Discharge

     By Thursday, the drains were ready to come out.  It’s a weird feeling, kind of a slithering sensation as they literally just yank them out.  A young social worker from my surgeon’s team stopped by to ask the usual pre-discharge questions.  “Do you live alone?” “do you have stairs?” etc.  I know my answers will make them nervous – I live alone and I have stairs – but I am careful to downplay both so they will let me go.  Being discharged earlier than expected has Misty frantic about finding someone to pick me up, but I really want to be home with my cats – and my correct meds.

    She could see I was not in a great mood, so I explained about the Vilazodone, and the random swollen spots on my head, and the extent of the numbness and the issues with the brace.  A passing aide overheard the part about the brace slipping over my face while I am sleeping and says “I noticed that.”  Since she seemed kind and understanding, I also told her about the naked skin exam and she was startled and suggested I contact patient relations.  I told her I know the VP for LGBTQ affairs at Mt Sinai, a lesbian psychologist, and that I would follow up with her.

   The social worker noted down my complaints and then asked me about my work.  We were still talking about social worky stuff when a young Asian nurse hesitantly poked her head in, and the social worker left to give her space.

   “I didn’t want to interrupt while you were with the social worker,” the nurse said.  “We were just talking about social work,” I reassured her. “My husband is thinking about social work. He’s in finance and he hates it, he feels like he isn’t helping,” she told me. “In fact, finance is causing a lot of damage I say,” and she nods. “He’s been volunteering on the text hotline to see if he likes it.”  “I feel like it’s a career that won’t be easily replaced by AI,” I said, “because people need connection.”  “I hate AI,” she replied. “It’s destroying the planet. It uses so much water. I tell people, ‘look how hot it is, do you think you can survive without water?’” “And people use it for the stupidest things,” I added.  “Maybe it would be ok to have if it were limited to really important things like cancer research. But wasting all these resources to do little things?” “I know the world was always messed up,” she says “but it feels like it’s getting worse, like the billionaires are taking over completely.” “That’s why I protest,” I tell her.  “I really enjoyed blocking bill Ackerman’s front door.” “I’ve only been to really big protests like No Kings,” she said. “I’m involved in those too- I’m a lead marshal in the back.”  

   Just as I was telling her to check out Rise and Resist, my surgeon arrived.  He felt the sore spots in my head, and said “that’s probably from the pinning.”  “Pinning?” I asked, my mind full of images of dead butterflies pinned to a collector’s exhibit.   “We do it to immobilize the head during surgery,” he said.  Later, I looked up the device he told me about and it looks like a cross between woodworking clamps and a torture device.  The “pins” are pointy tips that actually pierce the skin as part of holding the head still.  I told him about the extent of the numbness, and he told me that the nerves will probably slowly recover, at least to some degree,

    He looked at the brace, and then sent for the brace specialist.  After some discussion, the brace specialist came back with a “Miami J” – the same brace I wore for my last surgery.  He told me again that they had gotten the whole tumor out and I asked if there was a chance that it would grow back.  He couldn’t give me an absolute no, but said it was very unlikely.

    I still had one more bag of IV antibiotics to take when Brownie showed up.  I was surprised how much of a relief it was to see a familiar face.  He settled in the chair across from me, joking with the brace guy about how the collar needs ruffles.  

    Eventually a guy with a wheelchair showed up and brought us down to the lobby.  Brownie tried to order a car, but for some reason it kept cancelling, so eventually we climbed into a battered green taxi with a driver who barely spoke English, and set off for Brooklyn, every bump and jolt in the road sending pain through my neck light bolts of lightning.  We didn’t make it very far before the driver stopped and began fiddling with the controls on his dashboard and then told us the car had broken down.  He hopped out and waved down another cab for us to switch to, and we continued on our way.

    When we got to my house, I gave Brownie directions and he headed home, while I opened my door and stepped into a mob of anxious cats swirling around my ankles.  First things first, I fed everybody, and then made my way two blocks to the brand new pharmacy, where the pharmacist handed me a bottle of Flexeril, a muscle relaxant, and then asked if I wanted the Oxycodone.  I don’t like opioids, and I usually only take a small piece because they knock me out, but I knew I was going to need them for a few days.

   Back home, I took the meds and fell into a deep sleep, oblivious to the cats arranging themselves around me, Connor carefully getting as close as he could while avoiding the strange plastic thing on my neck.