Buh-bye Ms. Lung—Part 1

After you've gone and left me cryin' After you've gone there's no denyin' You'll feel blue, you'll feel sad You'll miss the dearest pal you've ever had —Django Reinhardt & Stephane Grapelli

On January 7, 2021, I had surgery to remove the cancerous tumor in my left lung. The thoracic surgeon predicted it could be necessary to remove the entire lung, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he was in there to scope it out. The thought of having a major organ removed is depressing. Luckily, the lung has a partner which I was told will sustain life function very well on its own. As long as something doesn’t happen to it. Swell. And as lungs go, the left side is the “good” one to have removed because it is smaller. How fortunate for me! Still, I was very fond of it and would prefer it didn’t betray me like it did. However, if it insisted on trying to take me down, it had to go. 

I was very surprised that it had taken me down this path. I had yet to feel ill. No major symptoms except for a cough that lasted a couple of months earlier in the year. When I went for my physical in September, I almost didn’t mention it because the cough was gone, but there were a few times when I had coughed up a small amount of blood so maybe I should say something. Chest X-ray ordered. Boom. It revealed a mass in the upper left lobe. And not just a little thing. It was about the size of two computer mice back to back. 

The running theme throughout this ordeal was, “Gosh, you’re in great shape for someone with cancer.” It is rare for someone my age to not be on some sort of medication for some old person ailment. No meds, no laundry list of possible complications to worry about. Predictions were my recovery would be relatively quick. Magic 8 Ball says, “Outlook good.”

Due to the Covid pandemic, no family was allowed to accompany me during my stay. I was hoping that perhaps my husband could be there. You know, just a familiar face to assure me that I did make it. However, with the strict safety protocol, he had to drop me at the hospital entrance and go home. My feelings had resolved to, “Just yank that lung, give me a bit of time, some pain stuff and send me home. I’ll be fine!”

Famous last words. 

I was apprehensive about being alone, but I knew it was more so for my husband as he would spend the time during my stay waiting for a call and wondering what was happening. 

This was designated as same day surgery so I was taken to a pre-surgical room. The nurse handed me a large plastic bag, standard hospital gown and adult-sized toddler socks. Who designed this mandatory hospital attire? Of course, Professor Google would know! 

It turns out no one really knows who came up with the drafty, bottom revealing, washed out blue-grey gown design. The hilarious joke is that it was that couture trend-setting designer, See-more Hiney. Apparently over the years there have been a few attempts to create a gown that is more appealing to the eye, comfortable and less revealing. The Cleveland Clinic enlisted Diane Furstenberg to design a new gown, but for some reason nothing came of it. If Diane couldn’t do it, there is no hope!

The article I read likened the gowns to prison attire. Much like a hospital stay, when you go to prison the first thing you do is remove all your clothing and put on a prison uniform. The point being the uniform identifies you as a prisoner/patient. That is a rather disconcerting concept, but I suppose no one is going to confuse you as “just visiting” in either uniform. Interestingly, there has been more thought put into prisoner uniform design than hospital gowns.

I changed and stuffed my civilian clothes in the plastic bag. My assigned nurse came in and started with, “Do you know why you are here?” That is kind of a loaded question. Why are any of us here? I decided I’d better play along and not get too silly right away. I told her I was here to have surgery to remove a tumor on my left lung. She nodded and pulled out a folder stuffed with paper. So much paper. I think it consisted of my medical history all the way back to when I was a toddler and stuck a weed up my nose that had to be extracted at the emergency room. 

She pulled out one sheet and told me it was the surgeon’s order of the procedure. She pointed to several medical terms that all ended in “ectomy.” Did I agree and approve? If so, sign here. Crap. I had looked up all those terms, but what if they snuck in something that I didn’t want removed? 

I’ve already had an appendectomy. I had two babies removed via Cesarean, but to be fair they wanted to be out just as much as I wanted them out. The only other term that came to mind was lobotomy, but that isn’t an “ectomy.” So, stop worrying and sign the damn paper.  Then sign some more papers. And a few more. 

The anesthesiologist came and asked the questions I had previously answered. Then my surgeon stopped by. He was wearing street clothes. Uh, shouldn’t he be ready to work? We chatted for a bit. He told me again that he does this procedure a few times a week and he’s never lost a patient. Hahaha. Good to know. Then he took out a magic marker and put an X on the left side of my back. I know all surgeons do that, but good grief, they really need an X marks the spot that shortly before they slice into you? 

Then it was time for my nurse to install the IVs. One in each hand. The one in my right hand was a bit difficult. Funny story about that IV later in another entry. 

The nurse completed all of her chores. She collected my plastic bag and told me it would be placed in a locker. Once I was done in surgery, it would be taken to where I was in the ICU. She said they would be coming to take me to surgery soon, wished me luck and left. 

My surgery was scheduled for noon. It was 11:35 am. I waited and waited. Noon. 12:15. 12:30. 12:45. I began to worry that perhaps I had been forgotten? Or perhaps the surgeon had an emergency? I would have to call my husband to let him know about the delay, but my cell phone was locked up in a locker somewhere. As I was connected to IVs, it would be difficult to keep my butt covered to venture out of the room. There was a call button for emergencies, but I decided my wondering when they were going to cut me open wasn’t that urgent.

At 1:10 pm, they came for me. It’s showtime!