I had surgery yesterday. Umbilical hernia. Basically some muscle and fat popped through my belly button. My doctor explained that everyone is walking around with a hernia. We all have a small hole in our bellies where the umbilical cord once ran. Sometimes, through either via exertion or trauma, muscle or fat will leak through that hole, resulting in a very large outie of a belly button and a lot of pain.
I’ve been dealing with the pain since April, thinking at first that it was a pulled muscle. When it finally popped through my bely button, I went to see the doctor, who wanted it surgically repaired as soon as possible – late August. This would’ve meant missing the first week or two of school, which would not have been good. So I postponed until yesterday. I’ve been gritting my teeth and dealing with the pain for months now, so I was happy to finally have the surgery.
But damn! It hurts! I thought I’d be back on my feet and normal in a day or two, but the doctor warned me that “It’s going to hurt like a mother#$%@%#$.”
I appreciated his candor. And boy was he right.
And because it’s me, yesterday turned out to be fairly eventful. It actually began earlier in the week with the following comments and well wishes from certain friends and students, including:
One of my clients: “You’ll be fine. I really need you on Monday, so don’t worry. You need to be fine.”
Student: “Who will be our teacher if you die?”
Student: “I hope you’re not as terrified about this as I would be.”
Student: “You should probably be more scared.”
Student: “Can I have your bobbleheads if you don’t make it?”
Father-in-law, who had the same surgery: “My naval never looked so good. I’ll send a photo.”
Friend who clearly doesn’t get it: “You’re so lucky. Two weeks off.”
Friend: “Who knows. Maybe this will improve your driving distance on the golf course.”
People say the damnedest things to surgical patients.
I spent the last month worried that I wouldn’t awaken from anesthesia, which I know is exceptionally rare but also very real. You’d be hard pressed to believe how often I thought about the possibility of this routine surgery killing me. Dozens, if not hundreds of times per day.
But that’s not probably surprising if you know me.
The day started out well. The nurses told me I won the award for the most sensibly dressed:
Loose fitting sweatpants and tee shirt. Nothing in my pockets except a cell phone.
Some of the people checking in ahead of me were better dressed than I have been all year. Pants and belts. Button down shirts and jackets. Handbags and jewelry. A backpack. Where did they think they were going? In five minutes, they would essentially be naked.
I also won the award for the easiest check-in, my nurse said. No medications. No piercings or dentures. No pain. No diabetes or organ diseases of any kind. No high blood pressure. No previous surgeries other than the ones following my car accident in 1988.
He had me feeling good.
Even so, the surgery never really became real to me until the nurses lifted my gown to begin washing my belly, and I started to think, “My God, they are going to cut me open. Someone is going to stick a knife in me and slice me open.”
Inside, I started to panic even more. For a second, I wondered if I could call the whole thing off.
The nurses were preparing me for nerve blockers: Four shots – two into each side of my belly, that were being added before I even went to the operating room for general anesthesia. Being terrified of needles as a result of my bee allergy and years of self-administered injection before auto-injectors were introduced, my level of panic spiked.
Not having Elysha there was pretty awful, too. Stupid pandemic.
My nurse, Juan, saw my panic, I think, and said, “Don’t worry. I’m going to give you a sedative. It’ll be like downing a couple six packs of beer in ten seconds. You’ll be completely relaxed.”
“I don’t really drink,” I said. “Haven’t had a beer in 30 years, so your six pack analogy is lost on me. Can you please just make sure I’m sedated before sticking me with the needles.”
That’s the last thing I remember before waking up in post-op, surgery complete, writhing in pain.
I remained in post-op for about an hour as they struggled to control my pain. When it was finally manageable, they called Elysha, and a nurse came to help me get dressed, which wasn’t easy.
Getting dressed this morning wasn’t easy, either.
As the nurse helped me with my underwear and pants, so turned her head to offer my some privacy, which just complicated things, so I said, “I think we’re well past you seeing me naked. Right? You’ve probably already seen me without most of my clothes on already, so it’s fine.”
She laughed and turned to help me.
Naturally, as I was rolled out via wheelchair to Elysha’s car, she was hit by a van shuttling patients to the hospital. Quite literally, as I was attempting to climb into the car, the van clipped her front bumper, because that is how I roll.
Perfect end to my hospital visit.
But I also saw this, which was the best thing I saw all day:
The man waiting in line in front of me for admitting was an older man, accompanied by a similarly older man. Since I was behind them, I heard the intake nurse say that his birthday was in 1945, making him 76 years old. After the intake process was complete, the nurse told the second man that this was as far as he could go.
“We’ve got him from here,” the nurse said. “I promise he’s in good hands.”
The two men stepped back from the desk, embraced, and then kissed. One man said to the other, “I love you, honey.”
They kissed again, then the other said, “I love you so much. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll see yo soon. You’ll be fine. Okay?
Then they hugged and kissed again.
Born at the very end of World War II, I couldn’t help but think how far the world has come since these two men were born. The affection and tenderness that I witnessed was incredible, and yet it shouldn’t have been anything but normal. It’s tragic that moments like this took so long to come, and in some places in this country, I’m sure these men would’ve felt a lot less able to share this moment together.
Those places and those people really need to grow up or shut up.
I also found myself thinking of John Cummings, telling me that he kisses his husband in public with his eyes open in case some bigot lashes out at them.
These men’s eyes remained open, too.
But damn, it was the perfect way to start my day. A little hope for this world. A little love in the air. Something beautiful to think about when the pain in my belly is raging, as it is right now.
I’ll go lie down now. The cats will surely pile atop me. Ever since I returned home, they have been all over me like never before, never leaving my side. I know it sounds a little hokey, but I think they know I’m in pain. I think they know that I need them.
Is that possible?
Not that long ago, the prospect of two men expressing their love in public also seemed impossible, so I guess that almost anything is possible.
I hope.
