That's the Lehigh Valley Health Network facility at 17th and Chew, Allentown where I had surgery done on Tuesday. A laproscopically assisted vaginal hysterectomy, brought on by a dicey biopsy and 50-50 odds of developing the Big C.
I'm not much of a gambler and those odds did not appeal, so when the gynecologist said 'out with the lady parts', I was on board without hesitation.
But I had a fairly long wait, nearly two and a half months to mentally prepare myself and to do a little research so I knew what to expect. I watched the info video about the procedure, read up on aftereffects which, given my age, were rather innocuous, and otherwise gave myself daily pep talks that this would remove any source for further complications.
Temporary inconvenience, permanent improvement.
That said: I am not a good patient. I don't do 'rest' very well (I looked it up once, it didn't appeal) and when you tell me 'don't lift' I get the urge to manhandle 50 lb bags of grain. Dr. Molly also said 'no vacuuming', but strangely enough I can get down with that, no problemo.
I've had procedures off and on throughout my life and I have to say that today's medical facilities excel in patient care. Maybe not everywhere, but here in the Lehigh Valley I count myself blessed to have this standard of care available.
From the moment I arrived, I was attended to with the utmost attention to detail, with kind, compassionate good will and humor, and not once did I feel ill-at-ease or worried about the outcome.
I have also memorized my name and birthdate because if I was asked once, I was asked four hundred times (and the urge to fib hit me at the oddest times, just to see what would happen).
The procedure went well, if longer than expected. My bout with a ruptured appendix last year extended my 'it was a mess in there' into a new year and a new situation. Consistency is everything.
So I am stapled together (apparently they are blue and purple and I'm not to freak if I see odd bits lying about) and under no restrictions as to diet or much of anything aside from exertions and getting enough rest.
I don't hurt all that much other than feeling and looking like the Michelin Man: they inject a gas to separate the 'parts of interest' and they fluidize you to the point of gushiness. All that has to work its way out via normal channels and being alone to handle those details has definite appeal.
So here I sit, fantasizing about vacuuming, while providing a lap for Little Miss Mayhem who missed me and is making up for my absence with great misdeeds and misdemeanors.
I'm not much of a gambler and those odds did not appeal, so when the gynecologist said 'out with the lady parts', I was on board without hesitation.
But I had a fairly long wait, nearly two and a half months to mentally prepare myself and to do a little research so I knew what to expect. I watched the info video about the procedure, read up on aftereffects which, given my age, were rather innocuous, and otherwise gave myself daily pep talks that this would remove any source for further complications.
Temporary inconvenience, permanent improvement.
That said: I am not a good patient. I don't do 'rest' very well (I looked it up once, it didn't appeal) and when you tell me 'don't lift' I get the urge to manhandle 50 lb bags of grain. Dr. Molly also said 'no vacuuming', but strangely enough I can get down with that, no problemo.
I've had procedures off and on throughout my life and I have to say that today's medical facilities excel in patient care. Maybe not everywhere, but here in the Lehigh Valley I count myself blessed to have this standard of care available.
From the moment I arrived, I was attended to with the utmost attention to detail, with kind, compassionate good will and humor, and not once did I feel ill-at-ease or worried about the outcome.
I have also memorized my name and birthdate because if I was asked once, I was asked four hundred times (and the urge to fib hit me at the oddest times, just to see what would happen).
The procedure went well, if longer than expected. My bout with a ruptured appendix last year extended my 'it was a mess in there' into a new year and a new situation. Consistency is everything.
So I am stapled together (apparently they are blue and purple and I'm not to freak if I see odd bits lying about) and under no restrictions as to diet or much of anything aside from exertions and getting enough rest.
I don't hurt all that much other than feeling and looking like the Michelin Man: they inject a gas to separate the 'parts of interest' and they fluidize you to the point of gushiness. All that has to work its way out via normal channels and being alone to handle those details has definite appeal.
So here I sit, fantasizing about vacuuming, while providing a lap for Little Miss Mayhem who missed me and is making up for my absence with great misdeeds and misdemeanors.
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