55.0°,
Mostly Cloudy Easy in, easy out — if it’s someone else’s surgery
You know I don’t keep anything from you, so why should I start now? After 60-something years of remaining relatively intact — that is, keeping all my parts in place — I was told last week that my gallbladder must go.
From what I hear from others, it’s no big deal, easy in and out. Quick recovery. Nothing to worry about. But that’s because it isn’t their gallbladder getting yanked out.
I’ve always been awed by the strength and courage of people I know who undergo surgery with little anticipatory anxiety and minimal complaints. Unfortunately, I’m not among them.
Even an old dude like Ronald Reagan took a bullet and tossed it off with a smile. Well, Randi, I say to myself. I remember Ronald Reagan, and you, my dear, are no Ronald Reagan.
People I know and love, including my husband and my mother, have undergone and survived complex surgeries with unbelievable moxie. I come from a different school — the school of curling up in a fetal position and hiding in the basement until they come and get me.
Part of my concern is the particular surgery. It hasn’t changed much since 1733, when Louis Petit, an English barber, came up with the idea of treating diseased gallbladders surgically. Of course, in those days nobody survived. So there’s been some slight improvement. And now, of course, they do the procedure laparoscopically, which isn’t as much fun as it sounds.
I made the mistake of reading about the operation. Apparently they poke a few holes in your abdomen and insert some sharp instruments and a video camera. Now, my video camera is sitting right here on the desk, and I’m not happy about the idea of shoving one of these big boys through a hole in my belly button.
I did find a team of surgeons in Tampa who do the procedure without general anesthesia, and with just one incision instead of four. Um ... somehow I can’t visualize being awake while having an organ removed. It has a certain Dr. Mengele feel about it. So I’m going with the real docs in New York.
“Nothing can go wrong,” a friend says.
“Well, why don’t you just shut up?” I say, knocking wood, crossing my fingers and threading a string of garlic around my neck.
