“How do you like your eggs?”
Get it? Do you? I got a million of ’em. You know what I haven’t got a million of? Ovaries.
In case you just got here, or maybe you forgot because I tried not to mention it often, on Tuesday, CU Next Tuesday, I had an operation. Sometimes the doctor hit the metal sides and my nose lit up.
What I had done was a bisexual Oooo child with lapsang souchong. I believe that was the official name of what I had done.
Another thing I tried not to mention often was I had to be there at 5:30 a.m. What bullshit is that?
I woke up two minutes before my alarm of the reasonable hour of 4:45, or as I like to call it, four fucking forty fucking five fucking a fucking m. Really one of the worst parts of the ordeal was waking my dog to go out and then eat. Never in my life have I had to wake this dog. On weekends when there’s no alarm, if I am awake but haven’t opened my eyes yet, he knows I’m awake and I can hear him flump flump flumping his tail down on his bed.
she wake! she WAKE! it new day! it new day wif hair!
I have no idea how I got hooked up with someone so positive, but there it is.
At four fucking forty fucking five fucking a fucking m, my dog was fast asleep. I stood over his bed where he was softly whiffling.
“Edsel,” I said softly. With my sonnnnng.
“Whiffle,” breathed Eds.
“Whiffle,” he repeated.
I had to actually shake a haunch to wake him. “Eds, it’s time to get up.”
You’ve never seen someone snap into character more quickly. He could be a fireman.
“O! It…okay! Hello! It new—just let Eds get glasses on heer—IT NEW DAY! YES!”
When I left the house, I noted even the neighbor’s rooster was quiet. EVEN THE ROOSTER was in a head kerchief with the blankets pulled up.
Four fucking forty fucking five fucking a fucking m. Come on.
The good news is, my anesthesiologist was cute. He was a young bearded ginger. Oh, you shoulda seen me trying to turn on the charm. In my blue gown with yellow and red geometric patterns and yellow grippy socks with grips on either side in case I wanted to walk on the fronts of my feet.
“I can’t begin to tell you how much I do not wish to throw up,” I Mrs. Robinsoned him. I posed one be-grip-socked leg at him flirtatiously. “Let me get you a nausea patch,” he said, leaving to get a patch and a dinner reservation plus hotel suite for us.
I got the patch, but my Q is, why can’t I always wear a nausea patch? I won’t have to recoil when someone says they’re nauseated. I can feel okay during a migraine. I can look at any doo-dad marked, “Live, laugh, love.”
Eventually my doctor came in, and other than calling my cyst a “mass,” she was actually delightful and funny all day. She started explaining what I was having done and I told her I was an expert in the procedure as I had googled it. “Oh, good, then you can do it,” she suggested.
“Keep me awake and I’ll guide you,” I told her.
They wheeled me into that huge cold room with machines and a scary table. “This is cozy,” I said, and my doctor was all, “We designed it to look like home.”
Anyway then the thing happened where you’re, like, dead out and then I woke up. I was surrounded by nurses and my doctor, telling me we had to do real surgery and not laparoscopic surgery. “Where’s the anesthesiologist?” I asked. “He was so cute.” I know the compression things on my legs would have cinched the deal.
They’d told me before that if I had to have an incision I’d probably have to stay over, but that day they told me my doctor would be back after 5:00 and I might could go home if I passed certain tests, such as trig and the Presidential Fitness test.
I don’t remember a lot about the day except I was riveted by this shift that got to work at 5:30. I kept asking everyone about it. One of my nurses had RUN A FEW MILES before work. Dudes. EVEN THE ROOSTER WASN’T UP, yet she had run a few miles.
They gave me a giant menu and encouraged me to eat but you’ll be stunned to hear I had no appetite. I asked for black coffee, because who woudn’t, and I sipped a little tomato soup, because I wanted GERD on top of everything else.
They told me to get up, to see if walking was okay.
Guess what. OUCH, oh my god.
“I’m Sharon Tate, over here!” I bellowed as I minced out of my room. My nurse, who was between 16 and 35 years old, probably did not get the joke, and my tasteful jokes are wasted on the wrong people.
I don’t think we made it to the next room when the nurse said, “You don’t have to be a hero. We can quit any time.”
That was all I needed to hear. “I won’t be a hero. I won’t be a fool with my life,” I said, turning my pole around, got to feel percussion.
Have you ever noticed the proliferation of 1970s songs having circus-y music? It’s awful. Although maybe that song was just sort of soldier music. I am just now realizing maybe he was a hero going off to war. I thought he’d joined the circus.
Hunh. Right then, I knew.
Anyway, I barely remember the whole day other than that walk of stab. They encouraged me to eat dinner as well, and although I was still not hungry, I ordered pot roast. A few minutes later they brought me fish, broccoli and rice.
I ate it, though, and it was really good, and some health nut out there got pot roast.
Finally my doctor came back to the surgical center. She’d gone to work after removing my oofs.
“Hey, why are you sleeping?” she asked. “You act like you had surgery today or something.”
She told me I could go home, but warned me to lie about listlessly like any other day in my life, and also “Nothing in the vagina.”
“Great. So where do you suggest I keep my Ping-Pong balls?”
And see. Right then I regretted the “nothing in vagina” portion of events, because I wanted to make sweet love to self and gaze at me after, singing a few bars of After the Lovin’ by America’s treasure Englebert Humperdink.
As the nurse wheeled me out, she said, “The doctor and I were just out there talking about how cool you are,” she said. “It’s been fun having you.”
That’s why I left them my ovaries to remember me by.