Friday, January 6, 2012

Yesterday, I blogged about how the Novocain didn’t completely take during my surgery on Wednesday, and how I, fully conscious, was therefore able to feel a good portion of what was being done to me.  I left off with how my surgeon, made aware that the Novocain hadn’t completely taken when I cried out with the first cut of the scalpel, immediately stopped and then flooded the area with an abundance of Novocain before continuing.  But…the additional didn’t fully numb all areas and left others full of sensation. 

This was no fault of my surgeon, just the way my body can react to numbing agents.  Aware that it wouldn’t matter how much more Novocain was administered, I decided to do what I usually do—tough it out.  Thankfully, the surgical area parts that I could feel were balanced with those I couldn’t so as to provide me hope that the entire procedure wouldn’t sear itself into my psyche like some nightmarish medieval torture session.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s blog, part of Wednesday’s surgery was reconstructive, so sections of the scar from my surgery a year earlier needed to be removed.  The first area my surgeon worked on was no more than two inches by two inches. 

Not that bad.

Of course, by the end of feeling each and every slice of the scalpel during that portion, I seriously wondered if I’d make it through the remainder of the surgery.  But then I remembered that other areas seemed number than the one my surgeon was presently working on, so I decided to carry on.

My mind reeled with each slice of the blade.  It felt like it burned its way through me, the sting more intense than anything I could recall.  Finally, the cutting ended…with that section.  My mind had a split second to process that the cutting was over, the affected area of my old scar having been removed.  In that moment, I let out the breath I’d been holding and relaxed.  What happened next caught me so off-guard that my mind snapped into instant convulsions.

My surgeon flicked the removed section of scar onto one of the surgical drapes.  The sound the flesh made as it splatted against the drape was enough to make my stomach heave.  I had to clench my mouth shut tight and swallow hard as I tried to wrap my mind around the reality that a chunk of me had just been flung off to the side.

I barely had time to struggle with that actuality, focusing more intently on a dark ceiling speck directly overhead, before my peripheral vision caught a flash of movement.  My mind, now in ultimate self-preservation mode, refused to instruct my head to tilt so I could see what my surgeon had just picked up.

Then I felt it, a sudden intense burning as my surgeon began cauterizing part of the section he’d just cut.  In my head, I heard my voice scream out in protest at deafening volume while not a single sound escaped my lips.  By this time, I’d slipped into only letting the logical part of my brain function.  So, not wanting to slow the surgery, more intent on just getting it done, I told my surgeon I was good to continue when he asked if I was okay.

Once you’ve picked yourself up off the ground, having fainted from reading today’s accounting of my surgery, you might want to tune in tomorrow, when I’ll continue the story….  Bear in mind that I still have my sense of humor and am satisfied with the end results of my surgery.  : -)