Nobody likes to have surgery.  In fact, in the Cambridge dictionary it’s defined as “the treatment of injuries or diseases in people or animals by cutting open the body and removing or repairing the damaged part”. Who in their right mind wants to be cut open? Not me. And yet… this is what I signed up for last Friday.

Most of you know I have skin cancer (Have you checked your skin today?) and I go in for bi-annual checks. Sometimes I’m good to go. Sometimes I get some fun laser treatments, or in-office cut & stitch removals. Sometimes it’s a little deeper than that. Well, I exaggerate. This one time, culminating in last Friday, I had this deeper thing? Growth? Do I have to type tumor? Last Friday I had a tumor removed from my leg.

The journey to the removal was long & arduous. It involved my Primary Care Physician looking at my leg & going:

“Yep. It must come out.” It involved my dermatologist looking at my leg & going:

“Yep. It must go out, but not by me. You need a surgeon.” Back to Primary Care, then to surgeon who said:

“Yep. It must come out.” Back to Primary Care for more authorizations (I hate insurance companies! ACϟDC is singing ‘Problem Child‘ right now, it’s how I felt!) and back to the surgeon. Specifically my pre-op surgeon, hold on to your seats here, Dr. Spaszki!

If I hadn’t dropped my phone in the bathtub, then saved it with rice, but not really because the camera doesn’t work, you’d now be seeing a picture of me & my new favorite doctor: Dr. Spaszki! From Budapest (just like son #7, Sebastian). I have to go to Budapest! Dr. Spaszki made my fears dissolve. We giggled & laughed & drew on my leg:

“You don’t want them to cut off the wrong one!” Um. No. Not the whole leg just that lump-y thing thankyouverymuch. We made fun of all the papers and formalities and “stemples”. Germans love stamping everything to make it official. Don’t get me wrong, one of my very favorite things is German thoroughness & efficiency, especially when it comes to not-cutting-off-the-wrong-leg. My other favorite thing is giggling with Dr. Spaszki about stempling all the pieces of paper.

And we had to do it twice.

Because. My surgeon was out sick, so I had been assigned to his protégé. However. I have private insurance, ie American insurance, so that means I get the “Chef” or head of the department. Turns out when the head of the department is sick, I get the über Chef. This has nothing to do with Uber, we don’t even have Uber here in my part of Germany, it means “above” or the top. The head of the head. Numbero Uno. Woooooohoooo.

Except for Dr. Spaszki it meant filling out and stempling all the paperwork twice. He never lost his sense of his humor, we talked & bonded and had a fabulous day. As fabulous as a day talking about my tumor, drawing on my leg and drawing out  my blood can be.

That night Cole’s High School Coach’s wife, and my new friend & savior, Carin picked me up from home and took me to her house, a block from the hospital. She plied me with a little red wine, cheese, nuts, hummus and lots of giggle-worthy conversation. I even took a selfie with my broken-from-the-bathtub phone! At 12:37 I realized I was still nibbling on nuts and briefly experienced a small bout of terror that I’d turn into a Gremlin, that didn’t happen and my nurse in the morning waved it off. It’s really just a six-hour fast and I more than fasted for six hours.

German hospitals are weird. I walked to Station A, to Station B, picked up my “packet”, carried it with me to Station C, and was promptly put into a curtained bed and told to get completely naked and put on my Flügelhemd, aka winged-shirt. I knew that I had to have an EKG monitor during surgery, and the winged-shirt had a side tie, so I wore that in the front for easy access. Carin and I both agreed that was proper. When the über Chef Doctor dude came in, to look at my leg, my boob fell out of the gown. After a good laugh, a peek at my smiley-face leg (Carin had added a smiley to the circle) we were new besties.

“You have it on backwards.” The nurse whispered with a giggle as she left.  Sigh.

I was tucked into my comfy bed, Carin was sent off on her errands, and I was wheeled lying down through a corridor and a half of hospital. I don’t like being wheeled around lying down. It gives a very nauseous feeling to my stomach, or it was my nerves, either way. I don’t like it Sam I Am.

Two seconds later we came to a gurney staging room. Lots of empty ones, one pushed to the front for me. I got off my comfy bed, and climbed onto the not so comfy sterile one. They tucked a roll under my knees and strapped down my legs. They covered me with a blanket and removed my backwards winged-shirt (tell me why they made me put it on for 5 minutes?), and strapped the rest of me down. I don’t like being strapped down either Sam I Am.

I was wheeled into a big, clean, modern, sterile, operating theater. There were at least 8 people on hand. Suddenly I panicked, maybe it was a leg removal surgery after all & they didn’t tell me? Or my German is worse than I though and I heard them wrong? Seriously, it was a small lump.  Maybe a little deep, but it’s small. Gobstopper size. What did I need with all these people, all these machines, all these people?

The big scary Anesthesiologist tried to reassure me but he was big. And scary. I’m pretty sure he gave up in seconds because all I remember is a breathing mask descending over my nose & mouth, with gigantor out-of-focus in the background, and then, nothing. Things went black. Until I woke up to loud moaning from the poor woman in the bed next to me.  I was fine. Not panick-y. Not in pain. Ready to go home. Then things went black again.

I woke up to swiftly passing ceilings, and my curtained-off bed from before. The nurse helped me back into my winged-shirt, properly this time, and gave me tea & teething biscuits. Then everything went black again. The next couple of hours I spent waking up, and going black. My body hates anesthesia. I finally woke up-woke up with a raging headache, sore throat and Carin at my side. She helped me sit up and drink some tea.

It took most of the day to get me sitting up alone, eating & drinking and finally walking. But. Once I could walk, I was handed my clothes, my packet, and directed to Station D to sign out. No wheelchair, no candy-striper, just:

“You are done. Bye!” And off I went. I ran into the über Chef in the hallway, my buddy from early that morning, the one my boob waved hello to, and I chided him on turning me into Donald Trump. My entire leg was a gorgeous shade of bright orange (again, my tumor was gobstopper size!). I’m not even American. He laughed. I chided him some more:

“I’m Dutch!”
“But the Dutch are #2!” I just stared at him.  The wonders of the internet and how they bond people. We just stood there cackling in the hallway, and despite having had surgery, and my head spinning like a top, I had a great day.

If you have not seen this video, please… oh please… watch this. It doesn’t matter what “side” you are on, who you support, all that matters is The Netherlands Second. It’s really, really true.