Meanwhile my beloved husband of 4 months took his cell phone outside and called my parents. For this, they will love him forever. I had never spent the night in the hospital before, and had never had surgery. I've been both lucky and healthy all my life. Then he called his parents to tell them what was up, and only after that did he call the insurance company.
I passed out some time before noon. The next thing I knew it was after 3 or something. I have some vague memories of the afternoon. I hear I pulled the sheets down to expose my shaven crotch and the staples in my incision to Mr D's best friend and his wife (she's a nurse, and wanted to see the results but apparently I got a little carried away). I remember whining about food. I wasn't allowed to eat, because of the anesthetic. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since the night before. I had an IV so I wasn't going to die, I wanted food and drink. But no. I had some other visitors, and got some flowers, but I really don't remember that. Everyone left at some point, and I dozed around and played with the bed settings. Remember, I'd never stayed in the hospital before. I had the head part up, and the beneath the knees part up, and I had a ton of magazines to read from my lovely husband. I read, dozed, and pushed the little button on my morphine drip to get some more pain killers. I refused to turn the light out, I slept all night with it on. Sometime after midnight the nurse gave me food and drink. I had cranberry juice, a big water bottle, graham crackers, and tapioca pudding. Food of the gods! I don't much like graham crackers, but at that moment they were the very best thing I'd ever tasted.
In the morning, the night nurse gave me breakfast. I think there was cream of wheat involved. I ate all of it, and dozed some more. I told her I was going home that day, and she laughed. It was up to the doctor. Apparently I was on the maternity ward, which I thought was pretty funny. I remember hearing babies cry that night. If I had wanted to be a mother, this would have been somewhat painful for me, since I'd just lost an ovary. But it wasn't, and I think I was too drugged to really even notice. Sometime before lunch, a nurse came an listened to my stomach. They wanted to make sure my digestive system worked before they took out the IV. They took out the catheter (eew! I'm glad I was asleep for the insertion) in the morning. But noone told me I had to eliminate before they'd let me go. I snuck to the bathroom when I had to pee, because I thought I wasn't supposed to get out of bed. I also remember sneaking with my IV pole to the kitchen to get more juice and pudding sometime that morning. They wanted me up and around, but noone actually told me that.
Lunch was some very orange macaroni and cheese, with string beans. I got all excited about that. After lunch, when I finally admitted I had gotten up to use the bathroom a few times, the doctor came and told me I could go home if I wanted to. I had three people at home to take care of me, so I didn't need to stay another night unless I wanted to. I called Mr D, and he came and got me. All the way to the car and in the car, I kept saying, "I had food!" This was very exciting to me. And I went home to bed.
I really don't remember much of the next few days, but Mr D had that whole week off so he was there to take care of me. When he had to go back to work, his co-workers told him they'd cover for him if necessary, so he worked short days. I wasn't allowed to drive, so we had to do some tricky commuting when I went back to work a week after the surgery. My choice, I couldn't hack sitting around all day. I only took the pain pills they gave me for a couple of days. They made me constipated, and trying to push out a loaf when you've just had your pelvis cut open was hard enough without that. Eventually, the incision healed. It was three months before I could even attempt a sit-up. And even now it's not fully healed, but I'm not swollen anymore and I'm running again. I did a triathlon in August, very slowly. It was a celebration of my recovery.
When I went to get the staples removed, they told me what the growth was. It was a tumor called dysgerminoma. It's rare, the doctor who removed it had never seen one before in 26 years of ob/gyn practice. It never happens in women over 30 (I was 34). And it was cancer. So now I go every three months to have a CT scan, to make sure I don't get another one of these. The contrast I have to drink for this gives me the worst runs and makes my insides feel like they've been sandpapered. The dye injection makes me barf. And I'm sure my insurance company loves me, since I cost them at least $8,000 a year for this. I have another year of quarterly scans, then I get three years of semiannual scans, and then I'm done. There's a 15 percent chance it will come back.
I am now a cancer survivor. I have a hard time with this, because by the time I knew I had it, it was gone. I didn't have to have radiation or chemotherapy, because it was under 10 centimeters. I feel like a fraud when I say I survived cancer, because aside from the aftermath of surgery, I haven't gone through much. But the specter of cancer will hang over my head forever.
In honor of this story, today's picture is of me coming out of the water during the triathlon I did to celebrate my survival and recovery. Yeah, I look fat and crappy. The water was rough and I, the varsity swimmer, barfed. Worst swim I've ever had, and I was really embarrassed when the lifeguards asked me if I was okay. Sure I was, just seasick.
