Surgery Day

I think there must be a requirement that anesthesiologists are funny. I've never met an anesthesiologist that wasn't joking around while going through all the pre-op questions. Even Jared's college-buddy -- from whom I've never had anesthesia personally, but who is, in fact, an anesthesiologist -- is a really funny guy. Maybe it's somehow the professional version of your friendly neighborhood dealer. You go to him for your happy fix, and he is all casual and relaxed and funny and personable making you feel all relaxed about the drugs you're taking, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

***

Various nurses, doctors, and other personnel explain the procedure to us. They'll make an incision above Jared's sternum, in his neck, reach down and around from there, blah blah blah, take out a chunk of the tumor. The pathologist will take it away and biopsy it on the spot. If he has enough, he'll tell them they're o.k. to sew Jared back up. If not, he comes for another piece and tries again. Jared gets tubes down his trachea and such, but he won't remember them. He'll wake up, drink some apple juice, eat a cracker, pee, and go home. If all goes well.

***

Sitting in the pre-op area, Jared's veins are being pumped with saline solution. Measurements on the bag are in increments reading 1 through 9. 1 through 9 whats? Not milliliters. Not ounces. "Probably cc's" says Jared.

"Oh yeah," I say. "cc's." I think about that. "What are cc's anyway?" Jared shrugs. Some word they use on E.R., which is the only reason we thought of it.

***

A song comes on the speakers -- apparently they pipe music into the pre-op area, for the nurses or to calm the patients, I don't know --it's that old Paul Young song from the 80's: "every time you go away/ you take a piece of me with you."

"You should sing this song to the pathologist," I say to Jared. He laughs.

"No. I'm probably not even going to see the pathologist."

"The surgeon then! I dare you!" I probe. Jared refuses, but we chuckle at the thought. Later, after the surgeon has talked to us and is walking out of our stall, I almost sing it through the curtain, but I don't.

***

My cell phone is ringing off the hook. I know people are trying to be supportive, but for some reason I feel annoyed. That makes no sense. I guess because I can't answer my phone in the hospital, and I'd have to leave this waiting room, which I'm afraid to do, so I feel all conflicted and torn because I want to talk to people, but I can't, and I just have to keep turning my ringer off and apologize to whoever is there. I wish I could instant message everyone.

***

The waiting room is in the center of the hospital. It's small. It has other people in it sitting in chairs, reading magazines, in various stages of stress and worry, it's over air-conditioned, the television is on, the newspaper sits on the coffee table untouched, the plants are fake. Everyone here has either a furrowed brow or a blank stare; it feels like they're all smoking, but they're not.

Outside it's 75 degrees and sunny and beautiful. I go out and try to find a place to sit on the hospital grounds, but there's only a smokers' bench, complete with Smoker. I find a bus-stop across the parking lot, where I pretend that every bus that comes just isn't my bus. I stay there as long as I possibly can without feeling like I might miss the surgeon who will look for me in the waiting room -- and in the waiting room only. I call Emily Potter and say things I've been meaning to say, ask things I've been meaning to ask. I relish the diversion. 45 minutes later I know I have to get back, and in the cruelest real-life-soap-opera-to-be-continued way I have to cut off our conversation.

***

Any minute now he'll come in here and tell me Jared's diagnosis. Will he have a prognosis too? I don't know. I doubt it. Why do so many medical terms end it "nosis"?

***

He came. No diagnosis yet. I guess the pathologist feels confident he has enough tissue, but is still "cooking" as the surgeon called it. It looks consistent with lymphoma. Maybe we can get preliminary information by Friday. Probably no final diagnosis until Tuesday. Drat! I was totally expecting to know today.

***

Jared's Mom keeps calling. She's his mom. She wants to know. I have to tell her... what? That I know nothing? Yes. I have to tell her that. She's his Mom. But I don't feel like talking to anyone. Anyone but this blog. ...Hello blog. How are you? Fine, you say? Very good. Oh, me? Why, how kind of you to ask. I'm fine too. Actually, I've been better, but I'm getting by...

***

All my friends are at a barbecue, watching a movie on an outdoor screen. My baby is with them. I keep forgetting that we can't just go over there when we're done here at the hospital. If there were longer to wait, I'd go over there by myself. Jared would want me to. But I never know when they'll come. And besides, what kind of a perverse wife goes and barbecues with her friends while her husband is having surgery next to his heart?

