Regrowth

Here's the (creative non-fiction) piece that I wrote for the 2013 Canada Writes competition.  It was long-listed, but didn't quite make it to the shortlist.  To make myself feel better, I will repeat the following sentence ad nauseam whenever that negative little voice inside my head pipes up:  "your story was selected from more than several thousand submissions... congratulations on this great achievement".

Some history.  My Dad died on his way to work in May of 1990.  His truck was crushed by a crane that fell off a flatbed; the accident happened about a half kilometre from our house.  It was a shitty day.

Twenty-three years later, I can talk about it without tearing up, but there is part of me that will never recover.  I'm still sad.  I really miss my Dad, especially when Nathaniel tries his hand at fishing or I hear Fleetwood Mac.

Here's my story.

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Regrowth

          

    I yank back on the muck-laden handle, hard and fast, and hear a loud slurp as I expose a gash of wet earth.  My hand rummages in the deep pouch on my right.  When my planting bags are full, it is sometimes difficult to grab just a single seedling.  The rubber gloves I wear to protect my hands from pesticides and pine needles don't help. 

    Got it.  My fingers find a tree and stuff it into the ground, whisking in the roots.  I gently pull up on the tree by its tip until it is perfectly straight.  I stomp once, packing the earth at the base of the tree, chuffing out air. 

    Next.

    My eyes scan the rough terrain for a decent microsite and seeing one, I lunge to the left.  I screef furiously with my shovel, rapidly clearing away the duff and barky bits.  I drive the shovel into the earth, opening up another pocket of rich soil.  I grab a tree, whisk it in, stomp and move on.  I repeat these movements several thousand times a day. 

    Some days I plant like an automaton.  I thrust my shovel into the ground with all the strength that I can muster.  I'm reckless; I know that if I hit a rock, the reverb will injure my humerus, but I don't care.  The pain is welcome.  I can't stop.  I won't stop.  Poverty is a great motivator for those who are paid by the tree.

    I continue my jagged, freeform bush-dance.  In the distance, in the slash – the coarse, woody detritus of the logging operation - I see a blood-red splotch of cloth weaving back and forth but definitely moving toward me.  It's Greg, my foreman.  I hope he's not coming to bitch at me about my quality.  I had to replant a few days ago because my spacing was off.  You never want to replant; you're not making any money. You plant the tree once, and do it right the first time. 

    He won't meet my eyes. 

    “Hey.  You have to come with me. It's your Dad.” 

    I don't answer.  I am trying to process the information.  It's difficult.  I can feel sweat rolling down my back and into the waistband of my spandex.  Odd to sweat like this, when the rain pours down. 

    It must be his kidney stones.

    I push away other darker thoughts.   

    I focus on Greg's back and follow him to the stash, which is where we bag up.  We walk in silence, listening to the rain patter on the earth. 

    There's not a soul in sight on the barren road.  I grab my pack and climb into the front seat of the truck.  Greg says nothing; his eyes focus on the muddy ruts. The dull landscape is starkly beautiful: the slash a jam of broken wood stacked haphazardly, trees riven to ragged javelins.  We pass a prescribed burn - scorched wood and burnt earth, ash and dust, dots of new growth here and there.  The bits of green look electric in this dead field.   

    I am nauseated. My clothes are stuck to me. I watch the wipers swish back and forth and try not to vomit. 

*****

     

    Even thought it's the middle of the morning, the bar is dark.  The shades at the windows are drawn and it feels like evening.  It smells like smoke, beer and small town desperation.     

    I'm shown the payphone and Greg plunks in some change.  There's no answer when I call home.  I dial the operator and ask to be connected to the hospital.  I'm shaking.  When I ask to speak to my Dad, I'm transferred three times and I speak to three different people, all of whom put me on hold.   The last nurse I speak with tells me to call home:  “there's been an accident... I'm sorry... ”  Her voice trails. 

    I thought he was still alive.

*****

   

    When I run out of the bar, into the street, I sound inhuman.  I wail at an incredible volume.  The street is empty save for three Natives, who are walking towards me.  They look worried.  I smack a concrete wall and hurt my hand, and then I cling to a post, sobbing.  The Natives are concerned for my welfare.  The eldest of the three tries to peel me off the signpost and I push her away.  I know that I'm being unkind but I don't care.  I don't want to share my grief.  It's mine; I won't explain.

*****

   

    After the flight home, I light up a smoke, right in the living room.  I haven't smoked in the house before, in fact, until this moment Joanne doesn't know that I smoke.   Wisely, she says nothing.  We are waiting for my brother to get changed into his new suit so that we can go to the Funeral Home to see my Dad. 

    The funeral director is pale and bespectacled; his hair is weathered teak.  It's plastered to his head with grease.  I want to send him an anonymous letter, tell him to change his hair. 

    He smiles a smile that is reserved for families like us.  He greets us, murmurs apologies and leads us down the hall.  As we're walking, he casually mentions that my Dad doesn't really look like he normally does. 

    We stop.  This is news.

    “His head might look a bit swollen”.  He walks on.  

