My Diary. Part 2. The day of my operation.

obrenia (53)in #life • 7 years ago

Hello everyone!

I continue to publish my diary and the story of my illness. My thoughts, feelings and actions. I really hope that these lines will help someone.

Part 2

The operation went according to plan - March 23, but I am writing this text in November. Previously, I could not. I started many times and could not. I do not know why it is so. From the physical point of view, I did not have to endure any supernatural torments. Just this March was some creepy - not March, but a black hole, and I in this hole was small and completely defenseless.
"Red" ended in early February. I slowly came to my senses, the good of the time it turned out to be even more than I would have liked. The tumor almost disappeared, but I preferred not to believe the doctor's encouraging words. I had a period in my childhood when I could not distinguish between reality and sleep. In especially critical moments, I even tweaked myself secretly to make sure that I was not dreaming. In March, I seemed to be back at that time, so just in case I did not believe anything and no one. I did not believe in myself either - my head was empty. Close people still did not interfere in the organization of my treatment, relying on my abilities, but I was not the one they knew. Broken, hesitant, forgetful, I got into a dead end before the simplest questions - to hand over an air ticket, rent an apartment, put money on a mobile account. As a result, my friend handed over the ticket, I rented an apartment three times bigger than needed, and in a district far from the hospital, and managed to replenish the account twice, completely forgetting that the money is already there.

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I guess I should have asked for help, but I could not. Like most active and independent people, I refused to admit my impotence. And I was panic afraid of becoming a burden. I needed support more than ever in the last 25 years, but I could not ask or take it seriously. Pride or skill is not worked out?
Somehow having solved the organizational questions, I flew to Tel Aviv one week before the operation. The weather in Israel corresponded to my mood - it was dank and gloomy. In the afternoon, I diligently went to the offices (ultrasound, mammography, MRI, tests, surgeon), and in the evenings I nervously knitted socks. It was deserted and cold in the huge rented apartment . Air conditioning for heating worked only in the living room, and the wind from the windows was blowing so that my blanket blew away. From the window I could see the leaden sea, which adhered to the gray sky and did not add optimism either.
And then my mother arrived. I met her at the airport at night before the operation, the next day hurriedly introduced her to the surroundings and went to the hospital. I went alone, but I am not alone - in a strange apartment of another city a native person was waiting for for me and, therefore, life was fine.
Then the day flowed in segments:
I came to the hospital at lunch. I signed the documents, paid the bill and sat down to wait. You can not eat, you can not drink. You can watch others do it and be jealous.
At 16.00 I was stucked with a label with a thread. I became like a bomb with a protruding wick.
I sat in the waiting room untill 19.00. I pretended that I was reading. In fact - I was looking around the camp. What do they eat all the time?

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About 19.00 I was summoned to the preoperative unit. They gave out pajamas and socks, took away things and left me to wait. Soon the doctors came up. I was talked to three times: someone like a senior nurse, an anesthesiologist and an operating surgeon. They three times found out what my name is, what my diagnosis is, on which side the operation should be and whether the tags are, what I'm allergic to and whether I wear a bracelet with the corresponding inscription on it. And all this with my card in hand. The accuracy of the doctors calmed me down a little - one can hope that at least the breasts will not be confused. I even ventured to ask the anesthesiologist "of ours" how long the operation would last. He raised his eyebrows and pensively sang with a characteristic accent: "Do I know? The only thing I can promise - personally, I will not stop the doctor. " And swam out of my penniless booth.
I do not think I waited a long time. The attendant came and took me to the operation right on the gurney, on which I was sitting. It was not great. Firstly, there were people in the corridors and elevators, and bald head and hospital pajamas did not allow me to feel like the heroine of Ornella Muti in The Taming of the Shrew. Secondly, I was rocking. A hefty medical officer famously bent around corners and adamantly prevented my attempts to get up and walk with my feet. In general, I was almost delighted to see the operating theater. I was laid out on the table, tied my hands and injected anesthesia. After whispering to the Russian anesthesiologist, "if there will be questions - please awake me," under the phrase "good luck" I departed into darkness.

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I do not know when I woke up. It seems that my secret fear became the first thing that I remembered, coming to my senses - I sat down abruptly on a gurney and looked in my bosom. My breast was in place. Abundantly sealed with some fabric, with a pipe protruding from the armpit, but almost whole. On this I calmed down and fell into sickness again. I felt nauseous, and I did not know how to say it - it turned out that in my active English there were no words "vomit" and "basin". In a glossy white morgue-like room, I was not the only patient, and the medical staff did not immediately guess what this Russian wanted from them. But my body demonstrated everything clearly, the Jews understood and came to the rescue. Not to me - to the body, because I prefer such inconvenient moments not to be associated with me.

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Then I was driven on a gurney again, and again I did not like it. When I reached the ward, I whispered "myself" to the orderlies, crawled onto the bed and instantly fell asleep. The surgeon woke me up - apparently, after completing the operation, at 1 o'clock in the morning the professor went to check the patients. He asked questions, wished good night and left, stroking my head. The next time I woke up from a woman's voice. The voice kindly and simply asked in Russian: "Do you want to pee?". Like in a kindergarten in a quiet hour. I, naturally, wanted to. But even more than to pee, I wanted to eat, and I told about it to the nurse on the way to the toilet. Just dreamed out loud without any hope of success - after all, it is four in the morning. The nurse suddenly rejoiced and, saying "this is good that you have an appetite," brought me yogurt, boiled eggs, a roll and jam after a while. It was a pleasant end of Monday. I fell asleep being happy.
A day later, I was released home with instructions for servicing the installed drainage, a list of exercises for developing a hand and a memo about lymphostasis. And there, in Tel Aviv, the weather became fine.

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