I woke up rested, having not gotten up with baby in the middle of the night, or been shoved by a certain preschooler as he crawled into bed with us around midnight (having been still in the ER at midnight), and also having slept in the comfiest bed in the place (much better than either the ER stretcher OR the couch that WonderDaddy graced). The doc walked in, briefed me on what was going to happen, and had me sign a consent form for this procedure AND for a full hysterectomy if things looked wonky once he got in there and took a look around (this, despite sounding scary, was a GOOD THING).
The nurse took my vitals, the doctor wished me well, and the transport dude wheeled me down to the pre-op room.
The pre-op room was nothing like I expected. Quiet. Silent, even, with the ripples of nothingness broken only by my doc walking in and briefing the resident. The anesthesiologist was friendly and calm, telling me what to expect and where to sign. WonderDaddy and I were joking around a bit, having done this just a few months ago, for a much more serious surgery.
There were scary parts, but those parts are my own, and I’m not going to discuss them here.
The anesthesiologist put the amnesia drug in my veins, and the next thing I remember …
… was waking up, groggy, in the same room I had slept in. My belly was distended and tender, with three patches of bandage, and my throat was sore from the tube. But I was alive.
And no longer in the achy pain that I had been suffering with since July, or the gut-wrenching pain that had consumed me over the weekend.
The rest we could work out. The recovery would be quick, since the oopherectomy was done laproscopically instead of with a full cut across my abdomen. We could go home that night, in a few hours, even. I could finish the weekend’s work from bed perhaps. Reschedule scrap night with the girls. Pick a new date for Widget’s birthday party.
And remember the promises I made to myself in the E.R. No more wasting time.
Time with each other is all we have.