Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Death of a Dermoid

Like childbirth, every patient’s surgical experience is a neat little story all its own. And also like childbirth, no one except the owner of the desecrated vagina really gives much of a shit. Seriously, this crap happens all the freakin’ time; no one cares. But this is my blog, and I don’t have anything else to bitch about.  Deal with it.

As I discussed in excruciating detail in my previous post, I had this neat little alien entity growing on one of my ovaries. Initially I was told the ovary and fallopian tube had gone in on a Groupon with the teratoma and would be coming along for the magic bus ride to the internal organ inferno, but my doctor changed her tune at my pre-op checkup a week prior to surgery. Although she spent far longer than she needed to the first time around convincing me that I wouldn’t miss the ovary (seriously, take ALL my girly bits—I’m a good tipper!) suddenly she wanted to attempt to save the dumb egg-crapping contraption, but wouldn’t know if that was possible until the slicing and dicing began. I can only assume there’s been some sort of bonus plan for leaving organs intact implemented, thereby creating less medical waste and/or insurance paperwork. You remember Cash For Clunkers? This is Coins For Loins or some shit. But I digress.

So I was left with more questions than answers going into surgery—how long will I be in the operating room, will I be in the hospital overnight, how large of an incision will the procedure require, how many body parts will I wake up missing… all the unknowns were shaken, not stirred, into one giant crap cocktail for an anxiety-plagued control freak such as moi. Luckily I’m also a great big weirdo, and despite all that other crap the only thing that bunched up my panic attack panties was the thought of going under anesthesia.

To make a long story short (too late) let’s fast forward to surgery day.

The only thing remotely interesting from the first two hours I was at the hospital was having a hose inserted near the crotch of my humongous hospital gown that inflated the whole thing with hot air (or cold, if you prefer your clam slightly chilled), making me look like the Marshmallow Man and that shrunken head dude from Beetlejuice mated and I was their puffy, panicky progeny.

Yes, I was terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought. But my mad Paint skillz remained intact.
Despite my toasty warm vagina, I was still pretty nervous. And a complete raging bitch because I hadn’t been allowed coffee that morning, but my family didn't really notice the subtle difference in my disposition.

Anyway, after about a thousand years of laying around being bored, scared, and bored of being scared, the Antichrist himself—my anesthesiologist—wandered over to introduce himself. It wasn't easy, but I managed to explain to him that he was my worst nightmare and he should eat shit and die (no offense! *winky face*), and he politely nodded, patted my inflated shoulder, and galloped away on his cloven hooves. I assumed he went to gather the seven horsemen and some virgin blood. Or take a pre-procedure piss. Whatever. Some other scrub-donning jerkoffs gathered around to unhook my cunt cooker and take some vitals. Then Dr. Demonpants trotted back over holding a syringe of something green. Our eyes locked and he uttered the words I’d been longing to hear my entire life: “Want me to slip you a mickey?”

After that they wheeled me into the operating room and had me scootch my ass from the stretcher onto the operating table. Seriously, why do I have insurance if I have to move my own ass? Pffft. I remember my doctor explaining how they would be looking at my innards on the screens hanging from the ceiling all around me, as if I really gave a shit. I could’ve used some Pink Floyd and maybe a little laser light show, but otherwise I was high and happy. The oxygen mask went on it was lights out for Kimmy.

When I awoke in the recovery room the first thing I did was pull up my gown (you’re welcome, old dude next to me!) and inspect the damage – three small incisions; one on each side of my lower abdomen, and one straight through my belly button. I was also pleased that I wasn't laying on ice in a seedy motel bathtub, though that would have made for a better story.

Anyway, I was eventually transported to my own little recovery room, where I was reunited with my family and informed that while it was “tedious” work (I’m not sure how they code that for insurance, but they’ll find a way), in a fantastical feat of operating room heroics the surgeon was able to save the ovary. (Again… like I give a shit.)  The doctor, who had *promised* to save me a teratoma tooth if she found one, described the growth as “large and hairy” but didn’t leave me a single souvenir.  Other than, you know, scars. Bitch.

I went home later that night. The total time from being dragged kicking and screaming through the hospital entrance to being wheeled drunkenly out translated to about ten hours. Not bad.

The first few days of recovery sucked. Thanks to a wicked sore throat from the breathing tube, a bitchy bladder, and an anxiety level that was far too high I didn't get much sleep. The gas they inflated my abdomen with was not only painful everywhere from my shoulders to my stomach but also kept me bloated, without the joy of a toasty twat. Apparently our abdominal cavities aren’t quite as easy (or fun) to empty out as a whoopee cushion, which I believe puts a final nail into the coffin of the intelligent design theory, don’t you?

Where's your God now??

While I wasn’t overly worried about it, six days post-surgery I got the phone call that the pathology report was in for the tumor and it was benign. I suppose anytime someone wants to call and tell me I don’t have cancer I’m not going to complain.

And now, a week later, I’m beyond bitter and bitchy with everyone and everything in my life. In other words, my recovery is going smashingly! My incisions are still a bit swollen and my belly button looks like Frankenstein’s butthole, but things are looking up. In a few more days I’ll be back to work and have a whole new set of imaginary problems to bitch about.

Oh, and I’m totally buying one of those climate control thingys for my cooch.

Thanks to both of my readers for all the love and support. Dicks.