Wow, No Thank You - Samantha Irby Page 0,44
probably said “grants permission to harvest any useful organs” and you know what? Fine! They can have a kidney if it means I don’t have to actually read about them taking my kidney.
Apparently, there was a fire drill in the surgical unit while I was waiting for the anesthesiologist. So I was alone in this little holding pen after the nurse came in, put in the IV, gave me a sedative, made sure I was dressed properly and had the little surgery bonnet on, just staring at the pain chart on the wall because it’s not like they let you read or mess around on your phone, when I heard this loud warning siren blaring in the hall outside the room. My first thought? ACTIVE SHOOTER. I’m a dramatic little bitch. The lights started flashing right before a deafening alarm sounded, and then a disembodied hand reached inside my cracked door and silently pulled it shut. Maybe it was the Ativan talking, but my brain was like: “Oh my god, they obviously don’t want the gunman to know I’m in here.” I kept looking down at my ashy hands and feet—because you’re not even allowed to use lotion after all that fucking bathing—wondering if I could fight off a dude trying to shoot up a hospital in southwest Michigan.
My boring, studious wife came in the anteroom and was actually asking my doctor serious questions while I was just trying to pal around. I like to joke and be fun. I don’t want to wreck a chill vibe with questions about “recovery time” and “success rates.”
If this is what death feels like, sign me up. One nurse put microwaved blankets on me, then another nurse pushed my bed through the halls to the surgery suite. And because my brain is a nightmare, I kept thinking, “Is this bed too heavy for her to push? Is this the heaviest bed she’s ever pushed? Is she going to need help to take that sharp right corner? Maybe I should just get up and push her in the bed instead,” and thank goodness I signed that DNR because what is the point of living like this? Anyway, we made it to surgery. I made awkward small talk with a roomful of people who were about to see and move and manipulate my big, naked, unshaven body that probably wasn’t as clean as they would’ve hoped as I lay there unconscious; then I had to move to a flat bed with a hole in it for all my fluids to drain through and wait for McDreamy to gaze down at me with his kind eyes, the lights creating a halo around his tousled brown hair, and tell me to count backward as I drifted peacefully to sleep. In reality, a faceless man in a green paper cap with a mask obscuring his features said, “You’re going to feel some heat in your IV.” I did. And then my brain exploded into a bunch of needles, and everything went black.
Hysteroscopy. The doctor dilates the cervix, inserts a hysteroscope (that’s going to be the name of my submarine when I start my own navy) through the vagina into the cervix, then adds a liquid solution into the uterus and shines a light through the hysteroscope to look at the uterus and fallopian tubes. Honestly, I’m not sure what this is for, because clearly I have those things, as they are the cause of my unending torment. I guess he needed to make sure.
D&C. Also known as dilation and curettage, it’s a minor procedure where the doctor takes a suction device or scraping tool and clears out the lining of the uterus. I was 100 percent asleep during this, but I’m sure the doctor did a great job.
Endometrial Ablation. I can’t remember the exact kind I had. Sometimes they use microwaves (?) or they use hot water (??), but am I really a scientist? I told you I didn’t read the paperwork! Plus, did you know that when they try to explain complicated surgical shit to you after your brain has been chemically asleep for an hour, the