    He leads us into the room, and I can see the coffin, a body inside.  Is that really my Dad?  As we approach, and I get a better view I am speechless, initially.

    My father's head is indeed swollen; it is gigantic.  It's the size of a medicine ball.  His features have stretched to accommodate his new head and the result is horrific.  He's like a prop from a B movie – waxen and otherworldly - and I can see that the undertaker has used coverup to hide some cuts on one of his hands.  The colour is unnatural; it's a bit on the orange side.  I can't look, but I can't look away.  I have never seen anything so sad, so wrong.      

    What was my grandmother thinking?  And the funeral directors?  Are they completely insane?  How could anyone think that an open casket was a good idea after seeing this head?

    I can't get over the size of it.

    “That's not my father,” I sputter, bolting from the room.

    No one follows me.

*****

   

    A few weeks after the funeral, I receive a package postmarked from Timmins – it's the last of my things from up north - my tent, a sleeping bag and some clothing.  There's an envelope addressed to me and the handwriting is my Dad's.  I open it tentatively.  Inside is a phone bill, and a letter from the university.  Attached to it is a sticky note with the words “Luv ya!” scrawled across it.  I wonder if he would have said more had he known that he wouldn't be here a few days later. 

    My heart breaks, again. 

*****

    This morning, I wake up to the sound of a chainsaw roaring.  I throw off the bedclothes and peer into the yard.  I see two workmen in hardhats.  One of the men is using a sawzall and the other  holds a massive chainsaw.  There is a truck with a wood chipper parked on the road beside the grass. 

    I grab clothes, run outside. 

    I'm heaving; I can't breathe.  My body is on fire and then I'm sobbing, bent over in pain.

    They look at me, stunned.  One of them approaches me.  He considers my appearance, my behaviour. 

    He gestures at an erratic crack down one side of the trunk. 

    “It won't live.  It's damaged.”            

    Lightening struck the tree two summers ago.  It's a Blue Spruce.  My Dad staked it and we hoped for the best.  It is our favourite tree. The one that he adorns with lights at Christmastime.  

    Today, they are chopping it down. 

    He's not here to see it.  We buried him three weeks ago.

    I can't watch.

*****

    I return to the bush the following year, thinner and hard-hearted.  I listen to a lot of Ella and Louis.  It's hardly planting music, but it calms me.  I'm numb but the smell of the earth is rich and I inhale it deeply. It is springtime and things are waking up. 

   

    

Chantez, Chantez, Sing a Little Paris Song!

A little more than a year ago, I got suckered into giving someone my contact information in exchange for this:

Yes friends, I gave out my personal info for a lipstick.  I come cheap, I guess; pathetic, I know.  And the lipstick was a horrible orange colour that did not suit my skintone. Damn my swag-loving self.

Several weeks ago, I received a telephone call from Nacel Canada, the very organization that had handed out the free lipstick.  They wondered whether I was still interested in participating in the homeschooling program.

Huh?

I was a little taken aback, as I had completely forgotten about the program and the reason I received a crappy lipstick for free; however, I am always up for a challenge (and fodder for my blog!) and so I said that I would do it.  July 2013 was too soon (hernia surgery for yours truly) and so I suggested that we would give it the old college try in August.  I hung up the phone, not really expecting to hear from them again any time soon.

the manual

Flash-forward a few weeks.

Nacel called again two days ago and this time they seemed somewhat desperate.  They had a French student, whom I'll call C, 17 years of age, who had previously been placed with a family of smokers (who only smoked outside, apparently).  The young lady's parents did not approve, especially because their daughter has exercise-induced asthma.  The smokers were almost immediately rejected by the family and the jeune fille was placed in another home.  A week or so later, the new hostess decided that she didn't really want to participate in the program and so the young lady was again homeless.  Was there any way that we could accommodate the student?

Well of course we could!

We received the young lady's profile, which I am NOT going to post publicly (I do have some scruples!).  G, the chatty and huggy coordinator, visited us the same day that we spoke on the phone and did a house visit / interview.  She asked us a few questions (do you smoke?), inspected the room that was to be the student's, took some pictures of our house, admired our art (she's an art lover too!), and explained the program to us.  She was here for about an hour.  She thought that we would be fine candidates because we are both home all day - RB's a teacher and I am a SAHM / librarian.  She approved us on the spot - to my surprise! - and that was that.  I would like to point out that the approval process seems somewhat laissez-faire, which is RIGHT up my alley.  G did not ask us for a police check (seriously!).  In fact, I brought it up:  "What about police checks?"

G was nonfazed:  "I administer quite a few of these programs and Nacel is the only one that does not require a police check".

I was nonplussed.  In this day and age of the moral majority's complete fear and loathing of strangers (I blame the media), there still exists an international program that does not require participants to have police checks? What is this world coming to, I ask you?  RB and I have current police checks as he is a teacher and I am a professional volunteer.  We are good people (most of the time, well, excepting my recent interactions with a psychotic neighbour in which I attempted to drive him insane).

