Hospital Princess.

"Okay, Brigette, it's time to go."  announced a cheery nurse.

I was a Hospital Princess gowned and geared up, ready to go.

"Uh, yah..." I stammered.  I mean, do you ever feel ready for surgery?  I stood, adjusting my sensible slippers and hairnet: suitable footwear and headgear for this Hospital Princess.  My nose glowed with a purplish ethereal-like light.  Paul stood up as well and steadied me.

The smiley nurse (her lips stretched wide in an impossible grin....compensating for our lack of smiles?) reached up and unhooked my IV bag from its holder.

"So, can you just hold onto your IV bag and follow me?" she asked, handing me the bag as if that had been a rhetorical question.

NO!!! I wanted to shout.  You hold my IV bag!  And I don't want to follow you anywhere.  Wheel me in some sort of ceremonial chair or carriage and play a loud fanfare that mourns my breast.  

But I did not shout or give way to hysterics.  I drew a deep breath, reached for Paul's hand with my free hand and shuffled forward.

Lord, give me strength....

How do I surrender to this moment before me?

My heart was hammering a terrified beat that drowned out the cheery chatter of the nurse I followed.  My IV bag felt so heavy in my hands.  Paul's hand was warm and strong and comforting.

"Okay, Paul, you can go down that hall and turn left," directed our nurse, "The family waiting room is right there.  Dr. Hodgeson will come out when Brigette's surgery is over and let you know how it went." 

Don't go!  I wanted to say to Paul.  Stay with me.  I am stronger with you by my side.  Don't go!

But, I could not.  It was time.

We embraced.  Paul moved towards the waiting room and I turned back to the nurse.

"Just this way!" she quipped.

She pushed open the double doors to the operating room.  My operating room.  Bright lights illuminated a narrow table upon which layers of pads were laid

I was told to lay down on that narrow table, on top of those layered pads and so I did.  I robotically arranged myself and took deep steadying breaths.

Several nurses moved closer, their eyes kind and compassionate over masked smiles.  One nurse held my hand, murmuring low words of comfort.  My surgeon reached for my other hand, her fingers dry and sure.  The anesthesiologist leaned in and made adjustments to my IV tube.  

"You okay?" someone asked.

"Fantastic," I attempted to joke but my voice sounded weak.  Big breaths.  It will be over soon.  Almost there.

"What is your favourite vacation spot?" the anesthesiologist questioned in a blatantly obvious attempt to distract me from the stainless steel instruments glinting from the corner of the brilliantly lit, white-walled room.

But it worked and I thought for some moments of the wind-swept, craggy landscape of Scotland.  Ever been there?  I have been so blessed to have been there twice.  Once with Paul and my parents; another time with Paul and my mother-in-law.  Hiking in Scotland is majestic, challenging, and involves dodging a lot of sheep.  

"Scotland." I responded to the query on my favourite vacation location.

"Really?  A cold destination?" droned the anesthesiologist, "Well, just think about Scotland.  Soon, I will begin the anesthetic...." 

A picture of castle ruins began to arise in my mind but the words of my fortress took over:

God is my fortress, my refuge, my strength

I will NOT fear.

I AM still and I know that God is here in this room.  

Lord, take my fears and help me trust in You.  You do not fail me or abandon me.  You are with me in this time of trouble and fear and anxiety.  Give me strength.  You know the plans You have for me.  For this surgery.  Help me trust in You....

.............I awoke in another room, at another time, surrounded by other people.

Surgery was over.

It happened so fast.  

My eyes fluttered open and I must have uttered some eloquent phrases of poetry that probably sounded like, "Grunty-grunt-grunt" because soon a young nurse with sparkly earrings was by my side.

"Hi Brigette.  How do you feel?" she questioned and we played the Rate Your Pain Game for a while.  I would give a number between 1 and 10 and she would reward my guesses with varying amounts of drugs.  This can be a very fun game but only if the rewards match the number.  It is hard to win this game and I began to get a little annoyed after awhile because I felt my nurse was cheating and was withholding the drugs that my numbers had warranted.

The thing about this Game is that I once watched a comedian named Brian Regan talk about the Rate Your Pain Game.  He surmised that a pain rating of 10 should be reserved for those with broken femurs and a pain rating of 9 for those giving birth.  Well, I've never cracked my femur but I have given birth four times and this pain felt very intense but not quite labor intensive.  That being said, I WAS in a lot of pain.  There was a weight feeling like it was crushing my chest.

