I woke up last Wednesday morning and removed the chipped polish you saw in my previous post. I put it in my head that we should really test polish removers at the office and tucked that mental post-it note away to tell the office chicklets.
Then I picked out a brand new bottle of Essie Ballet Slippers and I quickly covered my nails with it. I knew I would not get through the day without biting if I didn't. Little L is also trying to stop biting her nails and asked for the same, so I gave her a coat and two for myself. It got a bit smudgy, but it did the trick. Friday (the day this photo was taken) was officially the one-week of no biting. Three more to go before I'll be considered rehabilitated.
I had my surgery yesterday and it went as well as can be expected. I was expected there at 8 am and at 7:30 I got a call from my dad who said he was around the corner and driving me to the hospital. He's smart. If he hadn't have just shown up like that, I would have made an excuse for him not to come. It turned out to be a great way to ease my nerves while J took care of getting the kids ready for the day.
My first procedure went well. Lefty was frozen with lidocaine and then a guide wire was inserted to the papilloma while looking at it via ultrasound.
The hell came when I had to have a mammogram with the wire in my boob. You haven't lived until you've experienced that. Wowzers. The mammogram technician was a bit puzzled, because the papilloma is not visible on the ultrasound. "Is this cancer?" she asked. I paused a moment. I don't think so... "It's a papilloma," I replied. I still had no certainty as to whether I was doing the right thing at that moment.
Then I waited. 4+ hours until my surgery. The Internets kept me company on Twitter, so that was nice. J showed up with trashy magazines, right before Jen the Domestic Goddess came to visit me (she works at the hospital). I had to act like we'd met before, because the huzzle is not on/into social media and doesn't understand that if you're at the hospital where your Twitter friend works, you've got to schedule a tweet-up. Fortunately J didn't pick up on that and we chatted amicably until they called me to be moved to the next holding area.
I was stripped and prepped for surgery, filled out forms, had an IV put in, etc. My male nurse was the gentlest and hottest African man ever (I'm a sucker for that accent). Say what you want about male nurses, they probably get a lot of poon. As he passed me a hairnet, he joked, "It matches your shoes," pointing to my hospital issue slippers. Love.
My doctor came in, joked some more (I have that effect on people) and before I knew it I was drowsy and waking up in the recovery room.
Holy fuck it's scary waking up in a room with other people waking up in a room. It's like the friggin' Matrix, except there's no Keanu (and no more hot male nurse). "Are you in pain?" the morphine angel asked. Um, a bit, I replied weakly. Rate it on a scale of 1-10. 5, I say. Maybe 6. I've pushed a set of shoulders out my hooha. This was an episode of Glee compared to that. The fog of the needle washed over me.
How about now, she asked. 3? More fog. Ugh, I actually hate the fog. Someone woke up next to me and freaked out, "I don't know where I am!" Yikes. Get me out of here. "How about now?" Uh, 1? I finally got a pass and then hastily moved to a post-op section. J was there, which made me happy to no end. He had talked to the doctor who said everything went well.
Everything went well, except...
"They think they might be missing a tiny piece of the guide wire and they're not sure, but it might be lost in you." Um, what? Just when I thought I was going to be OK with everything, boom, a fuck-up.
I was too out of it on the morphine and too done with it to care. I decided today that I could freak out about it, or I could trust my gut that it's nothing. My gut says this whole thing is nothing, but whatever, I dealt with it. I want it to be over. But the wire, well, it's a bit like George Costanza leaving something at a girl's apartment so he has an excuse to go back.
I'm "resting" at home this week. I say "resting" because I'm not the type of person who knows how to stop. Also, there's probably another post here about how men are awesome in a crisis, but can't handle the follow-up nurturing. But I want to stay married, so I might just tuck that one under my pillow for now...