Yes, you read it right.  NO POLICE CHECKS NEEDED.  I personally don't feel that it's a big deal, in fact I kind of like it; however, I do find it to be strange.  I would NEVER send a 17-year old Gwen to a strange family's home without a proper background check.  Well, I say that now, but is she only 7 and still very much my baby. Call me hypervigilant when it comes to my own children, but a total hippie otherwise.

Here's a brief summary of the program:

• C arrives.  We speak English only.  NO FRENCH! As if.  I am totally going to speak a little bit of Franglais just to make C laugh
• C hangs with us every hour of every day.  Yes, this part is true. Nacel's curfew is 7pm if C is out in the evening without us (begs to be broken!).  Also funny, Nacel does not want the students mixing with others in the program.  More on that later.
• There is a homeschooling program, but it seems very loosey-goosey.  The point of the program is to "offer students an opportunity to learn English in a family setting... improving language skills and Canadian cultural understanding".  Basically, there is a lot of chatting involved and you all know that I love to chitchat. Sample lessons include playing 20 questions (as a family, we are obsessed with this game) and giving each other compliments:  Why Christine, that shade of lipstick is so becoming on you.  

• We have a one page "check-in chart" to fill out to prove that we have done some homeschoolin': "PLEASE NOTE:  'CHECK-IN CHART' IS YOUR ONLY PROOF OF DELIVERY OF PROGRAM, BY YOU TO STUDENT".  Awesome, this program rocks!  I love it already.  Check this out. Looks tough, dudnit?

This is my kind of form!

Last night, we received an email from C, asking us for a family photo. Why yes, I would be happy to send you our picture.  This is what I sent:


...........................................









........................










...............................  wait for it...







................







.........................








.................

How funny is that? Yes, I am a sick individual.

In my defence, I only made her suffer for about 5 minutes and then I sent her not one, but two photos of us, in which we look moderately appealing:

Lord Roberts Funfair photo booth

Christmas 2012 - fancy schmancy!

And so it's 8am-ish on Wednesday and we are awaiting C's arrival (tomorrow evening at 11-ish at the Costco parking lot).  I will post again in a week or so.

Update
It's Thursday at 11:51pm.  We were supposed to have picked up C at 11pm.  There's been a three hour delay, dammit. The plane has been delayed and it sucks.  RB is sleeping and I'm burning the midnight oil by reading Shogun.  Someone was just boiled alive in a pot of water.  Why do I do this to myself?  Why why why?

Clémence arrived at 2:35am.  She was as happy, friendly and smiley as someone who has spent the entire day traveling can be.

Updates to come.


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Part 2 - click here!

The Hernia Hotel - Part III - Hasta la Vista, Baby!

And I walked

"A lack of exercise, extended sitting and bedrest will lengthen post-operative stiffness and discomfort," warns the Shouldice brochure.

And so, for the remainder of my stay at the HH, I walked.  Rain and mugginess be damned, I walked.  I roamed the halls of the clinic and every foot of the grounds. I peered in the pond down the road, explored the trails adjacent to the hospital and even tried to check out the golf course (I failed; I didn't want to climb through a hole in the fence).  I inspected every plant in the gardens, shuffled along the tree line and tried to walk my pain away, which wasn't too bad, all things considered.  I loved the walking.  What else did I have to do between mealtimes?

On one of my walks, I found myself swooning over the most heavenly and delicate scent.  It was this:

Japanese Tree Lilac - Syringa reticulata

I will be acquiring one of these trees for my yard.  The scent was completely delicious.  COMPLETELY.  If someone could bottle this exact scent, I would wear it as perfume for the rest of my life.  Dave at the Gardening Guru writes that "if you are adventurous [I most definitely am!], it [the tree] can be propagated by cuttings or by seed".  Funny how I had never noticed these trees before; on my walk to the grocery a few days ago, I realized that there is one on Elmwood!

Sunday, post-operative day 2

Clips out at 8:30am by the Stapler, with rapidfire precision.  No discomfort.  I initially worried that the incision might open when I laughed, which I do a lot, but Ratchet told me that the wound has three layers of protection -- dissolving stitches, catgut and wire sutures that hold the mesh in place.  I hope I have that right.  From Encyclopedia Brittanica - yes, I still love my encyclopediae - is a definition of catgut:  "tough cord made from the intestines of certain animals, particularly sheep, and used for surgical ligatures and sutures, for the strings of violins and related instruments, and for the strings of tennis rackets and archery bows. The ancient Egyptians and Babylonians and the later Greeks and Romans used the intestines of herbivorous animals for much the same purposes. The origin of the term catgut is obscure; it is not known if the intestines of cats were ever put to such uses".

My incision looked a bit scary.  I just measured it now and it's 3 and a quarter inches in length and runs down my right groin at a 35 degree angle.  On day 2, it was puffy and angry with lots of yellow and purplish bruising.  If it could talk, it would not have been a polite conversationalist.  The nurse said that it looked "pretty good", but I bet she says that to all the patients.  I would love to post a photo for all you fine folks, but you'll just have to use your imagination.  Today, one week post surgery, the bruising is almost gone, the wound is still on the swollen side but the incision is healing nicely.  It does feel numb when I touch it, which is a bit of an unsettling sensation. I am looking forward to a bath soon!

