Yesterday morning, I had my tubes tied. Well, I had them snipped and cauterized, which is apparently what they do now.
I get to the day surgery ward, where I get changed into my sexy gown and housecoat. You know, the one where your ass hangs out the back like Jack Nicholson. The nurse comes and takes my history again, then I have to do some labwork. One poke, one vial, that's it. Oh, and a pregnancy test, because DAMN wouldn't that be terrible! Get cut open and Oops! There's a baby in that there uterus. Hmmm. Of course, being a diligent patient, I had already had the idea to take a pee test the night before, which was negative, so I knew I was good to go.
Then a nurse and man with beautiful long Fabio hair tied in a ponytail come in to my little curtain-space. He says he's going to give me an IV. As I stare down his scrubs at his chest hair and admire his long mane of hair, I ask if he's a nursing student. "No, I'm a medical student. Third year. We don't get to do IVs much so I take all the practice I can get." I must have had a lustful look on my face that he mistook for aprehension, because he then reassured me: "Don't worry, it's not my first time." All I'm thinking is "Dude...your hair is so PRETTY!"
He gets out a needle for an IV, and the nurse tells him he needs a bigger needle. That's always fun to hear. When he asks why, she tells him for surgeries, always opt for a larger needle because if you have to give the patient something fast, they want it to get into the blood FAST. Makes sense to me.
So he grabs a LARGE needle and tells me "Ok, small poke."
And then OH MY GOD. THIS IS THE MOST PAINFUL IV INSERTION EVER! I THINK I MAY BLEED OUT RIGHT NOW. GAH! THIS GUY'S GOING TO BE A DOCTOR? HOLY CRAP! Oh boy...I'm getting woozy...and nauseated...and oh, that's what colour my eyelids are on the inside? Coolio.
Another nurse comes in and says that the IV blew, but she wants to try to salvage it so that I don't have to be poked again. Huzzah! She does salvage it and within about 10 minutes, I feel like a moderately sexy humanoid again. Only moderately because of the robe. Otherwise I would definitely rank as a sexy beast.
When it's time to go to the OR, they wheel me there and I walk into the room. They start putting leads on me and the doctor giving me the anaesthetic asks if I have ever had problems being put under or whatnot. I say no, but could someone get me a warm blanket because it's EFFING cold in here! I left out the effing part, as my lips were trembling from the cold. A nurse brings me a warm blanket (or three) and I warm up a bit. A nurse looks at me and says "Have a good sleep" and I hear the doctor say "Propofol" and then I black out.
I wake up, shaking my head from left to right, from right to left, over and over. I cannot get a good breath. There's a damn oxygen mask on my face and it feels like it's suffocating me. There are about 3 or 4 people with me, and I hear someone say "She bradded on us. Watch that she doesn't go below 40." Having had a NICU baby, I know what brad means: bradycardia (heartrate dangerously slow). I instantly start thinking "Michael Jackson died from propofol! Michael Jackson died from propofol! Michael Jackson died from propofol!" I think I may have muttered it, too, but they couldn't understand what I was saying under that mask. I tried to lift my hands to pull the mask off, but I was still paralyzed. Finally, I realize that I am not the King of Pop and that I am not going to die of a propofol overdose, and I give up trying to tell them about MJ. I managed to tell them that I couldn't breathe and that I was cold. And hungry. Fabio-doctor asked if I wanted something from Tim Horton's. I tried to laugh, but I am pretty sure I said "No Michael Jackson." Whatever.
I went back to sleep for a bit, then I felt like I had to go to the bathroom. I went, and since getting up and going to the bathroom is the main criteria for discharge, they told me I could go home as soon as my ride showed up.
Thrilled that I was not, in fact, dead like Michael Jackson, I called my step-dad to see if he could swing by to pick me up on his way home for lunch. I was totally groggy and not totally coherent in my thoughts, but hey, I could pee. And fart a little. Homeward bound!
Tony had been taking care of the kids and making cinnamon buns while I was gone. I get home to see these beauties proofing in their final stage. When he leaves to pick up Sashimi from school fro his swimming lesson, the buns are almost ready to go into the oven. I put them in the oven for 20 minutes, set the timer, and then lay down.
BAD MOVE. The propofol got to me, and I passed right out. Did not hear the timer. Woke up 2.5 hours later to the smell of burned sugar. OH SHIT! I take the buns out of the oven. They are as burned brown as a big piece of dog crap on your lawn. No smoke in the house, no fire. That's a bonus. But no cinnamon buns either, which is a total anti-bonus. Propofol killed Michael Jackson AND Tony's cinnamon buns. Tony was not very impressed with me, but really, it's not my fault that MJ died. And it's not my fault his buns died. Blame it on the propofol.
And a little on his doctor.