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extremely optimistic. Everyone simultaneously burst into tears, embracing each other and blessing the doctor.

When I awakened in post-op, John was there by my side. It’s so weird, being under anesthesia and then coming out of it. It’s like waking up from the dead. I had no awareness of what had just happened to me. I didn’t feel, dream, or think. Just nothing at all for hours, and now I’d returned. I was back and people were asking me questions and familiar faces were at my bedside telling me things went well. Doctors stood in clumps at the foot of my bed and everyone seemed to have a lot of energy and spoke loudly in an overly cheerful manner. I felt as though I could only stay awake for a minute or two before dozing off again. I was very, very sleepy.

An Asian man was asking me if I was in any pain. Pain? I didn’t even know what world I was in. Was the surgery over? I had no idea how much time had passed, or really what I was feeling.

“I’m trying to determine how much morphine you should get,” he said. “I don’t want you to be in any pain.”

“Well, I don’t want to be in any pain, either,” I said, “so gimme enough.” He then set up a self-medicating gizmo that had a button to push at the end of my I.V. so I could administer the morphine to myself as needed. Now we’re talking. Gimme a button I can control and I’m happy. I remembered when I had the breast surgery many years earlier. The level of pain I felt as the Novocain began to wear off had been really intense. Man, did that smart.

And that was from a cut into the flesh—nothing as major as what I’d just experienced.

They moved me to my room on a gurney. I was one of those sick people with an I.V. bag being pushed through the hospital hallways and elevators. Everyone was there to receive me. My folks and my friends. They seemed really happy to see me. I’m sure the stress of waiting was unbearable.

I noticed a huge round patch stuck to my right breast. When 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 121

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my surgeon arrived to check on me I questioned her about the patch. I found myself constantly questioning the efficiency of others, but this was my life we were talking about, and I felt like I had a right, ya know what I mean? Anyway, I’m a producer and I can’t help it.

Doctor #9 took a look at the patch and explained that it was an estrogen patch to prevent me from going into what’s called surgical menopause. In that instant, I thought about the radical effect on my body of suddenly yanking out every major female-hormone-producing organ. In fact, that’s what having a complete hysterectomy amounted to.

But, for some reason—and maybe this had been explained to me at an earlier examination—I remembered that hormone patches should be placed on fatty tissue between the waist and the thigh, but never the breast. Now they’re going to give me breast cancer, too! I thought. Doctor #9 casually explained that the post-op nurse must have mistakenly placed the patch there because that’s where they often put the nitroglycerin patch on heart patients. That’s nice, but I didn’t have heart surgery, I had a hysterectomy, and I started ripping at the patch on my tit. Doctor #9

said not to remove it until she sent for a nurse to bring up a new one and put it in the proper place.

“And will you mention to the post-op nurse what she did wrong and to be more careful next time?” I suggested. She said she would.

When I asked her why something on my right side seemed to be hurting more than my left, she told me the pain I was feeling might be due to the appendectomy. “WHAT APPENDECTOMY?”

I exclaimed.

“You were at risk of it getting infected and we don’t want to have to cut into your abdomen again,” she responded. But why didn’t we discuss all this before? Shouldn’t I have known that 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 122

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standard procedure called for my appendix to be removed along with the hysterectomy? Even though her reasons made sense, the bottom line was, she forgot to mention it. It may not have been a big deal to her, but this was my body, my reproductive organs, and my appendix. It was a big deal to me.

I think back to the anger and resentment I felt toward everyone for letting my condition go undiagnosed for so long. At the time I needed someone to blame to make sense of it all. What a high price I paid for other people’s negligence. I felt so victimized.

But Doctor #9 delicately suggested I try to move on, that in so doing I’d help my own recovery. John agreed and said, “You’ve got to remain positive. Pointing fingers is not going to get you well.” It wasn’t easy, though. I was darkly embittered as I lay in my hospital bed brooding over the pickle I was in.

By early evening, after everyone had left, and it was just me and John, it became clear that I wasn’t breathing right. I complained to the nurse, who called for the doctor—not my surgeon but someone who worked under her. When he arrived, John and I were both concerned as we watched him check how many breaths I took per minute. It was about six, when it should have been at least twenty. I don’t know why I wasn’t breathing more. I just was too tired and kept nodding off into such a deep sleep I’d stop breathing for a while. As it turned out, the problem was that I’d received too much morphine. All afternoon I was pushing my I.V. button, and no one realized they’d set each dose too high for me. That’s nice, so now what do we do?

“Is there a shot I could get to counter it?” I asked the doctor.

But he shook his head no and muttered something about it just needing to wear off. Then he looked up at John and suggested he keep an eye on my breathing for the next couple of hours. So dear sweet John pulled up a chair right alongside my bed and watched me very closely.

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A million things can go wrong. I saw that movie Hospital.

I knew about Dana Carvey’s going in for heart surgery and his surgeon’s operating on the wrong artery. Even Howie, when going in for knee surgery, had the foresight to tape a sign to his good knee that read NOT THIS ONE. So after about twenty minutes, when John’s eyes were beginning to close, I forced myself to stay awake just long enough to say, “Get me round-the-clock private nurses before they kill me.”

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My Week in the Hospital

J u n e 2 2 – J u n e 2 5 , 2 0 0 0

enid and Harriet were my private nurses for the five days I was in the hospital. I’ve never been one to throw money away; I have far too much respect for the struggle it takes to earn it. But under the circumstances, I thought it a worthwhile expense. After everything I’d been through, I’m afraid I wasn’t very trusting of the medical community.