On the advice of Ratchet, I booked a massage with the RMT.  Sunday after lunch was the appointed hour.  At the risk of sounding negative, P's diatribe on children in daycare and her inability to zip that lip were unappreciated.  I mean, I am aware that I talk a lot, but I usually know when to shut up.

The 30 minutes of lymph node drainage and the ensuing "massage" down the front of my sternum, in which I thought my ziphoid process was being crushed, were both unpleasant and unnecessary. The "feathery" strokes around my incision were also puzzling; however, P redeemed herself with fifteen minutes of Swedish on my neck and shoulders at the end of our 45 min time slot.  I would not recommend the first part of the massage at all, but I do recommend P for the Swedish - she had very strong hands and her touch was formidable.  Just so you know, if you go for a 30 minute massage, you will not receive any Swedish; you need to book her for 45 minutes for that.  Book the Swedish only  - don't bother with the lymphatic baloney.

A lot of herniacs departed on Sunday.  I am sure that they had their real lives to get back to.  The surgeons recommended that we stay until Monday morning; obviously, I didn't leave early as I was on vacation.  As a sahm with a 7 and 9 yr old, I don't take enough time for myself (my fault entirely).  That is about to change.  Well probably not, but you know what I mean.  I loved my Shouldice stay.  I really did.  No cooking, cleaning, fighting, laundry and other forms of drudgery.  Just reading, writing, relaxation, gentle exercise, lots of laughter and good conversation and I EVEN GOT TO PLAY SCRABBLE, not once, but twice!  I also played snooker for the first time in about twenty years. 

My last night at the clinic was both fun and frustrating.  I saw a super moon, walked and laughed a lot and behaved badly - kidding!  Well, I'm not really kidding, the bad behaviour occurred when I tried to go to sleep and could not.  My roommate's snores rivalled a bullhorn and it made me completely CRAZY as I could not sleep at all.  I didn't have earplugs and the blanket over my head trick didn't work either. I tried making a lot of noise myself so as to awaken Snoring Beauty but this was also futile.  I briefly considered throwing projectiles at the dead weight in the bed next to me, but I couldn't do it.  I went to the nurses's station at twenty to 2 and begged for a sleeping pill and they wouldn't give me one because it was too late.  Horror!  The kind nurse took pity on me and offered me a bed directly beside the nurses station.  I finally fell asleep at around 2:30, but it was fitful.  I blame the super moon for everything that happened that evening -- the good and the bad.

Oh and I should also mention that there was a fire alarm the same night.  It wouldn't shut up; it drove me bonkers... I had to leave the building until it stopped (and I was in the middle of a game of Scrabble!)  The staff kept announcing on the p.a. that it was a false alarm but the ringing didn't cease until the fire department arrived.  To add insult to injury, the wretched air-con broke and didn't get fixed until the following day.

Day of Departure

The final checkup with a surgeon was at 9-ish.  I thought I would be seeing my surgeon - the wacky Dr. S - and it was with some disappointment that I greeted an unfamiliar face.  He whooshed in, said hi, told us to lie on the beds and pointed to me and said: "you listen to this too" (nothing if not efficient, I guess he doesn't like repeating himself).  He spoke VERY BRIEFLY on wound care, he checked our incisions and then he bolted to the next room.  Whoa!  These Doctors are FAST.  I didn't have any issues with this, but I am betting that there are some patients who had a lot of questions and wanted just a little bit more "care".

My mil came to pick me up around 9ish.  I visited the souvenir "shop" and bought a hat ($11) and a mug ($5).  I love me some kitsch.

And that my friends, is the end of my tale.

Today, it is ten days post-surgery and I am feeling FINE! I cooked a real dinner last night (oven roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and tomato and basil salad with balsamic vinaigrette - 9 out of 10 ;-) . I am no longer hobbling in pain; things are good.

Before I leave you, I want to write a couple of recommendations / areas in which the hospital could improve:

• food - more fresh fruit and vegetables needed.  Some of the men also complained that portions were small.  
• gift cabinet - is not open on Sunday.  A lot of people left early and many of them weren't happy that they couldn't purchase souvenirs.  I'm serious!
• you should visit with your surgeon on the last day, not some nameless stranger.  I really thought that I would get a chance to talk to my surgeon.  I guess he was too busy operating on someone else.

My overall impression with the hospital is that it is a superb place to have one's hernia repaired.  I found the staff to be extremely helpful and happy; they did everything they could to make things the best that they could be.  The care I received was excellent; my only criticisms are above.  If you have a hernia, get thee to the Shouldice!!!

Leaving you with some fromage; I love this song.  Reminds me of my Grade 8 teacher - Ms. Pelletier - and "Beast" (her guitar).

Here's the official Shouldice website:  Shouldice

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Okay, I'm still not done.  On a completely unrelated note, I received this letter in the mail on the Thursday that I arrived at Shouldice:

I AM SO PROUD!!!!!!!

Update:

I was just reading something on the Canada Writes website and they are trying to torture me:



Can you describe a couple of the entries that struck you as standouts?


