFF and I were escorted across the bridge to Mount Sinai and the nuclear medicine department. Yes, nuclear medicine as in those yellow tricorn signs reminiscent of The Simpson's. Homer's younger, smarter sister ushered me into the business end of the facility, where I came face to face with a scanner that looked way too much like an MRI for my liking. But, on closer investigation, it featured a shorter tube and an open side, and turned out not to be in any way scary.
My notes from Booby School reminded me that the injection of the tracer for the sentinel node scan would sting, but I lucked out, bigtime. It turns out that the upside of having lost sensation in my right breast is that I didn't even feel the two(! -- I swear they never talked about two!) injections next to my nipple. Thirty minutes on the scanning bed -- no, not the tanning bed; I'm still as pale as ever -- and the tracer had done its work and highlighted my sentinel node as a pale white dot on the green computer screen. With an X to mark the spot, we headed back to the PMH penthouse to await my date with The Dutchman.
On returning to the Gold Lounge, we were escorted to the Presidential Suite -- er, Room 206 -- a private room featuring a lake view, an ensuite, a wet bar and a handy call button for my butler. No room service menu was in evidence, however, and I still haven't found the spa; I must remember to complete a comment card when I'm next in the building.
Again on time, my ride appeared to take me to surgery, pimped out with toasty warm blankets and institutional green linens. It was oddly relaxing to discover that the same Grim Sleeper was on duty, though the rest of my surgical entourage -- or are they The Dutchman's? -- were all new to me. It wouldn't be my surgery without a little Sharpie action, so when the man himself showed up, it was time for the big reveal.
The rest of the afternoon ticked away without my knowledge; two hours later, I was back in recovery, but this time with no mambo heartbeat. It wasn't long before I headed back upstairs to reunite with the BFF... without a drain, and with all but a thin slice of my lymph nodes intact.
A little apple juice, a few laps around the Gold Floor and some time in the ensuite, and it's off home. Just another day in Cancerland.
Hey, Drain-less!
ReplyDeleteUp for a visit?
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