Don't Make Me Look Fast

Gramma

Dave was just getting up as I was leaving.  "See you later," I said, sounding as if I would be back good as new in a couple hours.  Check-in was at 6:30.  Bleary eyed, I read through  several documents requiring my signature. 

Two anesthesiologists introduced themselves.  They would be tag teaming during the five hour surgery.  Procedures were explained.  It would have been nice to know in advance that I was going to be cathed.  I would have prepped for this.  At least it would be done while I was under. 

Girlfriend was interested in having a lift and sat with me while I waited for the doctor to arrive.  She watched as Dr. Jess parted my hair into little sections secured with rubber bands.  "Incisions will be made in the hair line, behind the ears and under the chin," she explained.  Drain tubes would be inserted behind my ears. 

"I didn't know this was going to take five hours," I said.  "I thought I would be home by early afternoon." 

"No.  It takes time to make hundreds of tiny stitches.  It's not unusual to go over five hours."  Good thing Dave was working late.  "Don't make me look fast," I said, pulling my face back as if I was in a wind tunnel.  

Surgery did go long.  In the recovery room, Dr. Jess held a mirror up to my swollen face.  "Everything went well," she smiled.  Mummy bandages framed my face.  Blood drained from the tubes behind my ears, staining the gown.  Zombies had nothing over on me.  My first thought was that I should be in bed when Dave got home.  My release was complicated by high blood pressure.  By the time we headed home, the sun was setting. 

Dave took one look at me laying on the couch and said, "I hope you didn't do this for me." 

"Nope, I did it for myself."