I was drawn to three particular reflections about loss (or impending loss) not only because of the powerful emotions they invoked but also because of the insight they shared.

“Angus Gregor” is a mother’s heartbreaking account of her baby’s birth that starkly contrasts all normal expectations.

“Regrowth” relates the lingering effects of a father’s death. [this is my story!!!!]

The author of “Szeretlek” ponders multi-generational legacies over a lunch-hour visit with an ailing grandparent.

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The Hernia Hotel - Part II - No Pain, No Gain

I left you hanging at the ladies room door.  Remember?

Do you think beehives will ever make a comeback?  

I had just met my surgeon, Dr. S, and was DONE with medical professionals for the day.  So done.

I ascended the stairs up to the third floor and met my roommate.  This is embarrassing to admit but I don't know her name.  She had an unusual name, which I repeated three times so as to permanently lodge it in my cpu, but it wouldn't stick.  I hate that.  R was in her early sixties and was very sweet.  Dressed in traditional Indian dress, she had lots of family visiting.  She had had two surgeries two days apart - OUCH.  She slept a lot (can you blame her?) and because I spent very little time in my room, we didn't engage too much.  I will relate a funny story about her and I later on in the blog, once I get to the post-surgery part.

5:30pm- Time for dinner (whole grainish bun, cannelloni, caesar salad and choice of date square, canned mandarin oranges or orange jello for dessert.  Dinner got 9 out of 10 for conversation and laughter factor, but 7ish for food - bun was fresh and warm and cannelloni was surprisingly creamy and good).  Yeah, yeah, I know I'm not at a Michelin, but I can't help my "critic in the corner" commentary.

Three of the fellows at my table had had hernia surgery before (!) and we were later joined by a man from San Francisco, who was departing from the Shouldice the following day.  One of my funny (so funny!) dining companions later commented that he thought that the latecomer (who slid quite gingerly into his chair) was kidding - that he was pretending to be hobbled by pain as a joke.  Little did we know.

At 8:30-ish in the evening, we found out what time our surgery was scheduled for the following day.  My surgery was supposed to be at 7:30am -the first one of the day - but it was later changed to 8:30.  Seemed like a good time to me ;-)
We were told that we would be awakened around 6ish, given some meds to relax us, and would be taken down to the operating suite a little later on.  We were supposed to change into our hospital pants (huge!) and gown (vast!), and remove all jewellery, underwear, makeup, nail polish et cetera and put on a pair of socks and some blue booties.  I found this fellow -POPP - who was hanging out in one of the lounges, to be rather amusing (and stylish obviously):

"POPP" - pre-op prepared patient

Day of Surgery - 6am.

I was rudely awakened at the appointed hour and asked to pull down my panties for a pre-op shave.  I had been warned about this and so I had taken matters into my own hands the previous day.  The nurse took one look, said I had already done it to her satisfaction, and so I was spared the indignity of the straight razor in the nether regions.  For that I was GLAD!  (I was laughing my head off later on at all the dudes who were complaining about the one-sided close shave and the involuntary manscaping).

I was not given any medication and so I promptly fell back asleep. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

!!!!!!!!

"What are you doing?!  GET UP!!!!!"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

huh?

The nurse was not impressed:  "You have 5 minutes. Brush your teeth and get dressed! Let's GO!"

Well, this girl can prep for surgery in 2!  So there.

This was the first instance of a Nurse (let's just call them all Ratchet) getting irritated with me.  There was more to come.

When I was looking for a picture of a mean nurse, I did a google search for Nasty Nurse and THAT was a mistake!   Gadzooks!

Ratchet came back and 6 or 7 of us headed into the elevators to the basement, where we were lead into the pre-op room, which I heard people refer to as the "orphanage" and/or the "morgue" - both apt names, I can assure you. The lights were low, we were shown to our beds and were told to lie down.  I didn't want to lie down.  My fellow herniacs all received their pill cocktails - Ativan / Lorazepam and Oxy something or other - hillbilly heroin?! ?  I received nothing.

We waited for around 15 minutes and I was getting annoyed because I hadn't received my drugs!  My friends were either fast asleep or they were chatty.  I was thrice-chastised for talking: "Lie DOWN and let the drugs do their WORK!" "Stop talking! My colleagues are getting annoyed!"

What were we, in Grade 2?

The best was when one of the dudes REFUSED to lie down (I think two of them did that actually) until they received their meds.  So funny!

The next group of people were brought in (another 5) and I watched as they all swallowed their pills.  At this point, I got up and asked if they had forgotten about me.  Ratchet reassured me:  "your doctor has special medication for you".

special medication?

I waited ~7 more minutes.  Finally, Ratchet was approaching!

What is THAT in her hand? ohhhhhhhhhhhh.  it's a needle.  

"These are Ativan.  Put them under your tongue, they'll dissolve there.  Get on your side please and pull down your pants. Have you ever had morphine?".

pull down my pants?

It is at times like these that I curse my lack of verbal filter:

"You mean that I am the only one who gets it in the butt?"

