you know it is going to be a weird-ass day when you meet your anesthesiologist in the elevator.
no, seriously. There I was at the hospital attempting to find the surgery department and there was this mustached older white dude carrying a red & white cooler running for the elevator. I held it open because in my world that is what people should do besides, I am still not sure if that cooler contained his lunch or possibly someone’s organs. *shrugs*. He asked where I was going and I replied–surgery. He said, Dr. whatshername—I said, “yup” and asked, “are you my anesthesiologist?”. Now, to this day I have no idea how the hell I knew he was an anesthesiologist and when he replied, “yes, how did you know?” I said, “you. look. like. an. anesthesiologist.”
Cue the awkwardness.
Thankfully he seemed to be just as awkward as I am so that worked out. Later on, he totally gave me a big ole’ shot of something benzodiazapiney and I was on a cloud of whatthefuckever for quite some time. Approximately 2 days after my surgery I found my discharge papers in my bag which they had me initial and everything despite the fact I remember nothing about anything. Very clearly on the paper it says, “no-one allowed inside for 4 weeks”. Something about the way that was written still cracks me up–so much for the cocktail party I had planned in my vagina (?!?)
okay…so. Time to get up and go do stuff.