My New Body Part

My surgery went well. It was nice to be pain free when I woke up. That is a feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and the pain meds started wearing off. I was not happy when the familiar just-hit-by-a-Mack-truck feeling returned.

I have two incisions that have been glued together (no stitches). One is about 2 inches long and the other is about 3/4 inch long. Just under the two incisions is a bulge that looks like someone shoved a peppermint under my skin. That is the port. The port has a long tube that has been inserted into my superior vena cava to get the medicine to my heart. It came complete with warranty information. Damn. I wonder how much a service call will cost if it breaks.

This picture kind of looks like an ape with chapped lips.

A nurse will come by twice a week and take blood, inspect my port, etc. On Mondays they insert a LARGE needle (the size I have used on my horses) with an iv catheter into the center of the port. The needle comes out on Fridays and I get two days off.

You can imagine how great it felt when the nurse started squeezing my port like he was trying to pop a zit.

During surgery they gave me anesthesia that didn’t put me completely out, but made me not remember anything. According to the doctor, I would be able to “respond to commands,” but wouldn’t feel anything or remember anything. Huh. Me. . . respond to commands. Yeah. Funny. Dave would like to have seen that.

I was thrilled to get out of the hospital and crawl into my own bed. I ate a little and then was just settling into a nap when I began to replay the day’s events in my head. I got to the part where I wake up and I remember this angelic voice coming from the nurse:

“Okay Melissa, we are all done. You did great.”

Then I remembered my response. Oh. My. God. No.

“Did I fart on the operating table?”

No. I am not making this up. I have no idea what possessed me to ask her that question, but I have been praying daily that somehow my speech was distorted and she and the other five people in the room didn’t understand me. I don’t remember her response, but I am also praying that I didn’t actually fart on the operating table.

My follow-up visit will be interesting. . . If not embarrassing.