So my "pre-op" visit was today. The "pre-op" visit is a spectacular display of beauracracy. I went to my surgeon's office first, where I listened to some woman talk about her gall bladder for 45 minutes before they called my name. Then they took me to the "rectal room" to wait for the doctor. He came in shortly and thankfully left my rectum alone. He told me that he would indeed cut me open on Monday and then left (all in 6 seconds flat! A new record!).
Then the poor nurse was commissioned to read me 85 pages of words I didn't understand and lists of the dangers of surgery and doctors offices in general. Dip your pen in the inkwell of blood and sign. Sign the paper giving the doctor permission to take your insides out. I think in the process I also bought a used car from him, I'm not sure.
Then it's off to the hospital to register for your surgery. Register meaning sit in a room and read a book for two hours before someone calls you. In pre-registration you go through many rigorous trials to make sure you are who you say you are. Apparently people are clamoring in to get their necks cut open. After they know you're the right person, you have to recite to the nurse, your medical history, your surgical history, your family history, and all the state capitals.
Now, the last time I had a "pre-op" visit, the nurse took my blood and checked my pulse---IN MY FEET. I have NEVER had a doctor or nurse have to even LOOK at my feet. I was completely unprepared for this. And I have learned to be very prepared for doctors visits (ie. don't complain about stomach problems unless you are prepared to have a gloved finger where the sun don't shine). I'm sure the horror showed in my face. I had come straight from work, where I walk around barefoot all day on the dirty wood floors. The bottoms of my feet were blacker than the inside of an exhaust pipe.
I've never been so mortified.
BUT that was last time, THIS time I was prepared. A fresh coat of paint donned my toenails and my whole foot had been encased in clean white cotton from the moment I stepped out of the shower. I even wore my new sandals that I bought the previous weekend. I was ready. Bring it on pulse-checker! So, after hours of anxious anticipation, the nurse finally asked to take my pulse at my feet. I confidently slipped off my sandals and proudly looked down to behold the glory. But instead of the pedi-perfection I expected, I gasped (literally) as I saw the deep gashes across my feet from my new shoes. It looked like someone had strangled my feet with wire. So much for preparation.
SO--I'm off to Universal to spend some time with my family (and to pitch my idea about a Follicular Cancer Lady 3-D ride). Until next time...