The person beside me cracked up so uproariously that I was in stitches too.  We could NOT stop laughing.  Ratchet was not amused.

Let me just say at this point, that I did not feel the meds doing ANYTHING.  I was still sane (questionable I know), I felt clear-headed and I did not become drowsy; however, I recall going to the bathroom before surgery and I was a bit dizzy (not in an overly unpleasant way).  I also recall watching others being lead like lambs to slaughter and they were all weebley-wobbley.

some moment in time later 

I found myself in the operating suite.  They put tubes in my nose for oxygen (dislike).  Topics of discussion included (but were not limited to): camping and whether I would be smothered by the "blue tent" draped over my chest, why were they using me as a coffee table?, please get that heavy thing off my stomach, who is that guy beside me who looks like an actor?, who is that lady behind me?, how many people are in the room?, I love classical music!, this doesn't hurt as much as childbirth, where is Dr. S? et cetera.  I am now thinking that I probably drove them crazy.  The last thing I remember saying was:  "How much longer?"

"About ten minutes".

"Okay, I can handle that.  That's not so long.  It doesn't hurt that much.  I can handle it..."

ZONK.

I think they upped the morphine to shut me up.

**************

I woke up later that day in bed, still in my gown and pants.  RB and the kids visited me; they later told me that I was "out of it" and that they stayed for about 5 minutes tops.  This is when they took the following pictures. RB says that I asked him to take the photos.  COME ON!   Seriously?  I look ridiculous.  I don't remember this AT ALL.

At least I look sort of happy.  Then there's this:

I spent the remainder of the day in bed.  I woke up when someone brought dinner into my room and then things got fuzzy.  I recall INHALING some egg salad sandwich (no rating - ;-) and then yelling: "I am going to vomit, I am going to VOMIT. I NEED A BEDPAN! "  I also said that I was going to do it all over the floor (thinking of others :-)  .  Someone did bring me a vessel, but I can only recall spitting.  Lovely, I know. I passed out again.

RB and kids returned in the evening.  I recall little of the visit.  My second roommate, Rachel, later told me that I was "out of it" and "don't you remember meeting my husband in the lounge?".

No Rachel, I do not.

I fell asleep for the remainder of the evening.  I do recall hearing VERY LOUD crashing sounds in the night and my roommate yelled:  "Christine, CHRISTINE!!!  DO NOT DO THAT! Christine, you need a nurse!"  Not sure what happened next.

Funny.  

*******************************

Day one, post-surgery

I awakened at 6am, feeling refreshed.  Relief.  I was obviously in a bit of pain and I found myself hobbling around but I was clearheaded and for that, I was thankful.

Breakfast was big and plentiful (It gets an 8).

After breakfast, we had to be back in our rooms for a post-operative exam and clip removal.  The post-op was nothing more than a cursory look at the incision by a crusty and brusque surgeon.  I made it my mission to get him to laugh, but the closest I got was when I told him that Dr. S (my surgeon) was wacky:  "I'll be sure to pass that on to him".  This surgeon's name, oddly enough, was something like Staples, which is comical when you consider the next sentence.  Staples removed the first set of clips on the incision with speed and precision. He was quick, quiet and somewhat ornery and really, that's not so bad, all things considered.

I was initially wary of the clip removal, but it didn't hurt at all! You would think that the removal of metal staples from a fresh incision that rises up half an inch from the surrounding skin would be horrendous, but it honestly was not.  In fact, I forgot about this "blip" completely and had to come back and add this paragraph after I had already written Part II. I was only reminded of it after reading some Shouldice literature:

RB and the kids came and visited and told me all about their visit to the Toronto Zoo.  We played a game of shuffleboard, or rather the children fought over the shuffleboard (sigh), and then we took a turn around the building.  I showed them the dead muskrat in the grass which I had become somewhat obsessed with; I really should have been a forensic anthropologist.   It wasn't removed and every day it imploded a bit more. By the end of the week, it was nothing but fur and writhing maggots.  Gwen seemed impressed. 

Here are more pictures of the hospital grounds:

view from the 3rd floor balcony, dead muskrat is in the upper left corner ;-)

Is there anything more beautiful than a peony?  These are on their way out, but they are still breathtaking

rock garden with water feature - I loved the sound of this - so soothing

After our walk, we went upstairs to the lounge for the Exercise Class aka The Shouldice Shuffle.  This was hilarious.  I was a bit late, so space was at a premium.   The song was something by Queen - can't remember which one, but I know it wasn't Fat Bottom Girls ;-).  We rocked out as much as people who are on their first day post-surgery can.  Queen was followed up by some salsa.  At this point, we were traveling in circles and I watched some of the men salsa down the hallway and back to their rooms -- so funny!  I love watching grown men sashay.  I mocked one of the guys for his bad dance moves and I am ashamed to say that I think I drove him away.  Oh well, the truth hurts (literally in this case).  I missed the next day's exercise class because I was talking to a Ratchet.  I was sorry to miss it, actually.  They danced to Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive.  I love that song!!