***

I was thinking, "hospitals have cafeterias," so I'd be fine for food. But I'm afraid to leave this little waiting room! What if they come for me while I'm gone? What if I trade a rubbery grilled cheese and room-temperature pickle for my chance to see Jared again? And if I missed them, what would I do? It's 7:30pm and all the personnel desks are empty. The waiting room desk, the information desk, the admitting desk, the day surgery desk. An occasional nurse with a clipboard walks by. Men of non-European descent wearing scrubs are pushing carts around the hallways bearing various items -- towels, blankets, linens, laundry, files, cleaning supplies, body parts for all I know.

I get a text-message that my baby is finally eating (she had been refusing before -- apparently she's become a breast-milk snob. She won't drink formula, and now I guess she won't drink frozen breast-milk either. Only the best and freshest for baby. She takes after her food-snob mother, I guess). Anyway, I'm relieved. And I wish I was eating.

***

My Mom calls. She's been out of town, hard to reach, and it's good to hear from her. I give her the update.

She has this habit of cutting off conversations before I'm ready to go. She's not unnatural about it or anything. I think she must just feel that the conversation is over, I've given her all the information I'm going to, and so she says something like, "I'll be keeping you in my thoughts," and suddenly she's saying goodbye. And while I'm always a little taken aback, and I often want to say, "wait, I wasn't done talking to you!" I don't really know what else I would say. If she were to say, "Oh, I'm sorry, what else did you want to talk about?" I would have to think about it and say, "I guess... nothing." And that would be the truth. I think the thing is sometimes you just want to talk to your Mom. Sometimes you just want to feel like she's paying attention to you and she's there, and it doesn't matter what you say. And so once the substance of our conversation is finished, I really have no logical reason to keep her on the phone, except that I don't want to hang up.

***

A man and a woman just walked past. I heard them before I could see them. She was saying, "Oh my God," quavery, under her breath. When I saw her she was crying, her hand was over her mouth, she looked shell-shocked. The man's arm was around her shoulders as he walked her toward the exit.

Reality Check: I am sooooooooooooooooooooooooooo grateful that Jared's cancer is a treatable one. Highly treatable -- assuming it's what we think it is. It's easy to think of all this as so dramatic painful scary awful, to expect people to pity us, to pity ourselves. But, really, this is not so bad as all that. There are far worse things that could happen. I'm so glad that my surgeon came and told me that everything went fine, that it looks like lymphoma, that I'll see Jared in an hour or so and then we'll go home and soon we'll arrange treatment. I'm so glad I'm not the lady crying down the hallway with my hand over my mouth and "Oh, my God" echoing through my head, anointing my trembling lips.

***

It's waaaaay past the time I expected to get to see Jared again. The anesthesiologist said he's as healthy a person as he ever sees, so he expected things to go smoothly, and quickly. We're not past the normal-sick-old person timeline. But I didn't expect the normal-sick-old timeline. Where are they? He's... fine... right?

***

They forgot about me!

A guy in scrubs just came in asking for someone else (who wasn't here). I said I wasn't Tina, but did he know anything about a Jared E****? "The the guy with the biopsy?" he asked, pointing to his neck where they cut Jared open. "Yeah," I replied. Turns out Jared had been in a regular room for some time. He asked when his wife could come in, and they said any time, but no one notified his wife. grrrrrrr....

***

I got pulled over on the way home. Figures. Apparently making a quick divert action to the exit to avoid piling up traffic is not really considered safe. But talk about having the ultimate sob story! "My husband has cancer and I just picked him up from the hospital and we need to get his medicine right away, officer!" Naw. I didn't really say all that. But I did mention the hospital and pharmacy part, and he could see that Jared wasn't looking too hot. He didn't even check my license and registration. Just told me to be careful and sent me on my way.

***

I get a call on my way home from one of my best friends. She was going to bring us dinner tomorrow night. Apparently she went to the doctor today and found out she's dilated to a four (she's pregnant). They put her on the strictest of bed rest. She has 7 month old twins. She's only 19 weeks along, which means she'll be in bed until October and can't take care of her babies. Her husband goes to work every day at 4am. How on earth is she going to manage? Can you even hire help at 4am? I started making all sorts of statements about going over all the time, and she had to remind me that I, myself, have a sick husband and I'll probably be needing to prepare for the long haul and take care of him. Oh yeah. I forgot.

Drama all around.