The Furious Spinner

I tried to write about my last surgery, two months ago, but it didn't work. Or I didn't work. One or the other. I was only able to do snippets. Which is probably what this will be too. I'm sitting on my couch with the laptop in front of me. Mario is making lunch. In an hour, I've got to go to Vancouver to get the stuffing pulled out of me. No, that's not right. I have to get the dressing taken out. This surgery was something I had avoided for twenty years, to my detriment, so it is quite a thing for me—to do twice in two months.

Anyway, yesterday morning just before we left, I went out to my rosemary bush and asked for protection. Then I walked by the borage and thanked it for the extra courage (and any extra potassium it may have given me) and I thanked the front rosemary bush for nourishing me (I put some in my soup). I waved to the big old Oak and Maple, then we drove to Portland. I had headphones on the entire time, listening to a tape that's designed for someone who is having surgery. This time I was listening to the affirmations. Usually I roll my eyes at affirmations (for myself), but I've been listening to this woman's voice for so many months doing visualizations that I kind of enjoyed her affirmations. They didn't sound like Queen of Denial statements like they often do. We passed by a nest of ospreys along the river. An adult and a juvey. I did a powwow chant to stop bleeding and pain. Drew a rune on the pouch I was wearing around my neck. (Same one I wore last time. Inside was a small stone with the word "magic" carved into and a seashell I'd found in Tucson. It was part of the nose of the Old Mermaid we created in the wash from things we found there.)

Got to the clinic. Signed in. Filled out forms. Left my headphones on most of the time. Soothing. Sat and listened and looked at the photograph of the golden tree. Felt all the trees from all around reaching up and me reaching down. Grounded. The nurse got my folder and called me in. I knew the routine. First stop on the scale. 49.8 kilograms. Temperature 98.5. Asked if I had to use the restroom. "Haven't eaten or drank for twelve hours," I said. "I can't imagine." Went into a tiny room, just like last time. Got my blood pressure. 149/83. Oxygen: 98. Nurse introduced herself to me. (I'll just use the first initial of everyone.) I'll call her Jay. Put on the hospital gown. She wanted me completely naked. I said I was able to leave on my underwear last time. She said, "Well, it's up to you, but for really long surgeries people sometimes have accidents." Last time I hadn't taken them off. (This kind of detail is great for a writer! Too much information for most people, I know.) I told Jay she had the same name as one of my best friends. (It was an unusual name.) I asked her how she spelled hers. Different than my friend. Still, this nurse reminded me of her. (I didn't tell Nurse Jay that my friend had died three years ago.) I felt like my friend Jay was with me.

I listened to music on my headphones as the nurse put in the IV. I was glad for it since I was very very dry. This lack of fluids was making my chest feel tight. I had Mario close the sliding glass door after she left. I closed my eyes and listened to the music. I imagined the Old Mermaids all around me. I had to sign another consent form because my original hadn't gotten sent to them. At some point, the anesthesiologist supervisor came in and we talked. I told him what had happened last time with the epinephrine. He said he hadn't looked at my chart yet but he would. He had me open my mouth, tip my head (I assume to make certain the tube would go down my throat), and then he listened to my heart and lungs. I saw my surgeon. She talked to me about my potassium. Said it was fine now. Should get it checked again. They put something else in my IV. A mountain lion hung out with me. Along with my friend Dave. Dr. Z, the anesthesiologist who was actually going to be in the room with me, came around. I don't remember what we said to one another. Nurse Em came to take me to the operating room. She was funny. We joked around with one another. I can't remember now what we said. Except I wanted to make certain my doc had eaten. She said sure. She's not eating much though cuz she's got a reunion coming up. I said but she's beautiful. (And tiny.) Nurse Em said I know. I started to feel a bit woozy. Mario kissed me goodbye. Nurse Em wheeled me away. Felt a bit dizzy. Wanted to say, "Let's light this candle."

