I’m sure many of you have seen the contraption I’m wearing until next Wedneday when my stitches come off. Suffice to say, this space agey sleeve stops many people in their tracks and as a result I’ve made many a friend and have probably referred quite a few clients to my surgeon, god bless him.
The surgery went very well. Until I entered the operating room, I was cool as a cucumber. Other than a terrible migraine that kept me up all night and was probably the cause behind me throwing up, unexpectedly, in front of the elevator doors by our apartment (which poor Andrew had to clean up), Tuesday morning went smoothly.
We showed up to the hospital at 5:45am, bleary-eyed. There were lots of meetings with the nurse, the anesthesiologist, the surgical assistant, and, finally, the surgeon himself. I signed lots of papers and listened intently to the anesthesiologist, a kind Indian man, who told me exactly what was going happen and kept affectionately calling me “moya devochka”, “my little girl” in Russian, with a charming accent. I changed into the given-to-me hospital clothes and non-slip socks, and felt like a rockstar. At least I wasn’t going to take a spill on the hospital linoleum.
In the operating room, suddenly everything felt real. There were needles and scalpels laid out; everything was white and brightly lit. There was an operating cot with a headrest, This is really happening, I thought. I’m having surgery. Once they gave me the local anesthesia, I don’t remember much after. I woke up as I was being wheeled into the recovery room and Andrew was waiting for me. He squeezed my hand. You were very brave, he said.
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