There Ya Go
Let me preface this column by saying, in no way am I comparing what I have gone through recently to what Tara endured with her recent hysterectomy.
This is a real apples-to-oranges scenario, but it’s a scenario nonetheless.
Last week was a big health week for me. So big, in fact, that I had to take two days off of work — last Monday and last Friday, meaning I was the benefactor of two three-day weekends.
I’m not bragging, believe me, because I love to work. However, my health — as Tara and my daughter, Olivia, have told me time after time — comes first.
This time, I acquiesced. On Monday, I had to undergo a stress test because of my hypertension. Long story short, I had to be cleared by a heart doctor before what was to come four days later.
My joke about passing a stress test didn’t go over well with neither Tara nor my doctor (I’m always stressed so I know I can pass). Ha ha, right?
Well, I did pass the real stress test. Stress tests, as you may or may not know, suck. I had to do the treadmill thing for about 15 minutes while being monitored the whole time. The people administering the test were young and in shape. I am neither. And all the stress test did for me was remind me of that.
But I did good, good enough to be cleared for Friday’s surgery to remove my hackeysack-size cyst on me left wrist. Another joke: It was a cysterectomy. Again, didn’t go over that well with Tara.
Tara and I left for Sioux Falls well before you were up last Friday morning — about 3:45 a.m. I don’t remember the ride since I was sleeping as Tara mainlined caffeine behind the wheel of her mini van. We arrived just in time and got check in. That’s when things really got fun.
First, I had to put down $500 just to get going. Talk about sticker shock. Didn’t see that one coming, but what were my options?
Then, they stuck me in another way — over and over again. My nurse had trouble finding a vein or something for my IV, so she ended up drilling for blood three times, finally settling on the crook of my right arm, where they typically go for a blood draw. Why she didn’t start there in the first place is beyond me.
Then, we waited. I watched an episode of The Andy Griffith Show and two MASH episodes. Not the worst situation in the world. After a visit from my anethetisiogist who assured me I wouldn’t feel a thing (and he was right), I was wheeled into the cold operating room.
The last thing I remember is watching “sleepy juice” being put into my IV. I woke up in the recovery room, and the only pain I felt that day was when they took my money (more pain to come when the bills come, I’m sure).
My surgeon ended up taking out a nice-sized cyst, but had to “dig” a little more than she intended, and actually felt remorse because of it. I’m not privy to too much information (not that you really need to read all about it), but if you’re curious, ask my home nurse, Tara, and she can fill you in.
We got home at a decent time Friday (again, I don’t remember the trip, but Tara said I acted like a 4-year-old the whole way). That was the anesthesia talking. I wanted to go to Sleepy Eye that night to cover the Yankees’ playoff game, but Tara wouldn’t let me. So our plans of my going to Sleepy Eye and her going to catch the Irish game were squashed, and I had to sit at her house, watching the Irish on YouTube (work, work work, right)?
All in all, it wasn’t a terrible experience, except for not being able to do my job that Friday night. I was thinking about running an “after” photo of my scar, but thought better of it to spare my readers. You don’t need to see that!
I was glad to have felt good enough to attend Marlene Buck’s funeral Saturday, and I was back at work Sunday (writing this) and was feeling good enough to cover Janet Timmerman’s appearance at the heritage center Sunday afternoon. The next day, I was back at it, shooting fall sports practices at the high school.
Nope, you can’t keep a good newspaper man down.