"I'm a 4, 5, 6, 7, 8....." I groaned to my nurse.  "Please give me something for the pain!"

Finally my nurse and I were able to complete our game.  My numbers and her rewards matched and I fell asleep.  Hours passed in recovery and when I was able to stay awake for a few minutes, I was wheeled into the Same Day Surgery Room.  I was pale and had an oxygen tube hooked up to my nose.  I was sleepy but felt my heart skip a beat when I heard Paul's voice before he appeared from around my curtained walls.

"Hey baby." he said and took my hand.

"Hi," I whispered.  My surgeon had told Paul that my surgery had been a success.  They had removed my left breast and the lymph nodes under my left arm.  She was confident that they had removed all the cancer.  

Paul stayed by my side while I drifted in and out of sleep for several hours.

"Pastor Bill is coming to visit soon," Paul announced when my eyes fluttered open once again.

"Okay," I croaked.  "I should visit the ladies' room."  When his help I sat up and the sheer force of gravity on my transformed body sucked the air from my lungs.  I am prone to dramatics but this was no drama as I gasped and clutched at my chest in an attempt to relieve the pressure.  Then I felt nauseous and was sick.

Of course, this would be the moment that Pastor Bill arrived at the hospital.

I heard his voice and wiped my face.  "That's my Pastor here now." I slurred, "What timing..."

"I sort of feel like people are talking about me..."  I heard him jovially say.

"No, you can't hear us!" I responded with a smile, "There's a curtain in the way!"

The nurses and Paul cleaned me up as best as they could and Pastor Bill soon joined us.  

He encouraged us with the words of Psalm 147 "[The LORD] heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds..." and then he held my hand and I held Paul's and we prayed.  There is such strength to be felt in prayer.  It has held us up over these past months of anxiety and fear.  Our family has had so many people praying for, with, and over us.  Thank you for your prayers!  They have carried us and lifted us up; they have bolstered our courage and reminded us that God is right here with us.  

Want to know how you can help fight cancer?  Pray.  

Pastor Bill left and soon other visitors were peering around my curtain.  My beautiful sister, Crystal, and her wonderful hubby, Dave.  My sweet brother, Conrad, and his amazing wife, Ashley.  Later, our beloved friend, Mike, made a bearded appearance as well.  They surrounded me and their familiar faces were a soothing salve for my spirit.  Unfortunately I kept falling asleep whilst they visited.  Since this is only acceptable behaviour when you are recovering from surgery, I made the most of it and slept for the greater part of everyone's visit.

I also did not feel well and was sick several more times.  Being sick is not fun.  Being sick after your breast has been hacked off is less fun.  Being sick with an audience around you while you spew forth sick stuff is even lesser fun indeed.  But alas, it made for great entertainment.  I think?  

Around 7:30pm, I had a fever and was feeling agitated.  The nurses were running tests and were preparing to move me and the other same day surgery patients to the Recovery Room where we were to spend the night.  

"We gotta swab that nose.  Maybe she's got an infection?  And we gotta move her now so you will all have to leave soon," directed a new nurse.  She was young with long brown hair and she clutched a clipboard.  Clipboards translate into authority so we all listened to her.  I had no choice.  I was in a wheelie-bed and could hardly move anywhere on my own.  My loved visitors smooched me and said their good-byes.  I am so blessed to have so many friends and family members who love me.  I do not feel alone.

Only Paul was allowed to follow me into the Recovery Room.  Three hospital helpers wheeled me there and drew the curtains to give a semblance of privacy.  My bed joined two others occupied by women and about seven others occupied by men.  A large lit-up desk was stationed in the middle of the room.   After ensuring I was settled in, Paul gave me one last hug and smooch and left.

I felt alone in the Recovery Room.

All the lights but the ones over the nurse's station flickered off.

Low moans and groans could be heard as patients tried to get comfortable on their beds.
Nurses bustled busily about, their footsteps fast and purpose-driven.  The "girls" were given little bells that we could ring if we needed to call our nurse.  The "boys" were told there were no more bells so they had to holler.

My nurse was busy running tests on me because I had spiked a low fever and my surgeon was concerned.  The tests were one issue, but I was certain my nurse was having great fun ensuring each test was carefully administered the moment I dozed off.

My eyes slipped shut and sweet sleepy oblivion settled in.

"BRIGETTE!"  shouted my nurse startling me awake, "I have to give you a needle.  Actually I have to give you two needles. From two separate locations.  And I have to take quite a bit of blood to get a good sample for tests."  