Enid was the night nurse. She was the first shift to arrive, an older woman with an eastern European accent. She was heavyset, but pretty, too, and seemed very uncomfortable as she passed the night hours sitting in the hard chair next to my bed reading her book and tending to me. The hospital brought a cot into my room for John to sleep on, and that was where he slept for the duration of my stay. Side by side we were, his cot next to my bed and Enid’s chair next to me—an odd trio at best. It was all for one and one for all. Enid talked about her daughter, her deceased husband, and the old country. She had a grandmotherly quality to her that was comforting. John watched TV and read mostly. I was never alone, I was never neglected.

The first night sucked. I was up, I was asleep, I was in pain, I was cranky, I was crying, I was a real prize. The floor nurses were 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 126

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in throughout the night to check stuff and none of us felt good in the morning. John called my folks to tell them to come later, but even later wasn’t late enough. I really wasn’t up for anyone, not even my folks. This was partly due to my need to be “on” for them. I should have just let it all hang out like I seemed to be able to do with John and not concern myself with worrying about their worrying.

Regardless, when they were due to arrive, I hurriedly applied some blush and under-eye concealer to try to look like I hadn’t just had a radical hysterectomy and appendectomy as well as been up all night. Moments after the last brushstroke of blush I suddenly felt so sick to my stomach I thought I was going to vomit, and frantically urged John to give me a pail. I’d been told that as anesthesia wears off you can get very nauseous, but until that moment I’d not experienced it. Nothing much came up, since I hadn’t eaten anything solid in days. My body was revolting against my futile attempts to camouflage my cancer surgery. What a yutz!

My parents arrived at one of my lowest points. I couldn’t fake that I was well, and I couldn’t cope with them seeing I wasn’t. I don’t know how to explain it, but I needed to just be able to relax about looking and feeling miserable. But after a lifetime of trying never to give my parents any reason to worry, I was unable to let them witness that. At my request, that was their last visit to the hospital. I don’t know how John told them, but I dumped that responsibility onto him. I’m sure this was strange for all of them.

John wasn’t Peter, someone my parents had known for more than twenty years—he was someone they’d only met a few times before. Maybe that made it easier for him, but not for them. I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t want company. I didn’t have the strength to battle my issues with my parents. People don’t change overnight; at least I couldn’t.

So many things can go wrong after surgery. I never realized 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 127

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how critical the first few days of post-op truly are. Enid would repeatedly ask me to blow into a device that’s designed to help get the lungs working fully in an attempt to prevent pneumonia from developing. “Blow harder and make the balls rise,” she’d com-mand. “That’s my specialty, honey, step aside,” I quipped.

A nurse came in with these leg massagers that wrapped around my legs like pants and pulsated up and down to stimulate my circulation.

“What are these for?” I asked the nurse.

“Prevents blood clots, common after abdominal surgery,” she explained, while strapping them on my legs.

“Blood clots? Oy,” I mumbled, as I looked down on the two huge blue vinyl blowup sleeves contracting and expanding around each leg. “Oh, this feels kinda nice, actually. Ahhh,” I sighed, as I began to relax and get into it. A few hours later, I pushed the in-tercom next to my bed. “Do you think I could get those leg things again?” A few hours later, “Excuse me, but I’d love those leg things again, please.” Finally the nurse entered my room with my very own pair.

“Here,” she said, dropping them in my lap. “Just keep ’em.”

Was it something I said? . . .

I never used a bedpan; they discouraged it. So several hours after my surgery I was trying to swing each leg off the bed and, along with my morphine I.V., slowly shuffle over to the bathroom.

John and Enid were always by my side helping me get around.

It took the greatest of efforts to make the smallest of moves. The hospital staff was pleasantly surprised that I was able to urinate as soon as I did, and of course being the overachiever I am, I took pride in my superior recuperative powers. That was a wrong road of thinking I ventured down, and something that gave me nothing but grief. It was stupid of me to try to be the best patient. I wasn’t in competition with anyone. I should have been smart enough to 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 128

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let my poor broken body get the absolute rest it needed. I think psychologically I wanted so badly to put it all behind me and just be normal again. Never having had major surgery before, I didn’t realize that the surgery isn’t the end of anything. It marks the beginning of a long and arduous period of healing and recovery.

Apparently, one of the most important functions that needs to kick in and put you on the road to recovery is finally moving your bowels. And that brings us to Harriet, my day nurse, who made it her personal quest to get me to take a shit.

Harriet seemed like a middle-aged valley girl. Simple and un-complicated, with a passion for administering enemas. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d never experienced one of those before. There I was on my knees, getting what she referred to as a

“Harris Flush”—in the presence of my boyfriend, no less. And after many failed attempts, John actually jumped for joy, cheering me on, when we finally hit pay dirt. Eureka! It was at this point, if it hadn’t already happened, that all mystery was lost between us.

Not that that’s a bad thing, mind you. You make trade-offs in life, and mine was mystery in exchange for the deep and loving bond that only extreme flatulence can bring.

Surprisingly, this small triumph for Harriet seemed to make Enid jealous, because an odd hostility began between the two.

The Day Nurse versus the Night Nurse! All we needed was a mud pit, a referee, and a couple of string bikinis. I couldn’t believe that, of all the possible combinations of people the agency could have sent over, I ended up with two women who hated each other.

Enid was more overt in her disdain, and shared with us her story of just where all the animosity began. It had to do with money and shifts and Harriet inadvertently saying something that made Enid look bad. Enid made sure we understood that she didn’t think Harriet was mean, or a bad nurse, just stupid.

Oh fine, that’s nice to know.

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It was rather entertaining for John and I to watch the catfight unfold between them. I remember during one change in shift Enid was helping me back to my bed from the bathroom when Harriet arrived. As Enid held one elbow and Harriet grabbed the other, the two of them fought across me.

“You’re late,” Enid scolded.