Surgery

OK, so I finally bit the bullet and did the operation on Thursday.  And the son-of-a-bitch still hurts.

So my uncle picks me up and we're headed to the hospital.  A very nice hospital, but apparently one so new that Google Maps didn't know exactly where it was.  To it, I guess, this hospital was just a cow pasture, or farmland.  But it certainly wasn't; it was a beautiful new edifice that seemingly rises up out of the wilderness, with lots and lots of free parking, thank God.

I went to one desk, then another, then walked down the hall (this place is beautiful but it's huge and it has no signs telling you where to go), then was greeted by a nice English lady.  I wasn't sitting for five minutes before they were ready to whisk me behind the doors from which I Would Never Be The Same.

I didn't know that there are a bunch of levels of protocol, by which I mean I didn't know I would have to meet with this person, then these people, then this person, than these people again, etc.  I guess it's to make sure no detail is skipped over, but hey, it's not like I get surgery every day, so it seemed a bit excessive to me.

The one thing I remember from the only other time I had surgery, when I got my wisdom teeth removed, is that I was given gas.  I was told by the anesthetist to count backwards from 100.  I don't think I got to 99 before I was out for good, no joke.  So even though the main anesthetist told me the deal, specifically that I was going to get drugs in two stages, which would make me sleepy and then really sleepy, I kind of knew that once I got the first set I was out.  So I shook his hand knowing that that's probably the last time I'll see him.

At this point I had already changed out of my clothes and into scrubs, the ass end of which I had to keep open because, of course, that's the place where I was going to be operated on.  The ready room was sweet.  During the hour of meetings I was just lying in a bed, flipping through TV channels and radio stations through the in-house TV.  The remote control response was a little slow, but hey, I was watching TV and listening to the radio so I could relax before they cut my ass open.

They were finally ready.  There were two anesthetists doing my surgery.  I had talked to one, but he was only the supervisor.  The person who was going to be at my side the whole time was this pushy woman who kept trying to reassure me that I was going to get the "good stuff."  All I wanted to know from her was when she was going to inject me.  I couldn't get a straight answer from her, so I only knew when I was getting the juice when she reached over to my left hand and physically injected said juice.

It quickly became a blur after that.  I remember being wheeled into the operating table.  I then remember being told to toss myself onto this adjacent bed, which had these pillows stacked so I would be comfortable lying on them face down and kneeling -- you know, kind of like that zigzag piece in Tetris.  My mind was shut down by then, so I don't know how I willed my body to that position.  Once I did get onto that other bed, they had to adjust my arms and head for me because at that point I no longer could.  And I assume that my ass was wide open for all to see as I put myself in that position.  But at that point the drugs kicked in.  I was out, cold.

---

I came to ... somehow.  I don't know if someone was calling out to me.  All I know is I woke up and I drank something.  Oh, and I had this urge to take a shit.

The doctor came in and confirmed that I did have what she thought I had: An anal fistula.  I asked to reconfirm that the surgery to take out this rubber band, a "seton," was just a snip at her office.  Oh no, she replied; I'll have to go through the same goddamn thing I did, including getting knocked out and shit.  And really, from that point on I wasn't really the most exemplary patient.

My mind was half on dealing with my pain, half on how am I going to get away with doing these operations without my parents knowing.  Getting dressed, getting out, getting my drugs ... those were really the only two things I was thinking about.  Only when I tried to shit did I realize that the only reason my ass didn't hurt as much as I thought it would (even though this urge to defecate stayed with me) was that it was numb when I touched it.

As bad it felt, the intervening days have been worse.  I thought my ass would be used to a rubber band basically piercing my rectum, but it really hasn't.  Whenever I shit, or my urethra closes up after I pee, or cough or laugh, my sphincter pushes up against this seton and I have this incredible pain down there.  It's so bad it's all I think about.  And even though I've been so stir crazy I have had to just go out and do stuff, the only way I'm relieved of this ass pain is if I'm in my bed, lying down -- or, better yet, sleeping as a result of the oxycodone I've been given.  That doesn't bode well for work, which I am determined to come back to starting today.

Oh yeah, the pills.  As I've said before, I don't want to be addicted, but I don't think I'm getting addicted.  I wish I were, however.  This Percocet doesn't make the pain go away; it only makes me sleepy.  Sure, I don't feel the pain, but I don't feel anything, and if I need to do something (which is all the time), that doesn't fucking help me.  I need something that helps me remain productive while feeling no pain.  Is that what Adderall does to you?

Oh well, at least I've begun to take a shit yesterday.  Still hurts, although it's not as bad as I thought.  I just now need to figure out a time to get this seton snipped.  I have a vacation to take advantage of in a few weeks.  Oh, and the Check Engine light is turning on sooner and sooner after I drive my car, so I'm bringing that in tomorrow, hopefully.  Plus I'm paying ****r to clean my house because I just can't do that boring shit myself.

<sigh> Fuck my life.  I just coughed and I felt a sharp pain in my ass again.  This is fucking hell.