There is a drug that anesthesiologists can give you that makes you forget all the unpleasant activity around the surgery. You are awake and able to respond and cooperate, but you don't remember a thing. If you have had it, it is pretty cool. It is a white, milky fluid and one of my wonderful doctor friends, Connie, told me they like to call it Milk of Amnesia.
The last thing I remember was the nurses unlocking the wheels on my stretcher and saying, "Here we go to the OR." According to Merrie, I was wide awake just talking up a storm. I like to talk. I apparently moved myself from the stretcher to the operating table and cooperated with all their instructions while bombarding them with questions of my own. Happily, I don't remember a thing!
The next thing I remember is a vague recollection of people coming and going from the recovery room. To me, only a second had passed, but it was really about 4 hours, I think. I have visions of Mack and Chris and Gail and Carol. I think I remember Greg and Pickle, too. My best doctor friend, Kristy, stood at the foot of my bed for a long time and then said, "She won't remember any of this. I'll be back in a little while."
I had no pain and no nausea (thanks Anethesiology, Merrie and Jeff). All I wanted to do was sleep a little longer.
Finally, I was ready to go to my room. I had two lovely ladies transporting me. When we got to the elevators I asked them if Robert was in surgery yet. They said his surgery was a little delayed and he was still sitting in the pre-op area. When I asked if I could see him, they did a quick u-turn and headed back. Everyone along the way just stared at us with quizzical looks wondering why we were coming back.
They pushed my stretcher in to the room where he was and I met his wife for the first time. He looked so happy. I think he was relieved to see me safe and well. We had a brief chat and I could feel how eager he was to see this day finally come.
I would not have traded that u-turn for anything. I am also glad that the Milk of Amnesia had worn off so that I can hold that memory forever.