It's been four days since the death of my gallbladder. Can I tell you how pissed I am that I weigh no differently than I did last week with it intact? I was hoping for at least 20 pounds. I couldn't slip the doc any extra money to lipo something while he was hanging around in my innards because that would be bribing, so I did manage to do my hair and floss that morning. (FYI--my two best features are my hair and teeth so I had to use them to my advantage). (FYI--my doc must not be into hair and teeth). Anyway, instead of waking up sans gallbladder AND sans belly fat, I'm essentially still Kristin. Well, I'm still Kristin who has no formal way of processing stomach bile. Do yourself a favor and don't ask me out to Mexican until I get a grasp on this situation.
Mike and I always joke that I know every doctor within a 50 mile radius and those doctors have all see my cookie, whether they are gynecologist-related or not. Like, we'll be shopping and run into an Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor and Mike will say, "Is it weird that I'm not the only man here that's seen your vagina?" Well, you'd think a general surgeon whose sole purpose last Friday was to only take out my gallbladder (which is located right under the breast--essentially miles away from any cookie region--) wouldn't have to see anything below my belly button. You'd think that, but then it's me you're dealing with.
Naturally, the day of my surgery I had my period. When we arrived at the hospital after the long car ride (in which I had been SITTING) I got out of the car and ladies, you know, you KNOW, that feeling that sometimes happens when you stand after sitting awhile on your period...yeah. I had *that feeling*. I walked awkwardly to the check-in counter and quietly asked the woman behind it where the restroom was. She, the bitch, asked for my name and what I was there for. I explained I was checking in for surgery but I really had to use the bathroom. Bitch then picks up the phone and calls for a nurse. Meanwhile, people are trickling in behind me in line. And other things are also...trickling, if you know what I'm saying. Bitch tells me to step aside and wait a second. Which turned into like five minutes. At this point, I'm miserable. Mike--the ultimate man--has evacuated the building when he caught on to what was going on with me so he's absolutely no help. Other people are checking in and I'm twitching around at the end of the counter. Another receptionist appears and tells me to go sit down and wait for a nurse. Sit down?! Ew. No. When I turn to reply to her that I NEED to go to the bathroom (including the very specific reason WHY) a man and his elderly grandfather come up to the counter...ugh!
Minutes later and almost at my wit's end, a nurse comes from down the hall with a cup. I'm thinking I'm quite familiar with what that cup's for. She comes right up to me and says rather loudly (I'm sure it was nice and discreet but at this point everything's dramatized to me), "Are you the patient who needs the restroom?" I glare at her and briskly nod my head. She says, "Well, I need a sample". I lean into her and tell her very frigidly "I'm on my period and I'm sort of in a mess so I'm not sure what kinda sample you're gonna get". She then says, "Oh honey, I needed the sample to check for pregnancy so you just go right ahead without it". Offf course.
Once I get taken back into the prep room, my new MALE nurse tells me to strip down to NOTHING and put on the robe. Ummm...that was gonna be a problem. I gritted my teeth and told him I was on my period so I can't take off my undies. He then produces the ugliest net-material draws I've ever seen in addition to a pad that was bigger and sturdier than Tom Hanks' Castaway raft. I begrudgingly changed and layered up, leaving my period woes behind me--or underneath me, in this case. I stay in pre-op for awhile and eventually forget my period. After all, the team of doctors won't see anything below my stomach.
The team comes in that will be performing my surgery and one of them injects the greatest medicine known to mankind into my IV. They start to roll me out and all my stress leaves me. We roll down the hall and I wave to every person I meet, you know, the janitor dumping the trashcans, an old lady being rolled past me, the nurses at the nurses' station. We go in this fancy room. They moved me from the rolling bed onto the operating table. I thought to myself, "It really does take a team of humans to lift my fat ass". I even think I laughed out loud. I then closed my eyes because I was under this huge bright light when all of a sudden, I feel hands at the end of my robe, easing it up. Even drugged out of my mind, I think, "Nnnnooooooo!!!! You're not supposed to look down there!!!!"
I don't remember anything after that because three hours later, I woke up in recovery. I immediately check under the covers and see that I still had on the massive granny-panties. My first words to Mike when he entered my room were "You won't believe the room full of people who have now also seen a semi-glance of 'tha land down unda'." He smirked and said, "It wouldn't be a trip to a medical facility if people didn't see your vag." Touché, Mike. Touché. And that's the story of how I got my gallbladder taken out.
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