As you know, I have quite the funny bone at times. Perhaps I should say *facetious alert* now. *wink* And though not every situation that life throws our way is humorous, I seem to have an inexplicable inner tug to drift into the realm of humor. I’m not sure where I got it from. None of my blood family members are remotely humorous—except my hubby, & I—let alone, stand up comedians. So maybe there was a milkman in our antecedents somewhere.
Now, I am not defaming milkmen, or milkwomen for that matter—some of my favorite ancestors plied that trade. I’m just recognizing–in a rather Midwest kind of way—that be it nurture or nature, the fates often have a sense of humor with regard to our lives.
Take me for example. On Wednesday, I was busying myself with: taking care of last minute details before I’m out for a while, for the university office that I work for; the doctor’s office sawed open my third leg cast (in soothing light blue) in prep for Thursday’s tendon reattachment surgery; and after my husband wiped my back down with an antiseptic cloth Wednesday night, like a scene from Silkwood, then he rewrapped the now clam shell like cast around my leg with that stretchy wrap stuff, while he held the cast halves closed clinched between his thighs. Sadly, that is as erotic as we got today. Ha!
But my overriding concerns with my upcoming surgery—my possibly dancing around the real issues at hand—have been three fold:
1. How successfully will the operating room staff be able to turn me over from my back to my stomach after they knock me out and intubate me? I’m a big girl—not as big as I used to be, but still substantial. And operating room beds/cots/tables (whatever) seemed to get narrower in recent years. I don’t want them to drop me mid flip. Oops! Additional limb injuries, I can do without. And I might injure more than just myself, were I to fall upon someone—though I would be grateful for the cushion. And that would be an interesting work men’s comp insurance claim. Dropped patient onto self. I bet they would split the liability. But in my defense, I’ll be unconscious—so I should have the lesser liability. Right? However, my surgeon–a very kind and soothing man–assured me that “we will take good care of you”. Still, I’d love it if they supersized my operating room table to at least the width of a twin sized bed.
2. Additionally, there is the whole issue of the patient gown that I will have to wear. Believe me, whomever decided to call it a gown had to have a fractured sense of humor. Maybe I read or write too many period romance stories, but to me, a gown is made of satin or silk, trimmed in lace, has many petticoats, and is accessorized with diamonds and pearls. But what I will be wearing will be more akin to a frequently washed (I hope so) and used scratchy cotton apron—because only the front has sufficient coverage, and then only just, with ekg lead wires running out of strategically placed holes. Somehow, medical electronic cables are not my kind of jewelry—but I bet they cost a pretty penny. Although, I could start a new fashion, I suppose. My having strategically placed stick-on patches with snap-on ekg lead cables dangling around me as I twirl on the dance floor—with my either looking like a Twenties flapper, or Cousin Itt. And fringe seems to be the latest fashion trim trend. I would make a great hit at the next Met Gala theme focusing on science and fashion. Clare Danes in her 2016 shimmery fiber optic dress (below)? Eat your heart out!
3. My final concern with surgery patient attire has to do with an ancillary issue of the naked nature one is underneath, the gown/apron. I am resigned to the notion that my backside will be ignominiously on display—though I’m rooting for wearing loose underpants, with my permission for them to cut me out of them if need be. I haven’t read nor seen Fifty Shades of Gray, but it sounds like something that would happen in that film—or so I’m told. No, my overriding concern is that my girls need support, and proper placement underneath me if I’m going to be lying on them. And yes, I had the moxy to pose this issue to my surgeon Wednesday while my hubby groaned from the sidelines. My surgeon gave me his pat “we’ll take good care of you” line. And then, although I almost lifted my clothed C+ cup girls to impart to him the evidence for the depth of my concern, to get my point across—I always dress demurely, not a breast crevice in sight, so he might not realize what we’re talking about–the lady medical assistant sawing my cast open intervened and explained to my male surgeon that if a woman’s breasts weren’t arranged properly when lying on them, that it could be quite painful after surgery. “Ah.” My surgeon nodded his head. Did he have his Eureka(!) moment? Hard to tell. “We’ll take good care of you.” He said. But he did relent and say that I could bring my loose stretchy cotton cami that I mentioned to wear underneath my gown after he reviewed it. So it seems that I will be flashing my cami covered breasts at my surgeon on Thursday—not something I ever dreamed of in my prim upbringing. Ha!
I guess I just have to put my trust in my surgeon and his operating room staff not to drop, squish, or gawk at me while they’re cutting my left lower leg and heel open. Ooh! Too graphic? Sorry. At least I won’t have to see it. And the only fifty in my near future are the supposedly not allergic reaction inducing in me, but still fabulous pain med pills for after my operation’s lower leg nerve block fades and the pain really kicks in.
So why am I putting myself through this surgery? Maybe not for dancing with my 14 inches taller than me hubby. We would look like shipping Thorin with Lord Elrond (right). Ha! But walking again—even with assistance, would be very nice. You don’t realize the gift that mobility is, until you no longer have it. So mobility is what I’m focusing on.
P.S. And oh yeah, I’m envisioning a younger, more muscular version of my very nice surgeon as my relaxation focus. Calling Dr. Track (below)! *wink* *THUD*!