And it cuts like a knife

Wednesday was one of the longest days of my life. The emotional exhaustion really gave the physical a run for its money.

They scheduled my surgery for 1:30 in the afternoon. Not cool. I was expecting 8am, get it done and over with. But no, I wouldn't be that lucky. I couldn't eat anything after midnight and could only drink 8oz of water. Awesome. Food is for poor people anyway. I started the day off in a zone. A serious, impending doom zone. I got dressed and looked in the mirror knowing I wouldn't look in the mirror again at the same face. Pushed those thoughts away. Both of my parents drove with me down to UCLA. Neither one of them know how to drive let alone how to drive in LA. I want to kill them both before we even leave. I praise the mystical powers that be for my iPod and just turn the volume up. And without being able to stifle them, tears steam down my face. I am shuddering with sobs. I am terrified of this surgery. Bad memories from the first time I had a surgery like this have scarred me. Being awake while they cut on your face is, contrary to popular belief, not fun. Hearing everything the doctors are saying and doing, feeling blood dripping down the side of your face, these are bad things. I could not get past these thoughts and the immobilizing fear of them happening again. The music washed over me with a perfect numbness that ebbed and flowed with each song. A part of me, thankfully, shut down.

We got to UCLA an hour and a half early. LA. Traffic. You never know. They check me in, I've got my wristbands, I'm in line for the ride. The nurses see I am in a funk and they reassure me that my doctor is fantastic and that everything is going to be fine. They are sweet and make me laugh and distract me for a while. But I keep coming back to ground zero. It's 1:30 and I am called into the pre-op room. Wow, this is really happening. Was this all a dream I kept expecting to wake up from? I get dressed down and the nurse sets up my IV in the bend of my arm. My least favorite place. Rad. One try, I thank her for that. And I ball uncontrollably. My left arm plastered tensely to my side, Kleenex clutched to my face, I sit there waiting in this horrible state of vulnerability for an hour and a half before I am taken into the operating room. Nothing but complicated memories of all kinds pinballing through my mind that I can't turn off. I mutter the strains of Green Day's "Macy's Day Parade", the last song I heard on my iPod. I try to think of a more upbeat song but the melancholy tone just fits, and it's all that's holding me together at this point.

They finally come to get me at 3pm and wheel me into the operating room. The anesthesiologist and I go over the drugs and how it's all going to work and he's a good man. He was my man for my last surgery and he remembers me. I explain to him that I need as much drugs as is safe. I don't want to hear anything, I don't want to feel anything, I don't want to be aware of anything that is going on. I tell him my first surgery was just awful and how terrified I am of a repeat performance and he assures me he will take good care of me. I meet the other nurses, sign one more form, and am asked a zillion different times for my full name and birthday. That's how they make sure you are you. Behind the din I heard music coming from the actual operating room and I realized it was the Counting Crows. J., I thought of you and Martin and smiled. The slightest sense of security trickled in. They wheeled me into the very cold operation room and started getting machines hooked up. There were a lot of people in this little room. "Is there any chance you're pregnant, Niki?" "Don't rub it in, doc." The Gin Blossoms filter through the radio and I just laugh. They're going to give me the drugs now and I just break down. This is it. Now I have to let go. I have never been so scared in my life.

They did a good job of keeping me under. I have scattered memories of consciousness. I think I was trying to sing at some point. I did say "Ouch" at least twice to which they said they would give me more medicine. I felt a clipping. Dull. Like wire clippers. I felt threads like fine gold wires. They pushed something dark over my eye and under my eye lid. That was unpleasant. I think I heard the heart monitor start to race. I remember them telling me it was all over and me saying "thank God".

I've been eating my 500mg vicodin like Smarties and lying in bed. Beanbag chairs also make suitable pillows. I've got three tiny incisions along my eyebrow and an incision along the crease of my eyelid. I cried heartily at my first look in the mirror. The fear has not yet left me. The left half of my head has this dull ache radiating with these sharp stabs. I can't close my eye and I have this fun goop I have to cream in there and on my incisions. Ever try to sleep with one eye open? Like Metallica suggests? It's less than easy, bordering on the difficult. I find a makeshift patch and 1000mg of vicodin do the trick for me. Send your favorite way to The Red Mail Box on Rice Rd. All submissions become our property and will not be returned. Void where prohibited. Not valid in Vermont. Or Oxnard because it's lame.

Stay tuned for drug induced observations and musings. I am sore from laying here. But I find that this much vicodin plus walking around equals barfy. So we keep moving to a minimum at this point. FeeshMoch dances in his bowl. Mr. Bun keeps me company and gets tangled in the sheets. The vice tightens on my head. Grody pictures may follow. We thank you for your support.