It rained for the remainder of the afternoon and I walked every inch of that hospital, while listening to my ipod.  It was only moderately painful.  At one point, I found myself in a darkened corridor in the basement, which was completely deserted, and I was a little creeped out.  What is it about a dimly lit operating suite in the basement that is so disturbing?  ha ha.  The Shouldice could totally be the setting for a murder mystery! In fact, one of the herniacs from out East was continually throwing plot lines my way, which was entertaining.

Okay tired again.  It's going to be in three parts. I have shit to do.  I am rethinking that last line there. Leaving it.  Everyone who really knows me, knows that I have a potty mouth.

*****************

Part Three! - The End

The Hernia Hotel - Hernias R Us! - Part One

I blame The Punisher, aka Yelena, a one-time Olympic gymnast in her mid-fifties who still looks about 25.

Mid-January, Tecumseh Community School, gym floor:
In the 25 years that I have been working out, I have never injured myself (I'm not counting lactic acid build-up, pernicious leg cramps in Aquafit, the time I dropped a free weight on my foot or anything that's happened during a soccer game).  This workout, I was not to be so lucky.  Something inside me RRRRIPPED.

"OOh!  It burns!".  I rubbed my groin area (I know it sounds perverted but I'm leaving it in) and proceeded to dial down my activity level.  My guess was that I had pulled a muscle.  I managed to finish the class with only a modicum of pain and after a couple of days, the discomfort was completely gone and the incident forgotten.  The rip was no longer on my radar.

mid-March Break, Bruce Street, steam shower:
I was in the middle of some "(wo)manscaping" so as to take the children swimming at the Aquatic Centre.  I found a walnut-sized protuberance in my right groin.  I was sure I was dying.  Hyperventilation ensued.
Lump in the groin means cancer.  
Cancer means death.
Death means DEATH!!
breathe, breathe.  BREATHE!

I saw my Dr. pronto and she sent me for an ultrasound.  When I described my symptoms to her (none! except for a weird protuberance that stuck out during the day and disappeared when I was lying down), she predicted a hernia.

Dr. B called a few days later and recommended that I get it repaired.  She mentioned the Shouldice Hospital.  When I told my m.i.l. that I had a hernia, she had one word for me: Shouldice.  When I told others about my hernia, they all said Shouldice.

And that's how I found myself here, several months later:

Isn't it pretty?

Hospital Entrance - manicured lawns and tidy gardens

further along the front of the hospital

only of many lovely places to sit and listen to nature

12pm - time to check in!

Check-in, Pre-op and Day of Surgery

I entered the building and found myself in a hall full of luggage.  Reception was to the left and a vast waiting area could be seen through some French doors.  The receptionist gave me my chart, asked me to set my luggage down in the hall and directed me downstairs to the lab for a check-in with the nurse.  She spent all of a minute with me (efficient!), reviewing my blood work and ECG.  I'm not on any meds and I suppose that I am in otherwise good health so we didn't need to discuss much.  She dismissed me and I waited in the hall with about ten other herniacs.  The waiting area was well-appointed enough:  trashy mags (yes!! I love trashy mags but have neither the time nor $ to squander on them -- here, I had nothing but time!); current newspapers and periodicals; a water cooler; washrooms etc.  There was some "French" art on the wall.  You know the thing - rather blah mass-produced paintings that feature cafés and bistros and are labeled as such. They put me in mind of photograph albums that say PHOTOGRAPHS on the front cover or picture frames that say FRIENDS- I mean isn't it all a little obvious? They should acquire some real art... they can bloody well afford it, I'm sure.  Artsnob diatribe over.

I spent five minutes with another nurse who wanted to hear about my mango and Elastoplast bandage allergies... she gave me a kelly green wristband to wear so that the staff would be aware.  The green bracelet came in handy - when I didn't like what was being served, I pointed to my wristband and asked for something else.  For instance, one day we had greyish beef that looked especially revolting and I asked if I could have seafood or chicken instead - no problemo!  I also rejected a fish meal (I had been served the fish at lunch and didn't want the same thing for dinner), some mushy vegetables (fresh greens instead!) and some dodgy-looking meatballs with "gravy".  I guess I am particular about what I eat.  I never thought I was, but it appears that I am.  What I will say about the food at the Shouldice is that it is plentiful! The gave us huge portions.  Typical breakfast: juice, coffee and tea, choice of porridge, Cheerios or All-Bran with blueberries, and then large plates of bacon, eggs and toast or waffles.  I was full after the oatmeal!  Butter was never served with any of the food; you had to ask for it.  Here's a shot of the dining room:

I loved the "rock" walls and view of the garden

Back to the nurse.  She assigned me my room (322-1 on the 3rd floor). Here's the stunning view from my window.  It felt a bit BC boreal-ish to me.

