Why I am Not Excited About Surgery

For all of you who are unaware, I am scheduled to have a hernia repaired at St. Rose Hospital’s Siena Campus on June 30. I have been openly advertising this event for some time, not out of an attempt to garner sympathy, but rather an attempt to make sure I go through with it.

I keep telling myself that the more people I tell about my upcoming chopping, the less likely I am to chicken out. This is because I will reach a point where telling a large number of people that I am a pussy will become more painful than the actual procedure, guaranteeing I will go through with this needed repair.

This whole journey all started with a visit to the doctor last month. I did not want to go, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I informed my doctor of some back and stomach pain as well as some swelling I had had been experiencing. Like magic, I discovered I needed surgery. Needless to say, I was not pleased.

It took me about two weeks after noticing the pain and swelling before I finally stopped trying to explain away the symptoms and left it up to a professional. I am notorious for taking this approach with my health. Last summer I had a bout of severe chest pain that ended up being nothing of consequence. However, I didn't know this for sure for quite some time. I had delayed the obvious course of action, a trip to the E.R., for three days out of fear. At one point I even told myself that the chest pain could not possibly be serious because I wasn’t dead yet.

When I wasn’t trying to explain away my symptoms, I was using WebMD to try to find some sort of self-diagnosis. In my distorted world this seemed like a much better choice than visiting a doctor. Obviously the search feature on WebMD could tell me something that a doctor with years of education could not. Plus, if I didn’t like the initial diagnosis, WebMD had hundreds of other possible ailments to choose from.

I typed in “abdominal pain, back pain, swelling” and was greeted with a slew of possible death sentences. Due to my knowledge of anatomy, I could easily eliminate ovarian cysts, uterine fibrosis, and premenstrual syndrome from the equation. Take that, seven years of medical school! However, given my frequent sudden and sullen moodiness one might wonder if premenstrual syndrome is completely out of the picture.

I swiftly clicked through the pages of WebMD until I came to the obvious diagnosis. I had cancer. There could be no other explanation. Of course, this was before I came to the realization that EVERYTHING is a possible symptom of cancer according to WebMD. Headache. It’s cancer. Stomachache. It’s cancer. Mole on your skin. It’s cancer. Red, puffy eyes. No it’s from allergies or pink eye. It’s cancer. Hangnail. You have the cancer. (This is not to make light of a terrible disease that has impacted so many lives, but in most cases, including mine, the culprit is something far less menacing and I blame WebMD for creating mass hysteria. Of course, I was completely floored when my doctor insisted on running a couple tests just to confirm my problem wasn’t cancer.)

After the doctor armed me with a real diagnosis, I expected to find some relief. I didn’t have cancer and the news of a hernia brought with it visions of a swift and routine repair. Then I realized I had no idea exactly what to expect out of this whole situation. The idea of surgeons, scalpels, anesthesia, and needles suddenly became overwhelming. I had seen enough Inside Edition and Dateline NBC exposes to know about failed anesthesia, incompetent doctors, and medical tools being left inside the incision. I was going to wake-up mid-procedure to a butter knife-wielding chimpanzee hovering over me and he was bound to leave a bedpan or two inside my incision.

Once again, I turned to the Internet to answer my questions. Searches for “hernia repair” soon became searches for “anesthesia death” and “filing a malpractice lawsuit.”

I figured my consultation appointment with the surgeon would somehow ease my fears. It didn’t. During the visit I was asked to fill out a stack of paperwork that prominently featured all of the possible complications of my surgery. I guess I was somewhat displeased by the fact that death seemed to be a running theme. I ended up asking the doctor what the risks were if I decided not to have the surgery.

I was informed that the small defect in my abdominal muscle would grow, leading to more pain and swelling. Then came the kicker: parts of my intestines could migrate through a bigger hole, become trapped. This would lead to internal gangrene and possible death from an obstructed bowel. I then that I realized that this hernia business was going to get me no matter what. I signed the consent forms and scheduled the procedure.

So here I am, four days prior to surgery. I’m scared and all I really want is a hug and some Xanax. Everyone and their mother knows about my upcoming procedure, so I can’t chicken out now. On a positive note, like Jiffy Lube, the surgeon has asked if he can fix anything else that he finds to be in need of repair while he is tinkering around inside me. I can take comfort in the fact that not only will the surgeon repair my hernia, but I he is going to top off my fluids and switch out the air filter while he’s in there. Unfortunately he charges a lot more than $19.95 and there a lot of needles involved. Crap.

Delusions of Granduer

Take away the palm trees and mountains, but leave behind the garish strip malls and you will see Las Vegas is a lot like Des Moines or even (gasp!) Sioux Falls. In college I often pretended to be too good for Sioux Falls. After all, someone as talented as me has no place in South Dakota. I am somehow better than suburban monotony. Yet, I find myself a minivan’s length from the monotony cliff right here in Sin City.

I often daydream that my life as a suburban kindergarten/first grade teacher will somehow be interrupted when someone discovers my true talent. Often that hidden talent has something to do being a writer, stand-up comedian, or something equally unlikely/absurd. I will fondly look back on my “teaching days” as I milk it for material on my newfound journey that forces me to reside in a substandard apartment in Los Angeles or New York.

Watching Judd Apatow most often instigates these momentary absurd fantasies. Visions of performing stand-up comedy and co-starring in a movie with Jonah Hill occupy my brain. After all, I feel sharing a hairstyle with Seth Rogen makes me just as talented as he is. (I’ll just conveniently overlook the fact that Seth is rich, Jewish, and funny and I am none of those.)

Another hallucinogenic culprit tends to be written word. These fantasies happen less often, as there is nothing inspiring about my usual reading fodder: the riveting teacher’s manual that accompanies the Harcourt Trophies series. However, when I pick up David Sedaris I find myself thinking that my family is semi-functional enough to find their way into my creative essays. Even further, I know that with a little coaching I could find myself on NPR sounding rather pretentious and sharing my highbrow humor with the world. Whether or not this path would be more enriching than becoming Seth Rogen-esque is debatable. Either way, both non-realities seem much more appealing than my day-to-day reality as “Mr. Asplund.”

It’s not to say that teaching is a bad choice or a decision I regret making. With that said, I have never felt the near-religious calling to the profession that was described to me in my college preparation. I do not consider myself some sort of financial martyr who has taken a vow of strict middle-classerty in an effort to mold and shape the minds.

I do not adorn my teacher desk with the typical trinkets with inspirational sayings about my impact on the future, partially because I am not the “inspirational” type and partially because reminders of my large scale potential for impact scare the living crap out of me. To be truly honest, I am still unsure why I am a teacher. However, I seem to be reasonably successful at it and I find a certain level of contentment in coming to school each day.

Whether it is Sioux Falls, Des Moines, or Las Vegas I will still live the mundane life. I will comfort myself with the knowledge that I am none too shabby at playing the role of suburban teacher and maybe it is just where I am meant to be. Yet Seth Rogen and David Sedaris are still out there, tempting me to hotwire that minivan and head east/west to live out a ridiculous dream.