Hi y'all! For those of you who don't know, I had to have a minor surgery today to clear some scar tissue in my Urethra. This is a procedure I had to have done last September, and the doctor told me that there was a 30-50% percent chance that I might have to have it done again. Turns out, I was part of that 30-50%. :0(
So, today I returned to the "drive by chop shop". The doctor who did the procedure was not the same as last time, which was a bit of a bummer because I didn't feel that this new doctor had an overwhelmingly glowing attitude. He literally told me as he shook my hand that "this is just a nuisance you will have to deal with for the rest of your life." Thanks for the positive vibes there, doc!
Really, though, my spirits were relatively high before and after the surgery. God is good, all the time! We got there at around 7 AM this morning, and fifteen minutes later I was "suiting up" in my little hospital gown. Yes, those gowns are as bad as their reputation. They are one step above naked and a leap behind anything that could qualify as clothing. But I digress.
As this is becoming routine, I exchanged small talk with the doctors and nurses as the got me ready for the procedure. Really, now that I knew what to expect, I was pretty calm about the whole ordeal. Somehow we got to chatting about my lawn business, and someone asked me what its name was. I thought about rattling off some of you blog followers' suggestions, but (sorry) decided against it. ;0) I was still trying to talk through the oxygen mask they clamped on me as the assistant doctor said something about "time to release the sleepy medicine." A few seconds later the room started spinning and I blanked out. I never got the chance to ask if they gave me the anesthetic so suddenly just to shut me up . . .
When I woke up, I decided right away not to do anything stupid this time. No asking the nurse if I am in a dream. No asking my dad if he is real. Nothing like that. Then I saw the goldfish crackers and cup of juice waiting for me. Unexplainable fear swept over me, and I raised a shaky hand to the bag of crackers. It was full. Good. The juice was also full. I was relieved to find that I had not been sub-consciously eating and drinking like last time.
I resumed my friendly small talk with the nurses, and I think I won them over. Attribute it to my homely country charm, but I got a free soda and a piece of chocolate out of the deal, in addition to a refill of juice and that full bag of crackers. Either that or they were feeling sorry for the half-conscious hillbilly of large frame draped lethargically over that little hospital cot. Hard to say.
This time, I did not even try to walk to the car. I admitted that I passed out last time and would need a wheelchair, something I think my dad was grateful for (after all, you can only catch your dead-weight, two-hundred pound son a couple of times before something is going to give in your back). Now I am back home, counting down the days till my catheter gets to take a complimentary ride to the dump!
As far as this being something I will have to deal with for the rest of my life, I am fairly optimistic that this time we will be able to keep the scar tissue from coming back. Unlike last surgery, this time there is going to be an added step to my recovery. I will spare you the details, but I am hopeful that it will work! If you wouldn't mind, please pray that I will not have any more problems and will not have to have this procedure again, for as much fun as it is to write these posts afterwards, this procedure is just (to use teenager lingo) "not cool."