I, convalescent IV: Encounter with The Male Surgeon

Post Script

Two and a half glasses of champagne (Veuve Cliquot), one half bag of Milano cookies later...

My surgery, a medically recommended procedure being related to the end-of-the-line as far as my (biologically) procreative life goes, offers in my choice of surgeon, a hilarious intersection in his clientele, divided between women like me with real medical conditions, and women whose procedures are purely elective and cosmetic. In my brief interaction with The Male Surgeon, whose tendency not listen to me and then interrupt me with pre-prepared answers that have little to do with anything I have said, has convinced me that, despite his superior anatomical knowledge of women, the only way he really likes dealing with them is completely knocked out under general anesthesia. Supposedly he's a wizard with trocars and laparoscope, which is more important than personality, under the circumstances.

I was supposed to be partially conscious for part of the procedure, but "freaked out" under the first narcotic they gave me which was supposed to be very chill, but not, apparently, chill enough for me. I am dying to know what I said or did, but The Male Surgeon, smiles, a first for him, which is completely unfair because I'm not smiling. What am I doing? I'm lying in extended recovery in more pain than I care to remember in a hospital gown reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in "As Good as it Gets." Then, The Male Surgeon says, knowingly (ok what the frak did I do?), not to worry that "people do very weird things under the effect of anesthesia" and that I simply "wasn't comfortable" and that none of this means I was a "bad girl." If this was sexual repartee, that truly is as good as it gets for irony in my life these days.

Meanwhile, the marketing service employed by The Male Surgeon and His Colleague has been bombarding my email in-box lately wanting feedback on them. These emails started weeks before my procedure was scheduled, which is laughable because, whether or not, I'm "bad," I'm not stupid. I'm certainly not stupid enough to answer one of these and get moved from number two to number eight on his surgery schedule. You know the point where they've get the PA to stitch you up so they can make their four o'clock tee-off or worse yet, they accidentally nick a nerve somewhere and you won't be feeling anything for years. I'd like to think what I did tell him, under anesthesia, was that as a feminist and professional woman with serious medical issues, I don't completely relate to his advertising (glanced at once in "Atlanta Magazine") that seems to be aimed at the Alpharetta housewife who's afraid her husband is going to trade her in for a younger model and that his logo, with the strategically placed Georgia O'Keefe calla lily, would almost work, if it were intentionally that kitsch. Or, maybe I just made an ass of myself.

Post post script: Oxycodone, the Hillbilly Heroin

Worst of all, my husband, sympathizes with The Male Surgeon. "What did you say to him, honey? You could have had the ride of your life, but even after a healthy dose of what my anesthesiologist calls the 'number one drug abused by anesthesiologists who abuse drugs' (sounds good, but I'm not an anesthesiologist so I can't remember its name), "you're the one in ten who showed signs of residual "personality'." He wishes he could take me off-line when I get loopy and reload me into the system with plenty of upgrades. My husband says to write about oxycodone. What is there to say about oxycodone? It works. It takes the pain away. It fucks up your digestive system. My husband begs to differ, he nicked one of my painkillers in order to "get a good night's sleep," so good, in fact, that he didn't wake up until 11 am the next day. He says it's fantastic.

My husband comes around again and says that I have been writing for eight hours. He says that I am even more autistic than he is, because after four hours he needs a break. I say that I am a repressed autistic, who doesn't generally get to give in to her nature, seeing as we have four young children to raise.
So Nick and Nora Charles.

Thanks to those of you who sent flowers.