It's 'Be Nice to People With Big Needles' Day

While I've talked about how this potential recurrence scare has made me lose all semblance of graciousness, truth is, when I am around real people, I revert back to Nice Girl mode. Good thing, too, because when you choose to get treatment at a teaching hospital, patience and grace are necessary to your survival. It is never in your best interests to make the people with sharp instruments cranky or nervous.

I arrived in radiology before 10 am, as perky as someone can be who hasn't had any water to drink for 10 hours. My royal blue hair was contrasting wonderfully with my red and black cotton track suit. You know, when I'm heading into surgery, I don't really care how I look. I just want to be cozy as long as possible.

We waited for an hour past my appointment time. I could see the woman at the front desk getting edgy as the minutes ticked by, because she knew I had to go to surgery. She kept calling in back to remind them, and finally she just made them take me. I bet she didn't want to be the one to call over to the hospital wing and say they just hadn't gotten around to inserting the guide wire into my breast.

I don't think there is any way to describe the needle localization process and make it sound okay, because it is not okay. We shouldn't go shoving wires into our body parts. But, then, cancer shouldn't grow in our bodies, either. At least the last time they did this, I didn't see much of the procedure. This time, though, they used the digital mammogram equipment and it was all in my face. There's my breast. There's a radiologist with a needle. I feel faint.

And that was just the anesthetic! A nurse put an ice pack on the back of my neck when I said I felt faint. After all, my breast was clamped (oh, sorry, "compressed") in the mammogram machine that I was standing in front of, so falling to the floor would have been a bad idea. I breathed deeply and then the doctor continued on. After the rest of the stuff that you don't want to hear about, they took several mammograms to show the position of the wire.

When they let me sit back in a chair while they bandaged me up, my bottom suddenly became startlingly cold. I said to the nurse, "Either I am sitting on the ice pack or there are some truly odd side effects to this procedure!" She laughed. I was indeed sitting on the ice pack that had fallen off my neck.

They escorted me over to the hospital wing and into the room where I had to get ready for surgery. They had me keep on the gown I put on in radiology, which I think is the Biggest Hospital Gown Ever. Seriously, it was enormous. So big that I couldn't help but point out its largeness to everyone who walked int my room. I'd stand up and extend my arms, saying, "Look at this! Isn't this the biggest gown ever?" I was in danger of flashing my breasts at everyone just through the armholes.

While I didn't have to change gowns, I did need to put on special socks and a hair cap. The hair cap looks like a pale blue shower cap, only it's made of a weird synthetic weave this is not the kind of material kind you should ever get wet. I put it on with some regret. You know, if you're going to go through the hassle of having blue hair (and it is a hassle, what with the way some people treat you and how you have to struggle not to clash with your hair when you get dressed!) you kind of want to entertain the surgical staff with it. Alas, I had to cover it up.

Rebelliously, I opened up the evelope with my mammograms and held them up to the light to examine them. No one ever shows me these things and you know how I like to know everything. Pretty much all I could see was that there was a wire in my breasts and a lot of calcifications, but that didn't mean a whole lot to me. Well, of course, the wire did. That's just not right.

I briefly worried that I'd leave fingerprints on the films and gosh, that's pretty damning evidence of my bad behavior. However, that only made me feel wicked in a good way. It sort of made up for the hair cap.

A nurse came in to start the I.V. with an intern in tow. My heart sank; I remembered this nurse from surgery last year and she was good, but if she brought an intern, then she wasn't going to be doing this herself. I think the intern was trying to sound reassuring when she said that if they could find a nice, plump vein on my arm, she'd try to start the I.V., but otherwise, the experienced nurse would do it. However, that "nice, plump" part ended up sounding much more vampiric and made me a touch queasy.

