The alarm goes off at 5:00. Georgetown University Hospital wants me there at 5:30; Jeff has suggested 6:00 is fine, the IGC says they cannot operate without me, so I can get there whenever I damn well please. I’m shooting for the 6:00 o’clock option.
I have spent the night before stroking my chin and jaw line all night, in case it is the last time I’ll have sensation there. This has made for an interesting sight. The IGC asks me why I am petting myself; when I tell him, he takes over.
I have showered, removed all the jewelry (this act has required a trip to Cartier, since IGC has given me a “Love” bracelet that is held on by screws that cannot be removed unassisted), and dressed in loose-fitting clothing. We arrive at the hospital just as they are about to call me at home to find out where I am – they helpfully call this a “Wake-up Call.” It is close to 7:00 AM, and I have a date with the anesthesiologist at 7:30.
I am now attended by the mini-United Nations, and I appear to be the only one "Born in the USA". My anesthesiologist is from Milan; his resident, a tiny woman no larger than a size zero, is from Australia. My surgical team is from the U.S. and “Moldovia”(more about that later). Size Zero puts in one IV, the Milanese puts in the other – is it because he is drop dead gorgeous that his IV doesn’t seem to hurt at all? IGC is with me throughout, alternating between highly precise knowledge of the surgical procedures, his rights as primary caregiver. My favorite line from him which I will hear many times is, “You have many patients, I only have one – HER!” This statement is usually followed by a strongly-worded request or admonishment, but it is uniformly successful.
Gown on, IV’s in, gurney waiting. I climb aboard and am wheeled down the hall. IGC kisses me goodbye, and I enter the most undistinguished operating room I have ever seen. It is not unlike going to a Jiffy Lube. Years of watching “ER” have led me to believe that the reason the cost of medical care is so high is because everyone is decorating in stainless steel. No matter; I only have five seconds to contemplate this before I go out like a light.
Waking from surgery is an otherworldly experience. My eyes are not open, but I hear a lot of activity around me. People are talking about me in the third person. Occasionally, I am asked a question, but I am aware that I cannot make a sound. My mouth is clamped tighter than the corset on my maiden aunt. I don’t recognize the voices, except for IGC who is taking charge like the Primary Caregiver he is. I feel so protected; he communicates information about me that are both comforting (“The last surgery she had, the nurse spilled ice all over her chest LIKE YOU ARE DOING NOW! She didn’t like it then, and I doubt she likes it now.”) and life-saving (“Anti-nausea meds given IV cause her to convulse; do NOT give her any without consulting my me AND the doctor.”) I hear the beeps and chirps of the machinery that grips both arms.