Instructions for Surgery

This is reality, folks. My mother, who has been extremely afraid of her surgery that took place on Wednesday, has spent the last few weeks joking with me about a variety of things related to it. Such as whether or not a sprained ankle is sufficient injury to allow the docs to pull her life support, organ donation/removal, and euthanasia. All joking aside, she truly feared that she would be cut open and found to be 'riddled with cancer'. Nothing I said made that better. Since surgery was scheduled at 8:30 in the morning, requiring her and I to be at the hospital at 7:30, I went over on Tuesday afternoon. When I arrived, we shared the usual pleasantries, had dinner, and then she handed me the following hand-written instructions for her surgery:

Do NOT Remove

liver
pancreas
heart
brain
stomach
voice box
ear drums
eyes

Can remove if absolutely necessary

1 lung
1 kidney
gall bladder
spleen

They can put me to sleep, but don't let them PUT me to sleep.

If they accidentally suction out some of my fat -- Do Not let them put it back in.

If they locate my bitch nerve, please ask them to remove at least half of it.

Now, these were written by her in her own hand. I have the paper in front of me as I am typing. After surgery, I joked with her a bit in front of the nurse about her fat being suctioned and her bitch nerve. The nurse shook her head sadly about the fat, saying that 'since it wasn't on the release, we couldn't do it', then laughed with me and mom. (Mom laughed very softly and carefully) When it came to the bitch nerve, the nurse told us that she refuses to allow that to be removed from any woman as each of us needs it.

The day before the surgery, Grasshopper and I were talking about it and she came up with the idea of telling my mother, who is at this time very insistent that I not allow the hospital to euthanize her, that as soon as Mom comes out of surgery and is coherent, that the doc wanted to euthanize her and she's lucky we didn't let him. Instead of waiting, Grasshopper called Mom and shared this with her. She still thinks it's funny, but right now it just hurts to laugh.

Also, on a more personal note, while I am truly relieved that the surgery went as planned and that my mother is well and on the road to full recovery, it is fun to watch her flop like a fish out of water when trying to sit up on the couch or bed. It is also fun dealing with my mother on high-intensity pain relievers. She gets her words mixed around, often her thoughts, and this morning when trying to sit up in bed, reached for my hand for support then told me repeatedly that she wasn't ready and didn't know why she wasn't. Neither did I, so I was therefore useless in that regard. I did manage not to laugh where she could see or hear me. For that, I think I should get good-daughter points. Which I'm sure will be taken away as soon as she realizes I've written all this on my blog. Damn. Broke even again. Just when I thought I could get ahead on the good-daughter score, too.