The nurse also gave me a nametag and then sent me back out into the hall to wait to see Dr. T - the admitting Doctor.  Everyone had to wear a nametag, which I thought was an excellent idea.  A quick glance at someone's chest and you knew their name and where they were from.  Here's mine:

I wore this the entire time I was there

My visit with Dr. T was hilarious.  He took my blood pressure, and asked me some questions about my health, physical activity and diet.  He also checked out the "site" by gently feeling it and the area around it, and then pushed on it quite hard and asked me to inhale deeply.  That part I got.  It was what he said afterwards that confused me:

"Push like you're having a bomb blurga blurga blooba".  This is what I heard.  Huh? Wtf?  I thought he said something about a bomb and so I exhaled really noisily -- sort of a longish, loudish grunt really -- and the good doctor looked at me like I was CRAZY.  He laughed long and hard at my best impression of a bomb going off and then said:

"Try again".

Oh oh.  I had to make that stupid sound again? Oh no, I wasn't doing that again so he could howl at me.  I knew that we were having a lapse in communication (he was Asian and he had an accent -- that was my problem) and so I said:

"What do you want me to do again?"

He replied: " Push like you're having a blobba blooba..."

HUH?

"Pardon me?".  This was getting embarrassing.

And then he spoke very softly, slowly and clearly and said "like you are having a bowel movement". I died.  Laughed my head off.  So I inhaled deeply and did what he said and then I was briefly worried that something was going to COME OUT!  (it did not).  Much laughter again.

Aside:  After the fact, one of the herniacs made an observation that Dr. T's hands were shaking like crazy while he wrote and that all he could do was hope that this wasn't his surgeon!  

I went to Accounts next to produce my health card and more importantly for Shouldice, my credit card. I think it's $200 a night, which is reimbursed by your insurance company (if you have semi-private coverage).  It was there that I received my I.D. bracelet.

As I am writing this, and consulting my notes, I am realizing what a busy day that first day was!

After accounts, I had my first lunch in the dining room. I enjoyed pleasant conversation with an ethno-musicologist and ate minestrone and a turkey, lettuce and tomato sandwich on (stale) white bread.  Soup was good; sandwich was 6 out of 10.

Back upstairs I went, into the light-filled main waiting area, which I would describe as American Colonial meets Canadian Hospital.  Fireplace, three sets of French doors, more mass-produced art, mags and papers, lots of big windows with fussy window treatments and floral upholstered sofas and chairs.

In other areas of the hospital, it's more MCM-ish (this is for you, Sandra Miller):

Anyhoo, upstairs, things have gone awry in the decorating department.

While waiting to see my surgeon, I watched the 24-7 Herniavision on the telly in one corner of the waiting area.  Shouldice propaganda at its best. Two of my favourite quotes:

"Our hernia repairs last a lifetime, because we do it right the first time"

"Our complication rate is less than 1/2 of 1 percent"

I waited here for a LONG time - at least an hour and a half before I saw two different surgeons. Here are some of my wacky notes that I took while waiting.  The line "Really bored! 4:25 pm" pretty much sums it up.

I was finally taken to see one of the surgeons - Dr. K - who did a cursory examination and told me that I had an inguinal hernia.  He left the room and in came Dr. S., who also examined me.  He told me that I have a femoral hernia - not inguinal after all - and that the operation takes longer to do and longer for me to recover from.  Great.  He also said that there's no way of telling until you go inside (during the operation).  He looked over my chart, saw that I am an avid soccer player and then we talked soccer, which he seemed rather into.  He asked me who I thought the best soccer player in the world was - like I know! ? - and I said Pele, of course.

"No!"

"Uhhh, Ronaldo?"

"No!"

"Uhhh, David Beckham?" I am really grasping at straws now.

"No!"  Openly laughing at me.

"Some Dutch dude?"

"No!"  I was started to feel harrassed.  Not really, but still.

"Okay, I give up. Who?"

"George Best!!"

"Oh".

"You're Irish and you don't know George Best?"

"I don't know George Best".

"Shame". This coming from the Asian with the Scottish accent (seriously - it was funny!)

The he told me all about George Best and his womanizing and drinking and short-lived career before he said, "wait a minute...you're not even in my room".

I paused.  "What does that mean?"

"Uh.  I'm not your surgeon".

"Yes, you are! We have a good rapport.  You're going to do it!"

"Ummm... okay uh well, Dr. G is your surgeon".

"Who's Dr. G?"

"He does colonoscopies now.  He just comes in once a week to keep up.  He's worked here forever".

"Keep up?! So what you are telling me is that he's RUSTY! I don't want him!"

"Okay, okay, I'll go ask the chief."

He left the room and I followed surreptitiously, and watched him enter a room at the end of the hall.  He didn't close the door and so I could hear him say "there's a lady and she is scheduled with Dr. G but she doesn't want..."

At this point I walked into the room and said:  "I don't want Dr. G! I don't know him and he only comes in once a week!"

The two other surgeons looked at me, a little shellshocked.  One seemed annoyed but I wasn't too worried about him because he was sitting on the other side of the desk (not in the Chief's chair) and the Chief looked like he had a sense of humour at least.  And so, to make this very long story short, I got Dr. S after all.

I am tired of typing right now, I need a break.  I'll type part two tonight and/or tomorrow. I'm halfway through my notes and so I will finish tomorrow.

I will leave you with a cute picture of the ladies room door. Sorry about the red eye.

I love the beehive!


Click here for part 2:  Hernia Hotel, Part II