The Surgery

 

Nicolo handed me the hospital gown, paper panties, green cap to cover my hair and terry cloth slippers like hotels give, but these had a terry cloth ankle strap so they stayed on my feet. Key 928 was to a locker to keep my possessions safe. 

I had talked to Nicolo on my mobile the night before. He had called to remind me of my surgery, as if I could forget. My port-a-cath, or dial as the Swiss called it, was to be removed after nine years. Every six months since 2015 I'd gone to HUG - Hôpitaux universitaires de Genève for it to be cleaned and blood taken.

It had been a God-send during chemo. No one had to stick me repeated times as my veins played hide and seek when I had my chemo treatments.

I'd been reluctant to have it removed, superstitious that when if it was gone the cancer would return, stupid really.

A blue-scrub dressed and masked nurse greeted me. Her beautiful, long lashed brown eyes were the only thing visible. After self introductions, we walked, elbow to elbow, to the operating room. I felt as if we were Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Man and the Scarecrow dancing down the yellow brick road. I didn't say anything not sure it would be a cross culture reference.

The operating room had four women and one man, who turned out to be the chef. A scraggly gray beard, peeked out from his mask.

They helped me onto the table, grabbed my arms and whoop--they lifted me in position. My clavicle area was exposed. I had a warmed blanket pulled over the rest me. What looked like a vacuum hose attached to a machine was placed under the blanket. It blew warm air.

"I want one of those at home," I said. Three of the scrub-clad nurses? doctors? agreed. 

Several pricks numbed the area as the nurses built a green cloth cabin around my head blocking my view. I'd have loved to watch, had it been a patient other than me.

No pain, but lots of pressure. Everyone was chatting. I tuned the French out. 

Their voices changed from chatty to alarmed. I heard sucking noises and pressure being applied over and over.

I asked what was happening, but fear blocked my understanding of their rapid French. "Can someone tell me in English," I asked.

A face appeared in the door of my green cloth cabin. The eyes were smiling telling me not to worry. A vein had been nicked in the too-well buried dial. They needed to stop the bleeding.

"We'd like to give you a sedative. You'll feel dizzy, sleepy, relaxed." Her English was perfect.

At first I refused explaining my fear of my misbehaving veins. The worst time had me stuck eight times, but three to four is more normal.

"You have great veins on your hands," she said. 

"That's 'cause I'm old."

"I promise to get it first time." She kept her promise. She kept me briefed on the progress, the bleeding had been stemmed, the dial separated from its cozy home, they would add more anesthesia to finish. "All done," she said.

We returned to French. 

They gave me time for the sedative to wear off then rolled me in a wheel chair to a room where other patients were sitting.

Nicolo brought me a tray with water, tea, a roll, butter and jam and yogurt. He'd forgotten a knife and spoon, but I dipped the roll in the little butter and jelly cups, drank the water and tea -- a feast after not eating since the night before.

Unlike American hospitals, a patient when they are ready to leave can just dress and walk out. I did.

My husband was waiting.

The last step of my cancer treatment from nine years before was over.