However, there was no time to turn green as here is where grace comes into play. When someone repeatedly shoves a needle into your veins while saying thinks like, "oops!" and "oh no", don't say anything to panic her. Smile hopefully, if you can manage it. I kept chanting in my head, "I'm helping someone learn, I'm helping someone learn." After a bit, the intern looked at me and said, "Thank you for being so sweet about this. You're helping me become a good doctor; really you are." Briefly, I wondered if I forgot the "in my head" part of the chant.

After half an hour, they taped up the three aborted tries and started the drip. My arm hurt. The doctor-to-be said she owed me candy bar for going through that. I just smiled wearily. She didn't mean to hurt me. And yes, she did know what it felt like--they practice on each other in med school, before they start torturing practicing on patients.

The anesthesiologist came in during the I.V. process. For me, this was the moment of truth. I had spent so much time lately agonizing over what choice I would make -- monitored anesthesia care (MAC) with Versed, the drug I wanted to avoid, or general anesthesia that would slow my recovery? I was ready to do MAC to shut everyone up, but worried that I would have a bad experience again. I was tired of being told my previous experience had nothing to do with the drug. Before, I'd been ready to fight; now, I was ready to give up, sadly.

Luckily, I didn't have to do either. The anesthesiologist wasted no time in disputing my experience. Instead, he said that yes, the after effects I experienced probably were the result of Versed, because it can do that to some people. His suggestion was to do MAC without Versed -- just Fentanyl and Propofol. He was most clearly proposing this so that I could decide, not trying to talk me into it. I instantly agreed. I felt an enormous sense of calm descend over me, simply because someone validated my experience and offered a compromise. I kind of wanted to hug him for a few minutes, but he had that German sensibility about him (I made up that he was Swiss, actually) that made me think he wouldn't be comfortable with that.

The surgeon came in next to look at the mammograms from that morning. For all my complaining about my surgeon, she is a very nice person. I believe she cares about me and does excellent work. My difficulty has always been just about information. Anyway, she looked at the mammogram (I managed not to giggle knowing that I had looked first -- yeah, I am seven!) and moved her mouth from side to side, then sighed. "I really think this is going to be nothing and I hate to put you through this," she said.

I jokingly told her, "We could always cancel surgery." Taking me seriously, she said, "Well, I'd have to take the guide wire out." At this point, I realized that I could have lobbied for no biopsy, but I didn't want to. I had come so far, had four holes put in my arm by an intern, and I had worked out anesthesia. I just wanted to do the biopsy! We decided to go ahead. Another surgery ahead of me was going overtime (which instantly made me worry on behalf of whoever that was) so Kathy and I hung out in the room, waiting.

When they wheeled me down to surgery, hallway kept getting colder and colder. I laughed and said, "Um, I hope you're taking me to the right room, folks...this is getting pretty cold!" Either they didn't understand morgue humor or it wasn't PC to get the joke.

Because I wasn't given Versed, I was able to remember more of the O.R. experience leading up to the surgery. But, of course, I don't remember surgery itself. When they were done and took me off the MAC drugs, I was wide awake, still in the O.R. They wheeled me to recover and I felt bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. This was nothing like Versed or, obviously, general anesthesia.

The nurse in Recovery seemed startled that I was so perky. She offered me tea and saltines, which I gratefully accepted. Hey, I know the rules of Recovery--they want you to use the bathroom before they let you go! I drank two cups of tea before they were able to move me into a chair. On the way to the room with the chair, I stopped by the bathroom -- seriously, I don't waste time! I came out to find Kathy there (they don't get her from the waiting room until I move to a chair). She said, "They told me you were in the bathroom and I laughed. I knew you were ready to blow this posicle stand!"

I dressed and waited for the paperwork. The anesthesiologist came by and I happily proclaimed him a god. I was still wanting to hug him. Maybe I'll make him a card, instead. I had the nurse write down his name, which was very German and beyond my guessing.

And then, I was done! Kathy got the car and we headed home. Other than Vicodin that makes me feel light-headed, and being very tired, I feel absolutely fine. I have no idea what the results will be, but I feel patient in waiting because, well, the worst part is over, and it wasn't so bad.

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