Here's a thing that they forget to tell you about surgery day.

When I went through my pre-operative testing and things at the Vanderbilt clinic at 100 Oaks the week before surgery, they gave me written and printed materials, brochures, and information packets. These materials told me almost everything I needed to know about what I could expect with my surgery and hospital stay experience.

For instance, I was informed verbally, and it was included in the written materials that I should navigate to the valet parking structure on the morning of surgery. Valet parking is free, they said, and the easiest way to park downtown Nashville and access Vanderbilt University Medical Center (VUMC.) I was told to arrive at the hospital at 5:30AM for a scheduled surgical start time of 7:30AM.

Upon arrival at the Valet parking structure, blockades and signs informed us that Valet was closed. Womp, womp.

Adapt and move forward.

So, the first adventure of the day was driving around the hospital complex to figure out where to park. This sounds less confusing than it is, as Vanderbilt isn't just a hospital but has cafes, salons, and retail stores attached to the complex. You can get to these places by walking through the hospital or, in some cases, from external entrances in the parking lot. Once we found a place to park, I, Nathan, and Eliza figure out where in the hell we were located in relation to where we needed to be.

There was a lot of walking involved. After being in the car for over an hour, going without my anti-inflammatory medications, not having had any food or coffee, I wasn't ready for it. I wasn't very gracious about it, either. Luckily Nathan and Eliza were willing to deal with my grumpiness.

The waiting room and lobby at VUMC are large and intimidating after navigating a small-town hospital for the last three years. There were dozens of people in the surgical waiting room. Even though I took Valium upon arrival at the hospital, my nerves started to kick in a bit. 

Was I really ready for this? My body was so exhausted. This was going my be my third neurosurgery in ten months. Could my relationship with Nathan handle another extended period of post-operative care? Caretaker fatigue and secondary trauma are common and completely understandable. I wasn't the only one about to go through another surgery.

The lady that had zero chill.

The nurse that was in charge of corralling and escorting patients from the waiting area to the pre-operative clinic was grumpier than I was. It was her job to assign us to our respective rooms and tell us to change into our fetching hospital attire while we waited for our nurses. She was visibly pissed off that I had more than one person accompanying me, and that one of those people was a photographer. I tried showing her the emails I had, proving that this was planned ahead of time, and I had permission from the News and Communications department at VUMC.

She was very uninterested in reading the emails I offered for proof.

She made her disapproval well-known, not just to me but to every patient and staff member in the clinic, when she yelled across the room to her manager. "Hey! Did you know that there was supposed to be some videographer here this morning filming all of us?!" In the most sleep, coffee, and food-deprived and the most un-intimidating voice I could muster, I said, "Ummm... this is a photographic camera, not a video camera, and the only person being filmed is me."

Don't come at me, heifer.

Once in my assigned room, which by the way, included a patient bathroom approximately the size of a small broom closet, it was time to change into those fetching hospital wears. These rooms must have been from days of yore at VUMC. I could hardly step into and turn to use the toilet, it was that tight of a fit.

The entire time I was in there, I was cursing out nurse who had made my arrival so unpleasant. Nathan, as he often does, was trying to get me to hush up and not cause a scene. I think I responded with something along the lines of, “I can say whatever I want when that heifer isn’t in ear shot. Come at me like that at the morning when I don’t have any food or coffee. I’ll throw my walker at you.” Of course, I wouldn’t really throw my walker at her, but I was full of piss and vinegar at that point, and the Valium had shut down all inhibitions about what I let fly out of my mouth. (Not that I’m super censored as it is.)

Luckily, my pre-operative nurse was an angel. She also happens to have a white boxer, and when that was shared, I had to see all the pictures! It was such a comfort. It felt like a wink from God, my dad, Rosebud, the Universe, however you want to view it, telling me, "You're in good hands, and you're going to be ok." It distracted me from my nerves for at least a few minutes, anyway. 

Suddenly, at least it felt sudden to me, the surgical team started to trickle in. Anesthesiologists, my surgeon, his residents, etc. all at the foot of my bed, checking in on me. Here's where I start to really panic. We are almost to the point where there is no turning back, and I've taken my contacts out and glasses off, so I can't see a damn thing. There is nothing more disconcerting to me than not being able to see my environment and the people (strangers!) around me. When I let them know that I was starting to freak out, they kindly delivered IV meds to help chill me out.

Next thing I know, we're rolling down the hallway.

Now, I'm crying. I've told Nathan and Eliza I love them, and my stretcher is being moved down the hallway to the operating room by people I can't see. I realize I have just moments before a mask is being stuck over my face, and they're forcing me into a state of sleep I have zero control over. I would remain in this state for a minimum of 4-ish hours; what if I had a nightmare or a night terror and couldn't get out?!

Lucky for me, every single one of those O.R. staff members was a sweet baby angel. When they saw me crying, and I told them I was having a panic attack, they started coaching me into good thought territory. "Imagine a happy place you want to be," they said. So, I began to imagine myself sitting with Rosebud, her by my side on a porch overlooking a rural area with lots of trees and space and peace. 

When the anesthesiologist realized how freaked out I was, she said they would avoid placing a mask over my mouth and nose. She didn't want me to feel claustrophobic. Instead, they were going to have me put the tube delivering oxygen directly into my mouth to breathe in. 

To be continued...

There I laid, thanking everyone for their kindness, breathing in the oxygen, thinking of being with Rosebud in our safe place, and I drifted off into dreamland.

Next thing I knew, I was in post-operative recovery, and it wasn't four hours that had passed. It had been seven hours. Things had not gone according to plan, but thanks to my incredible surgeon, Dr. Scott Parker, I seemed to have the best possible outcome.

Stay tuned, I'll tell you all about it in the next blog, I promise! 

Spoiler alert:

It was a really big surgery.

I won’t leave you in total suspense. I will tell you now that I am recovering fairly well, and I promise to get the rest of the story out to you ASAP!