The day before surgery I got a call from Hopkins. The location of my surgery was being moved from the Cancer Center to main hospital. I’d had little to no interactions with the main hospital, but I didn’t like this. I asked if I’d be doing my recovery time in the Cancer Center and I was told this was “a good possibility.” I didn’t like that either. Cancer Center meant private room; probably main hospital didn’t. The Cancer Center is posh, as in new Vegas casino posh. The main hospital is much less so, as in old Strip casino much less so.

Lisa and I reported to the GOR (General Operation Room, at least I hope that’s what it means) and I went into prep. This was the other side of Hopkins – the Hopkins of Jules, our ER doctor friend who has an ever-expanding collection of fucked-up stories about her patients’ fucked-uppedness. I’d yet to experience this.

The prep room is a series of curtained off beds. No privacy for the moments leading up to what might possibly be one of the most traumatic events of a person’s life. Lisa and I were a bit nervous, but we’d been counting down the days to this. We wanted to be there. The poor woman to the left of us most certainly didn’t want to be there, and we got a full blast of sadness (drug abuse history, slurred speech from a stroke, bipolar, lashing out at the nurses and doctors) mixed with humor (a piercing she wouldn’t let anyone remove except by her boyfriend, who couldn’t get it out either). Jules’ joke about this situation is that the other people aren’t really patients. They are there to distract you from your own impending surgery, if your insurance covers it.

I don’t remember much after kissing Lisa goodbye and being wheeled into the operating room until I woke up in recovery. The room in the Cancer Center was available, so I was taken on a long ride through the halls from the main hospital to a comfy spot a few doors down from where I’d stayed during the first visit. Lisa was there waiting or came in right away, I can’t remember which right now.

It all went off perfectly. I had some pain, a temporary PT drain on my right side, and nine wicked-looking staples in my stomach where the stoma used to be. Now I needed was to learn how to poop again. You know what the first step is, right?

Learning to fart.