I'm Back...Sorta

The surgery took about an hour, which is pretty long for a single procedure as I understand it. The technical name for having a testicle removed is an orchiectomy. I was so nervous they'd cut off the wrong one that I took a Sharpie marker to my leg and left instructions for the surgeon. Apparently this is common practice nowadays as around 5% of surgical excisions remove the wrong thing. Thankfully that didn't happen in my case, though the anesthesiologist said I came close to waking up a few times. They've got a really cool electrode rig that fits over your head like a paper crown that tells the doctors when your brainwaves begin to change, which typically indicates one rising to conscioussness in an anesthatized patient. If I hadn't mentioned my resistance to medications to the doctor in passing he wouldn't have taken that precaution, so it's important to be honest with the surgeon, no matter how small or insignificant something may seem.

Rather than simply cut open the scrotum, an orchiectomy involves making an incision horizontally along the top of the pelvis and then cutting through the connective tissue until the surgeon reaches the genitals. The upside to this is that they can remove the lymph nodes along the way for further testing. If it is malignant cancer it travels along the lymph nodes first and foremost. The downside to this procedure is that they had to cut through most of my groin muscle. If you've ever experienced the pain of straining or pulling your groin, think how much it must hurt to have the darn thing severed.

I was bedbound for the first couple days, unable to move for fear of twisting at the waist. Thankfully I was able to move to the couch for Christmas morning to be with the family as they unwrapped presents. I never know what to get them, but I really enjoy wrapping presents and seeing them admire the packaging. There are only ever so many things that could be inside, and since it was a lean year we all had a pretty good idea of what we were getting, but there's just something about seeing those nicely wrapped presents under the tree on Christmas morning. There is a feeling of spontenaity, a sense that the little glittering packages could contain anything at all. It makes the experience exciting and unique. The downside to this is that once Christmas Morning is over, the moment that you've looked forward to for Lord knows how many months is over. It brings on feelings of ennui. Needless to say I was on heavy painkillers for the whole experience, as anyone who knows me would guess by the presence of that temporary moment of optimism back there.

I'm trying to get things back to normal, but I won't receive the pathologist's report until Monday. Meaning I don't know whether or not I need to go back for diagnostics to find the cancer if it's one of the kind that's likely to have spread. This combined with the extreme fatigue from the surgery as well as the muddling effects of my pain medications means I'm not good for much.

The fatigue should've passed by now, meaning it's possible that it's resulting from the thyroid problem I've suspected for the last few months. Of course I won't know for sure until I go back to the health department and repeat this whole process, which could take up to 6 months, provided of course the cancer has indeed been taken care of.

My contracters have been kind enough to allow me a few days to recuperate, but they will expect me back on the job by Monday as well. The fatigue and mental fog I'm experiencing is very distressing as I'm not sure I'll be able to make my deadlines with my head full of cotton. In the meantime I'm trying to get my hand back in by polishing up a few short stories for online magazine publication and generally living a life of quiet desperation. I'll try to muddle through as best I can, but it's frustrating I can't seem to catch a break. Thanks for the feedback and show of support all.

Time to see the Butcher

Well folks it looks like the surgeon's are getting a bit impatient. You know how it is with people like that. Shiny new knives and nothing to cut.

They'll be throwing me on the table at 7AM tuesday morning. I don't know why it has to be so early. Personally I don't want to be worked on until the doc's had his coffee and cleared his eyes, but I guess they have other ideas.

Beside the lingering fear of my own mortality, the biggest hurdle I've got to overcome is calming my folks. This is a routine surgery (aren't they all) but still there is always the danger of bleeding out as the initial incisions come pretty close to the femoral artery. Anyone who knows about triage from a brawl or knife fight knows that the femoral artery, once knicked, retracts up against the bone of the pelvis, making it really tough to clamp, even in surgical conditions. With my mother being an RN for almost 20 years she knows most of that better than I do, making it all the more difficult to console her that everything will be OK. Even if the surgery goes well, the chances are high that I'm facing some form of cancer, though testicular cancer is the most easily treated form of cancer there is, which is a small mercy.

Being self employed means I've got no health insurance. The only reason I'm being treated at all is because of a charity organization set up in my county, which happens to be one of the wealthiest in the state. Thank God for retirees from up North. (never thought I'd say that before)

Another big concern involves my track record with anesthesia. I'm incredibly resistant to anything which puts me under. I've had 3 gastroinestinal exploratory procedures and one oral surgery over the years. Each time I woke up in the middle of surgery and began speaking to the surgeons, who wigged out of course. Each time in post-op they would inform me that it took enough medications to drop an elephant to keep me under.

I think my most amusing experience was my oral surgery, which required they drill into my upper palate to get at the canine teeth which wouldn't drop on their own. They gave me a nitrous oxide mask to breath into and told me to count backward from 100. By the time I reached 50 the nurse was crossing herself in disbelief and the surgeon muttered "holy shit" to himself. It did nothing, though one of the nurses was promptly knocked out the moment she took a breath from the mask to see if the tank feed was working properly. After waiting for more than 10 minutes, breathing from the mask, the doctor had me hooked up to an IV and gave me a dose of something else, which finally did the trick. It wasn't so funny when I was charged extra for the use of more medications.

In any case, don't expect me to post for the next few days as the recovery process will take some time. Wish me luck.