four years

four years ago right now i was deep under the veil of anesthesia, my insides opened to the world. my surgeon's sure hands wielded scalpels and other tools, breaking ribs, slicing fascia, preparing to remove the cancerous lobes of my lung. four years seems like such a long time.

i remember the date only because i am asked to remember it each time i list my surgeries prior to imaging tests at the hospital. 2/6/07. r thoracotomy w bilobectomy. when you look at your pictures, you'll find something missing.

they gave me some drugs because i was so anxious and i told them i'd get off the gurney as they tried to wheel me to the operating room without giving me anything. a few moments after their injection i was floating and almost happy to embark upon my adventure. i looked into a nurse's eyes as he held my hands, my upper body supported by a pillow as my epidural was placed. i was nearly oblivious to what was going on behind me.

my surgeon came in, said hello. i almost didn't recognize him. and then the lights went out.

"cough, elizabeth, i need you to cough". lights, dull confusion, tubes being pulled from my mouth. "that's it. cough." the lights go back out.

resting, sleepy, so sleepy, all i want is some ice because my throat hurts. and my brother. "can you have them bring jim in?" that's all i wanted when i started making sense again.

and from there, the hours went on and on. i laugh, looking back at it, while my loved ones cringe. i think i can laugh because the drugs were amazing. they managed to give things that weren't funny, that could never be funny, a veil of humor. my head swelled to the size of a balloon because of air that was leaking from my lung into my body. i didn't have hair at the time, and the first thought i had was of eric cartman from south park. i looked just like him. this was ridiculous. i laughed.

the tang of cool lime jello on my tounge was an unimaginable luxury.

the first steps i took were using a walker. i could barely walk the length of a hallway. i'd just had really serious surgery, they told me. it would get better.

i made a tentative lap around the thoracic floor; i had on my new running shoes. the first steps they took were on a shiny hospital floor. i was wearing fleece pants under my hospital gown.

i started wandering around the first floor of the hospital later in the week. i'd wheel my iv pump and body fluids around with me, the doors to the thoracic floor opening up to a world of possibility. the cool air of the hallway would blow through the peach fuzz on my head, illiciting goosebumps, without fail. i'd walk to the gift shop. i'd look at the candy and potato chips.

washing my face was a highlight of the day, once in the morning and once in the evening. wow. the hot facecloth against my skin was like a dream. another highlight was changing the dressings on my incisions. there's nothing like some clean gauze and fresh tape.

in preparation to leave, they weaned me off my iv pain meds and started me on dilaudid. first, though, they tried something with codeine in it; i knew it would make me throw up, but this is what their orders were for. i took it, and threw up. i was alone in my room, it was dark out but my tv was on. i was so determined to clean things up myself. i was in my hospital gown and fleece pants, trying to get it all cleaned up. what a mess. i sat back down in bed and called a nurse. he came back with dilaudid. from there, i got to go home, finally.

there was so much and so little that happened during that time. barely a week, during which life was so distilled down to the essential elements. sleep, food, friends, family, walks, water, and bad tv.

i don't ever want to do it again.