This time I saw the operating room. I think it was yellow. White and yellow. Tubes and dials. I was talking, talking, talking. Animated. Held Dr. Z's hand. I was saying (don't know why), "When I got my CAT scan the guy asked me if I had any questions and I said, 'Do I still have my brain?' and he said, 'Ah, we did your sinuses.'" I laughed. Nurse Em said, "Yeah, those guys in radiology don't have much of a sense of humor." I called over Bee, who assisted Dr. Eye last time. Nurse Em said, "Oh that's not a good sign if you know the surgery crew!" She laughed. I said, "No they were great." Bee took my hand and kissed it through his surgical mask. "Today is an auspicious day," I said in my loopy state. "My book Mercy, Unbound is coming out today." "A writer," Nurse Em said. "You can write about all of us. What's it about?" I think I said, "A young girl thinks she's an angel so she doesn't have to eat; her parents think she has an eating disorder so they send her to an eating disorder clinic." Pretty good for being on drugs. Dr. Eye was sitting at the table near me. She looked cold, wrapped in one of the warm blankets they have. (They're very nice. They must put them in an oven or something.) She rolled her chair over to me. "Kim, you never told me you were a writer." "Yep," I said. "Probably too nervous all the times I came to you." Actually it just never came up. "Are you ready?" I asked her. "Oh I'm ready," she said. "She's a completely different person," Dr. Eye said. "She wasn't anything like this before." Dr. Z put a nozzle near my nose. "Will this bother you?" "No." Dr. Eye was standing now. Dave was with me, the Old Mermaids, Mountain Lion, Bobcat wandered around somewhere. "I'm putting something in your arm now," Dr. Z said. "It's uncomfortable," I said. It burned.

Hasta la vista, baby.

Someone said my name. The someone was Em-two, one of the recovery nurses. I wasn't sure what was going on. Where was I? My headphones were still on, still playing. Nice. Vaguely familiar. The recovery room. I remembered it from last time. Must be over. Couldn't hear my heart. Last time the heart rate monitor freaked me out. "Mario," I said. Then he was there holding my hand, telling me everything was all right. No third surgery. (Mario said I babbled for about 15 minutes, and he couldn't understand me. I don't remember that.) Then another nurse came to take care of me. Her name was Bear. It was something else in another language, and when I said, "That's a nice name. Unusual. What does it mean?" She told me it meant Bear. "Oh, bear is my totem," I said. I meant to say something else. That I was part of the Bear Clan or something, but my brain or words didn't work. "What's a bear totem?" she asked. "It's like a spirit helper," I said. "You're my protector." "Good," she said. All day I felt as though I was being looked after. I was very grateful. Somehow we started talking about Mercy, Unbound. Bear told me she had a 13 year old daughter she thought might like it. She took my name so she could ask her bookstore for it. Sweet.

Soon Bear took out my IV. She gave Mario discharge instructions since I was on drugs, she said. All I heard was that I couldn't have sex for a week. "Did I hear that right?" I asked her. She said yes. Apparently I had no restrictions except I couldn't lift ten pounds and I couldn't have sex. I tried to figure out the corollary, but I couldn't. I thought, I can hike ten miles but I can't have sex? I think it was part of my drug thought train. Then Bear drew the curtain around my bed and Mario helped me get dressed. They brought a wheelchair; I sat in it, said goodbye to Bear, and off we went.

We left the clinic and got stuck in traffic. I kept on my headset. The music filled my ears. Can't describe how I felt. So grateful to be here. To be done with it. But I also felt like I'd been beaten up. When we finally got out of traffic and were driving through the Gorge, Mario asked, "Was anyone there in the operating room with you, in spirit?" I murmured, "Dave." "Funny you should say that," he said. "There was an article in the Oregonian about him today." More than two months after his death on the day of my surgery.

Don't remember much about the ride home. Thanked Borage and Rosemary as I walked up my steps. Thanked the House. Thanked all the Spirits and Beings.

Don't remember much about last night except being hungry and slightly nauseated. Trying to sleep. Listening to music on the headset. Not sure if I dreamed. Fell to sleep to Enchanted April. (Appropriate.) Later I woke up and watched part of a documentary. A Decade Under the Influence. Woke up a couple of times choking on blood, but for the most part, it was a good night.

This afternoon we went to Vancouver and the doc pulled out the dressing. Wasn't bad. The cleaning out was not comfortable but there you are. It only lasted a few minutes. I asked her if I had any trouble with the epinephrine this time, and she said no. So apparently the NAET treatment I'd gotten for it had worked.

Now I'm home. I think I've just run out of steam. Hope all is well your ways.

May You Recover in Beauty!

P.S. Just had a meltdown. Crying. Bad pharmacist. Now I've got my headset on again. Much better. I feel like the guy in Clockwork Orange getting rehabilitated. I didn't reread this post, by the way. I hope it is semi-coherent and at least vaguely interesting. Mario is making me healthy cherry pie.

Peace?