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.
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