Of course you have to give me two more needles from two different locations, I sighed.

Jab. Sloooosh.  Jab. Sloooosh, (just inserting a little sound effects for you all.  That 's the sound of the needle and the blood slooshing into the vials).

Two bandaids fastened over my new wounds.

Eyes drifting closed.  Slumber softly sliding over ....

"BRIGETTE!" it was my nurse again.  Must she shout?  Did I detect a grin?  Was this waking up of the patient some sick sort of game for her?  "Let's take your vitals."

Blood pressure cuff squeezing me awake.  Thermometer jabbed into my ear.  All done.

Steady breaths in and out.  Limbs growing heavy and I slipped into sleep yet again.

"BRIGETTE.  Time for your suppository!" chirped my nurse.

Grrrr.....nothing like a night-cap suppository to settle the ole nerves!

(let's avoid sound effects here and just move on....)

Finally, I was left alone and the night-time noises of the Recovery Room became part of a soothing lullaby.

Someone moaned and rang for a nurse.

Someone shuffled about in their bed rearranging blankets.

Nurses murmured to each other.

Someone flicked a light on and then off.

And then someone began to sing.

It was a man's voice; an older man's voice.  He did not sing loudly or in a way that shattered the silence, rather his voice was low and lulling.  

I had felt annoyed and grumpy from being jabbed, poked and squeezed, from being suppositoried and startled awake so many times.  But this voice rising out of the quiet was deep and lovely.  I could not discern the words to the song nor did I know the tune but I felt kinship with this fellow patient.  His singing and our listening united us in the Recovery Room that night and, to his tuneless song, I slept.

There is a lot of drama in a Recovery Room at night.  It's great.  Someone should make up a mini-series about it.  Add in some romance with the medical staff, and you will have a hit show!  I don't know; maybe this has already been done?

Anyways, at around 4am, I woke up.  

My vitals were being taken again.  Squeeze, jab.

My nurse softened my wake-up by covering me with a heated blanket.  Sweet luxuries of the night!

On my left side, beyond my curtained walls, I heard two men chatting.  Loudly.  Very loudly.

"How old are you?  You look good." One tremulous voice trumpeted.

"Eighty-three." another voice blared. 

"Huh?  Eighty-five?"

"No no, I said eighty-three.  I still live on my own.  I cut my own grass even."

"Huh?  What?"

"Shhhh, boys.  Quiet down, please.  We have three girls here who have had major surgery and they need to sleep."  That was the nurse.  I love how we are all boys and girls here; it gave the whole experience a sort of kids' campout feel.  Maybe that was the experience they were aiming fo?  Marshmallows would have helped!   

Despite their warning, the boys to my left kept up their cacophonous conversation.

"I haven't drunk this much water in my life. <<slurp slurp>>, " barked the eighty-three year old.

"Huh?  Me neither.  But I need to pee before I go.  Otherwise I have to have a catheter put in.  I don't want one..." yelled the hearing impaired man.

This Recovery Room drama was like a radio play.  I listened on.

Shuffle shuffle.

"Well, I'm gonna go walk and see if that helps me pee!" bellowed Mr. Eighty-three.  

shuffle shuffle  slurp slurp

The shuffling came closer and soon I was able to match the voice with the man.  He was tall with gray thinning hair.  He wore his own pj and housecoat, not the hospital sanctioned gown that I wore.  His blue eye mask was flipped up onto his head like a jaunty pair of sunglasses and he walked with a straight posture.  He was avidly slurping at some ice water as he walked by my bed.

His eyes met mine in the dim light of that Recovery Room.

"Hiya Belle," he barked gently lifting his white, lidded cup to me in a sort of salute. 

"How's it going?" I responded and felt a smile spread wide across my face.  

He shuffled past and I never saw him again.

It was late.

I was tired but I still felt a ridiculous smile tugging at my lips.

Belle?  

I've never been called Belle before; but for that night, I felt like the belle of my own ball.  Some weird sort of ball, perhaps, where the disco lights were replaced by dim fluorescent lighting and the music was the quavering voice of a man.

But sometimes, you just gotta work with what you've got.

I slept.

"For I know the plans I have for you, " declared the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to hard you, plans to give you hope and a future."  Jeremiah 29: 11

Yet to Come:

Paul - The Wonder Husband and Perfect Care-Giver!

Jillian Michaels Ain't Got anything on Me and My Post-Surgery Workouts!

What does Succinct mean?