Don't laugh at me; I'm so not used to this, and hope I never will be

I've been very fortunate in my life when it comes to my health. Sure, I've caught my fair share of bugs (take this week for example!) but overall, I'm a very healthy 27-year-old woman.


In fact, when Brent and I were going through the medical testing required for our life insurance policies, I was placed into the top health bracket.


And when my doctor suggested I go through a barrage of tests earlier this year as part of a regular check-up, which I've neglected for years, he said everything was "perfectly on point."


"Oh come on," I replied. "There must be SOMETHING that's a little high or a little low..."


"Actually, no," he said, showing me three pages of numbers all within the normal range for cholesterol, blood pressure, pulse rate, etc. "You're a very healthy young lady."


So even though my husband took one look at my face while I was lying on the gurney waiting for my surgery to remove a tumor in my breast yesterday and laughed, I'm not going to apologize for shedding a few nervous tears. While I very much appreciated his jokes and successful attempts to keep things light the day of my surgery, this isn't something I've experienced before, much less am used to.

When it comes to my health, surgery to remove a tumor is by far the most extreme medical procedure I've had to face. Heck, it's the ONLY medical procedure I've had to face in an operating room.

And let me tell you, I think the most terrified I've ever been is in the few seconds it took me to walk from the gurney outside the operating room to lie on the table inside the operating room. Two of my favorite TV shots are Grey's Anatomy and House, and before those shows premiered I spent many hours watching ER. But none of that prepared me for what an actual operating room looks like.

What first hit me was how BRIGHT it was. I felt like I was lying underneath a floodlight, which is good because the doctors should probably be able to see exactly what they're doing. And there were all kinds of unfamiliar, gleaming metal machines with lights covering every inch of that tiny room.

On one hand, I was kinda hoping they were going to treat me like a child at the dentist by showing me all the scary-looking tools and explaining what they were going to do with them, and that it wasn't going to hurt (mostly because I'd be knocked out).

But that thought lasted an extremely fleeting second when I glanced at the nearby scalpel and started panicking just a little bit with thoughts of it slicing through my skin and the doctor going inside my body and a mass coming out.

That's when my thoughts quickly shifted toward the maybe-it'd-be-better-if-I-have-no-idea-what's-going-on-and-just-wake-up-when-it's-over camp. Thankfully, that's what happened.

The anesthesiologist assistant, Mike, who had explained local anesthesia to me while I was not-so-bravely trying not to cry, noticed that I had not quit freaking out and said to my surgeon, "I'm going to give her something to relax a little bit." And probably seconds later, I remember a mask being put over my nose and mouth. I didn't count to 10 or name as many presidents as I could; apparently I was just out in a matter of seconds.

Sometime after that, I responded "yes, I'm OK" to Mike asking if I was OK, and then all I remember is groping for his hand to murmur a "thank you" for how nice he was to me and annoyance that people kept waking me up when all I wanted to do was sleep. Apparently that was when I was in recovery, although it is unnerving that I don't remember very much of that hour in recovery or exactly how I got off the operating table and into recovery (Mike had told me before the surgery that the local anesthesia has an amnesic effect.)

That doesn't sit well with me. Apart from the reason that I never drink to the point where I might get sick because I can't stand the thought of puking, it absolutely terrifies me that drinking too much could lead to not remembering events that happened. I hear my friends say stuff like, "I remember the band's last set at 11, and then I don't remember anything after that; how did I get home again?" and shudder at the thought of not remembering a conversation much less how I (hopefully) safely got home. I like being conscious and knowing what's going on around me at all times, so it's pretty unsettling that I'm not sure how I was moved from one area of the hospital to another.

But there's really no reason to worry. My doctor was kind and "the best there is," according to one of my many nurses - including one who very gently tried to distract me while I was nervously waiting to be taken back. And Mike reassured me countless times - plus he had the drugs - so I was grateful he was with me the entire time.

After eating some dry Saltine Crackers and sipping some apple juice, my mom and husband walked me home and I crashed for four hours. I ate a small bowl of the stew my mom made me later on that evening, but felt more in the mood to pop my pain meds and be a couch potato. Forced relaxation is the only type I get these days, and I was grateful for it. That and TWO people to wait on me hand and foot. Love you mom and B!