I type this as I sit in an out-patient waiting room, while my husband is back on some operating table getting a mild procedure done.
He is having nose surgery, but I should probably clarify that it’s “sinus cavity/septum surgery” so no one thinks he’s getting a nose job. (I joked that I wanted him to come back with any nose, preferably still Hispanic, and preferably not Michael Jackson’s…)
We woke up before the sun to prepare for the drive and the surgery. Husband was hungry, cold, and nervous. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him truly nervous – maybe since our wedding day – but today he was joking up a storm, and making all the nurses laugh. He’s a clown in hospitals and medical buildings. I think it’s to hide his nerves. I don’t mind it when he’s getting the procedure done, because he can blame it on the horse ‘roids they’re pumping into him. But someday when I’m going into surgery and he’s making me laugh so hard that the doctor says, “Get out! You’re faking,” I will not be so happy with the clown.
This waiting room is comfy, but a few hours ago, I was ripped out of my comfort zone, which included a padded chair, my laptop, and his iPod, and they made me go see him in the pre-op room.
I’m glad I got to see husband again, and kiss him before surgery, but I don’t think his nurse appreciated me almost passing out as she described the procedure to us. Husband was fine, laughing over in the chair to himself, saying, “I feel tingly, I feel tingly…” as my head bobbed from side to side in the most nauseous way possible.
She started telling me all the things I needed to look out for, and who to call and when to call to schedule an appointment to get something removed from his nose. She even used her fingers to say “The sticks are this big by this big…” and I wanted to scream, “You’re shoving those up his nose? How dare you,” but I don’t want to get us kicked out.
I just got invited to see him in the post-op room. Most family members would be ecstatic, and ready to see their loved ones, but for the safety of me, my husband, and the medical staff, I asked quietly, “Can I just wait out here?”. It should be interesting when he’s wheeled out and all finished. I’d best not look over at the fluids and blood dripping out, like I was told to expect.
If that happens, I’ll probably faint and hit my head, and then we’ll be right back at square one.
It’s a vicious cycle.