Slice N Dice III - The Results Show

Having come out of anesthesia a number of times now, I like to think that I have become something of a pro.  As the world slowly blurs back into focus, I do my best to quickly alter my expression from that of a sleepy, impending sneeze, to a smile that says "Pay attention to me! I'm funny! And pleasant! I need drugs!"  This act is a delicate balance: too happy and they leave to attend to more important matters, too distressed and they call your fretting mother with the comforting information that you are in "just, a lot of pain." Nothing more.

When I awoke from my lovely left thigh Slice N Dice, I did my best to blearily thank the doctors (or, by this time, the recovery nurse who was left to make sure I kept up the breathing thing) and request some ice.  This secured at least some attention, while hopefully keeping resentment to a minimum.  I don't know why, but I always fear that the hospital will resent my presence - I think it may just be that I resent my stay enough for the whole of us.  Either way, I cheerfully embark on the next two days of waking up to a cast of thousands around my bed, smiling and nodding and pretending to listen - all the while assuming that someone else is actually listening and will fill me in later.  It is this tendency to drift which will no doubt allow me to thrive should I choose a future career in psychology... or journalism.

 I did, however, manage to pay attention when I received my pathology results - nothing there.  Not a thing.  This news, besides being good for my health and what not, is particularly exciting because it will add some small measure of truth to conversations such as this:

*shoe shopping: woman, mid 50s, approaches.  rosy cheeks and horn-rimmed glasses present a polite demeanor which belies the conversation which is about to follow*

WOMAN: "Oh, my dear!"

(rushes over from women's wear to shoes, stops within inches of Katie's face)

KATIE: "......"

WOMAN: "What kind of cancer do you have?"

KATIE: "....."

WOMAN: "What's your prognosis?"

KATIE: ".... I'm sorry?"

(looks for escape, friend sniggers, shoe salesman looks uncomfortable)

WOMAN: "Your cancer - is it serious?"

KATIE:(lying through her teeth) "What makes you think I have cancer?"

(uncomfortable silence, followed by pregnant pause and pointed glance at shiny head)

KATIE: "Oh! I don't have cancer! Just male-pattern baldness!"

WOMAN: "......."

KATIE: "It's chronic....you should see my dog"

WOMAN: "............I understand it's a tough thing to accept.  God punishes us all in different ways."

KATIE: "I know - that's why we'll be losing President Bush in the fall.  If I'd been more virtuous he could have been King!"

(woman gives dirty look and begins to edge away)

WOMAN: "I'll pray for you."

*end scene*

Thanks to some deft cutting and a continuous poison cocktail, I can now officially say that I wasn't lying.  Well, at least not about the cancer.

Slice N Dice III - Out of the Bed and Onto the Table

After a surprisingly short amount of time in the waiting room of Limbo, I was escorted to a mystical sterile room surrounded by pastel curtains.  They give me a certain degree of privacy when not being pushed open or aside every twenty seconds by the various doctors and techs who need something which can only be found in the locked steel cabinet beside my bed.  

My mind begins to wander.  I wonder what it is in this lock box and whether I could steal it.  I don't really know what I would do with an epidural (certainly not use one, as the diagram of one being given to the poor defenseless cartoon woman on the wall has quickly created a gut-wrenching aversion to natural childbirth), but it still might be fun to see if I can sneak it out through surgery.  

As various doctors, nurses, and janitors filter in and out of my curtains, my answers to their questions become automatically, humiliatingly consistent, to the point that I'm morphing into third person pronouns. Soon, Kathleen knows just what Kathleen is allergic to and when she had her last surgery, maintaining the perfect omnipotent facade until Kathleen slips and can't spell Kathleen's middle name (a problem Kathleen has had since age 4). "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?" no. "Are you sure?" yes. "Yes, as in there may be a chance you're pregnant?" no.  If I was pregnant, I tell them at this point, I would be founding a new religion. They relent.  I've made it through the Second Circle.  Next question. "Just check over these consent forms that we filled out after you signed to make sure they're correct."  I check.  The forms state that they will be operating on the top of my right thigh which, unless they know something I don't, will result in hurt feelings for some very healthy tissue, while the misbehaving cells get off punishment free. "Whoops! chuckle chuckle." They don't know how that happened. Their disquieted demeanor makes me think that this could have been a big boo boo.

Signed and sealed, I am delivered to the operating room which is, among other things, white and cold.  I imagine this is how naked dreams feel when naked-dream-you ends up at the dentist's office - cold, befuddled, and just a tad vulnerable.  Deep breaths in, jokes about needing a catheter, deep breaths out, you trying to remind them through the mask that you weren't joking, the room begins to blur and, rather than offering a final little prayer, you think only of your poor overwrought bladder being filled with IV fluids as you count, 10...9....8........

Slice N Dice III - The cut-ee has arrived

With four rounds of chemotherapy, along with what turned out to be an extraneous lung surgery, out of the way, I was able to check back into the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance (SCCA) and UW hospital for the third and hopefully last re-excision on the top of my left thigh at the original tumor site.  Unfortunately, thighs have always been one of my problem areas, and in this case the problem was just cancer rather than cellulite (not that one has gotten rid of, or diminished the importance of the other).

Having arrived at the SCCA for a pre-op appointment with my surgeon (Dr. C), we were surprised to be told that our appointment had been moved back a week, that they were so sorry, and that they hoped it wasn't too much of an inconvenience.  We responded calmly and rationally (Mom cried, I glared), making such logical arguments on my behalf (more tissues and glaring) that they couldn't refuse and promised to fit me in on Thursday of that week - 14/08.

The last lung surgery I had the joy of experiencing was scheduled at 10am and executed at 6pm.  This time delay made for a verry long waiting room stay, despite my best efforts to crawl into a fetal position, embrace the chair, and drift in and out of consciousness. The hope in this physical display was that by "looking sicker" I would somehow be seen sooner.  What can I say?  I'm still just a hopeful child on the inside, telling the bank teller I'm hungry in a play for lollipops. Needless to say, I still leave the ATM with an unsatisfied sweet tooth.  "Are we there yet?" was my cry, a pleading call for explanation met only by the indifferent stare of the receptionist.

With my past experience of the barren reception room of limbo under my belt (or elastic waist pants, since metal wasn't allowed back in any form), I came prepared to my third thigh slice n dice.  Luckily, this time around, my boredom-staving kit was able to include my mother (she who runs Katie's life better than Katie ever could and can call a doctor with telepathy), my father (he who can jump stacks of insurance forms in a single stride with his legs and arms tied behind his back. blindfolded.  while simultaneously distributing chocolate), and my lovely sister K (she who brings packs of cards with her, pretends to laugh at my jokes, and is ambidextrous like it's no one else's business).  These three fantastic warm bodies, combined with a deck of cards and our family's deep, oil-finding competitive streak when it comes to games made for a very entertaining (only 3 hour) wait!