Twas the night before surgery...

...and all through the house....

thought I'd come up with a clever little poem to honor The Night Before Christmas, or perhaps dishonor that old favorite from Christmas past.

But I just ain't feelin' all that perky or creative this evening.

My sweet friend KS accompanied me to pre-operative testing yesterday, so I didn't have the same kind of emotional breakdown I've had the last two or three times I've gone in for blood draws, chest x-rays and EKGs, weighing and measuring and intensive interview about medical history and medications.

Of course, I may have skipped the Reality Check, that moment when I have to face up to the fact that this is really going to happen... AGAIN. Maybe that painful moment isn't really necessary; I know for sure that her gentle presence was the best possible medicine. I come to tears of gratitude to think that she flew in from Portland and made her way here to help me through this.

As the two of us negotiated the little gauntlet, the techs laughed as I waved away their detailed explanations and directions and even stated my name and birthdate upon presenting orders for each proceedure. "I guess you know the routine," they shook their heads.

The nurse plunked down a big ol' chart about two and a half inches thick and got ready to add the new forms to the pile. This time I'd typed up my medical history with dates and details, and a list of prescriptions medications and dosages, etc. I've gotten so sick of writing all that down each time I go to a doctor that I just spent a little time typing it up and now I can present it and write "see attached" on the medical questionaires. Later I told K that this enormous chart was one of at least three; the anesthesiologist's chart is just as thick and has a blue cover. And I think there's one more for the surgery suite, or my doctor, or whoever...

As K bravely walked along beside me up and down the halls, I continued a conversation we'd been having earlier. The gist of that discussion was how everything in my life that once gave it meaning has been stripped from me: active participation in mothering my kids, my work, and many of the recreational activities I once enjoyed: gardening, hiking, SCUBA diving, Latin dancing... even reading books is beyond my capacity now.

We both worked to reassure me that healing is my full time job right now. I felt as if I was at my workplace, going through a familiar routine, taking well-known pathways through the hospital maze, knowing what to expect at every turn and simply conducting my tasks with as much efficiency as I would if I were walking a grant proposal through the university system, or something like that.

I took my friend up to the 3rd floor to see the neuro ward that I know oh so well as I face my seventh back surgery, ninth admission to that unit. I showed her the rooms I had inhabited and the fish tank and the big board where my name and room number would be posted and nurses' and techs' names would be added and taken down at shift changes. I told her, "The next time I walk down this hall, it will seem a lot longer, and I'll be using a walker, and stepping carefully and slowly like this--" and I did a goofy demonstration of what will NOT be so goofy in a few days, when I get my first walk after surgery.

One of the nurses said, "I saw you walk by; what are you doing back here?" I told her that I'd brought my friend to see the place, and said, "I'll see you Friday, just from a different angle." Her facial expression and body language said it all: shock, surprise, disappointment, sympathy...

Yes, next time I will take another elevator, and be wheeled in on a gurney, and be dressed in a loose-fitting hospital gown with my thumb poised above my PCI button... Whatever that stands for... after all this time I've forgotten or still haven't learned--the gadget that delivers premeasured doses of morphine at the touch of that magic button, with an hourly maximum and other safeguards to prevent overdose.

I've been taking morphine since July, and it's lost its efficacy in pill form, so I sure hope I hold that little device with as much hope and relief as I will need.

I'm sad and scared and disappointed and I don't really feel prepared, but what can I do to prepare, really? Each time I pack less and less in my little overnight bag, because there is very little use for most things one might think to bring, and it just adds a burden for the person who picks me up to take me home after my discharge.

My doctor told me about his plan earlier this week, and talked about the different things he might discover when he cuts me open. Before he came in, I gave K a little anatomy lesson about my condition using the rubber and plastic models of the spine--skeletal and nervous systems.

I looked at that place where all the nerves branch off to the lower body--I think it's called the cauda equinus or something like that-- and wished I could see a photo of what lies beneath my own skin and tissue in that area. Is that gross? I like to read each operative report with its detailed accounting in Latin-influenced, precise medical terminology; would it be as interesting to see the gory details for myself? A few surgeries ago I would have said, "Hell NO" and turned away with a woozy shudder. Now I'm much more intrigued, perhaps more informed, and even a little distant from the whole thing.

So... fasting after midnight, a washdown with antibacterial soap, 8:30 a.m. check-in for 10:30 surgery. By now any of you who are inclined to visit me in hospital already know the routine all too well, but here's a little info just in case: Northwest Medical Center Patient and Visitor Information: http://www.northwestmedicalcenter.com/map_dir.html

Northwest Medical Center
6200 N. La Cholla Blvd.
Tucson, Arizona 85741

Main Switchboard: (520) 742-9000

I brought my cell phone the last two times, but after bills approaching $400.00 for overuse of minutes, I won't do that again. Also, a nurse cautioned me that cell phones could interfere with patient telemetry transmissions, and I'm not about to put any of my neighbors or myself at risk, so I'll probably be incommunicado this time. I have a direct line to my room but no message service. Half the time it's unplugged so I can sleep; usually I get inundated with calls for the previous occupant. Another portion of the time I'm having some proceedure done on my body or I'm out of the room for more MRIs or for physical therapy... and since I don't know what room number I'll be in until I get there, I can't let you know the number now. The main switchboard will get you there, but won't take messages. Gosh, I guess they have more important things to do [wry grin].

I'm not very good about returning calls these days, anyway, as some of you know... But I'll try to stay in touch. No computer wireless in hospital, so no blogging from there. I really do feel as if I'm on some kind of remote retreat or in outer space while I'm there anyway. Days pass and I don't know where the time goes or what my mind does or any of that. It's so weird.

What's more weird is to be so damned familiar with all this that I guess I don't really even have to do any kind of emotional or mental preparation. I've dedicated this whole day to resting after a week of insomnia, and I'll have to put aside my To Do list for yet another undetermined length of time.

The other night MC brought me delicious homemade Tuscan bean soup with rice and spinach to add essential amino acids and iron... and a lot of treats LESS specifically aimed at my health, but certainly satisfying to reluctant taste buds. Then she took me to her parents' house where I learned to play Dominoes. Who knew that would be so much fun? They sent me home with soothing personal care items, and the happy results of a few hours' distraction from all this gloomy, morose hanging around that I've been doing lately.

My thank you card list will be ENORMOUS when I finally feel well enough to express gratitude... I hope you all know that I appreciate your help and support and contributions more than I could convey in a card, anyway...

Off I go. More in a week or two, I guess...