Ambulatory Surgery

My mother has her final procedure today. Her final "surgery." She'll still need to have her fake nipple colored in. That's done in her plastic surgeon's office. I'm guessing it will be my mother's first tattoo. Not because I don't know if my mother has any other tattoos. Au contraire- I have now seen my mother in all her glory about 3 or 4 times, so unless she has some small tattoo between her toes or in the inside of her mouth, I know it would be her first tattoo. I just don't know if what they're going to do to color her nipple will be considered a tattoo. I should look it up, I guess. Maybe it's lasers. Everything is lasers these days.

It's easy to understand all those drama plot-lines about hospitals becoming triggers when you've been in one as a repeat guest. There's a distinct energy to a hospital or a clinic. I imagine if it were common for people to die of complications in the middle of a Lowe's hardware store trauma scenes would be all the rage. As of yet I have no reason to dislike hospitals, but I am glad this will be the last extended surgery for  the foreseeable future.

It would be different as an employee, I bet. Or if I were the one having the surgeries. It seems worse from this side. Unlike my mother, I am awake with the uncertainty of results. I get to be aware of the powerlessness of my situation. If things didn't go well when I was getting my wisdom teeth out, I don't think I would have been bothered. Although, I have no idea how ghost me would react. If anything like flesh me, she'd probably have been bothered just because I am always in a state of bother. Like Winnie the Pooh.

From what I remember of anesthesia- you don't really remember anything. I don't recall being scared or anxious during the procedure. I'll have to ask her if she does. She remembers a lot more than I do, somehow. She remembers her mother making tea when they were together; when she was very young. She thinks she was 4. It's the one story she has mentioned of her own mother that paints her in a positive light. All I know of my grandmother was that she couldn't keep it together enough to care for her children, so they became burdens on her siblings. My mother's siblings are likely half-siblings. She sent her money. She might be dead. I don't think I've ever met her. It's odd to have a picture of her in any nurturing capacity. I wonder if she secretly tried her best. If we're lucky my sister had a son to break this generational curse of a daughter's resentment.

When they put her chemo port in she was also under anesthesia. She remembers when she woke up she thought she had gone blind. They had put something on her eyes while she was under, and her vision was blurred when she opened them for the first time.

The chemo destroyed her skin. It burned her, I guess. Not like a fire, but like a cookie. She crisped. So she's having little things done to make her feel better about what she sees in the mirror. I guess she deserves whatever strides toward happiness and self-acceptance she can be walked toward.

The clinic is nicer than the hospital. The accent walls are blue. The plentiful chairs are blue and gray. Some are comfortable. There was a different thought process to the interior design. The hospital waiting area was very yellow. I don't think there was any art at all. The blurry paintings and photography are all complementary indigo and navy. There are TVs that have patient numbers listed and where they are in the process. "In Recovery" is a pleasant periwinkle. My mother's number is a pale yellow. In Procedure. It's meant to be an hour long, so she's probably got another 20 minutes. Her surgeon's hands are soft. He's handsome, in an older, disarming way. He could very easily slide into a medical drama. He's been the surgeon we spoke with from the very beginning, but he's not the one who removed the tumor. I think he did the reconstructive surgery on his own, mostly, and that was done ahead of schedule. So his hands are soft, but quick, I think.

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