Sleepless Solitude: The True-Life Journals of a Xanax'd Millennial (Part 1 of 2)

May 19

May 19

Surgery day!

I managed to squeeze in one last workout before Dad dropped Mom and I off at the hospital around 1 p.m. I checked in, did all of the pre-op tests, stripped down, put on my gown, and then had to wait until almost 3 p.m. for my surgery. I sent some emails during that time and chatted with Mom, as she was with me until I was taken into the operating room.

I always enjoy fucking with hospital staff just a little bit. I feel like they have such a shit job, dealing with sick or rude patients all day, so I like to joke around. Typically, they respond well to it, too. This afternoon, my humor landed me in a secluded seating area, featuring a comfortable leather chair and no sight of the crammed pre-op waiting room. Perfect.

Three different hospital staff members just about lost their shit when I told them how much water I drank this morning – and on a daily basis. Umm, excuse me? What's the problem? So, I had three liters of water this morning. Big deal. So, what? Who cares?

My hydration admission led to me needing extensive blood work to, "Make sure everything was okay." Everything was fine, but that didn't stop the anesthesiologist from giving me another lecture before my surgery.

"You really shouldn't drink as much water as you do," he said. "It can lead to brain swelling, and you could die."

Seriously? I guess you can have too much of a good thing. Much to my annoyance, the anesthesiologist also managed to openly question my anti-depressant medication in front of Mom. I was mortified. But, I had to keep my cool. I'm hoping Mom didn't pick up on his comment. Nobody knows about my pills.

Eventually, I was taken into the operating room. I hopped up on the stretcher, and waited for Dr. Europia as a variety of medical staff started attaching cables and tubes to my body. I call my doctor/surgeon "Dr. Europia," as she is this super dry, heavily accented Eastern European woman, who I'm not sure has ever cracked a smile.

I hadn't talked to Dr. Europia since December, so I took advantage of the brief opportunity and asked her a thousand questions. Imagine my surprise when I was told that I would have a pin sticking out of my toe – for six fucking weeks! I thought it was two! That was a lovely surprise just before I was about to go under. Shit.

A nurse switched my IV to begin the sedation process. I started getting a little panicky. Then, because I think everybody is in on the same joke, the anesthesiologist asked me, "What do you do for work?"

"NOT MUCH!" I shouted back. "I'm unemployed."

As the cold liquid from the IV spread through my body, I could feel my arm going numb. A nurse put a breathing mask over my mouth. Just as I was closing my eyes, the anesthesiologist whispered, "Have a good sleep."

Right before I passed out, I thought about dying. The idea hadn't even occurred to me before the surgery. But, lying on the operating table had me thinking, "What if I don't wake up?"

Obviously, I knew the odds were very slim. Nonetheless, it was a weird thought. I realized that I hadn't laid out anything that I want to happen in the event that I should I die. I then thought to myself, "Have the doctor tell RX that I love him." After that, I was out. I don't know why RX was my last thought. He's something I just can't seem to shake, I guess. RX was my last thought before my sympathectomy as well, but that was also three years ago.

Back to the "what if I die" thoughts. I think this is why I write. Should I die, here's my list of demands:

· I would want these journal entries to be shared with everyone I know. All of my writing typed up, compiled, and released to the world. Every thought and day of my life, for better or for worse. That's what I would want. I believe my journal entries are more open and honest than any "last words" I could ever write.

· I would want Mariah Carey played at my funeral, at which there would be a lot of alcohol.

· I would want an emission-free funeral, free of any chemicals or substances that would harm the planet.

· I would want to be buried as one of those "body trees," where your ashes or whatever are planted with a tree.

I'm thinking about all of this now. Why a tree? Why release my journals? I think it's because having my writing out there, or being a "tree" – of which I am fully aware sounds ridiculous – would keep a piece of me here. I would be able to leave something behind. Maybe my writing could even help people through something. Whatever it is, "Kurt" would still be around. Not just an ever-fading memory.

I woke up in the post-surgery room. My nurse was not having any of my bullshit. After I asked for prosecco, to which she was extremely offended, the first thing she said was, "Do you remember the doctor talking to you about how much water you drink?" Let me live, lady! Good God. I felt like that crazy old lady in Happy Gilmore yelling, "GET! ME! OUTTA HERE!"

After a lot of deep breaths to shake off the anesthesia, and more of my jokes not landing with the nurse, I was taken to post-op. Mom came and met me there. My new nurse in post-op loved me – and my jokes! Although the nurse didn't have a "single doctor" as I had requested, she did bring me banana popsicles. Much like my mother, if something is free, I want it. My tax dollars are paying for those popsicles, damn it!

The whole thing with this foot is that it's just more of an inconvenience. It doesn't really hurt all that much, but I can't put weight on it. Nor can I slide the bulky dressings through slim pant legs, or wear shoes. Everything else is fine. I'm functioning normally, so this should be an interesting six weeks.

Mom and I stopped at Walmart on the way home to get my pain medication. After that, we returned to Casa Z. I set up shop in the TV room, which is pretty much where I stayed for the rest of the night, watching movies and eating food – including the box of chocolate and banana popsicles Mom bought me at Walmart. That was about it.

Natasha is obviously still recovering from her surgery, too. We were texting a bit this evening, and will arrange a play date soon so we can watch movies and be on our meds together. I always find it funny how our lives seem to sync up all the time. Even our post-op appointments are on the same day.

Tonight, I watched Sleeping Beauty. I fell in love with love again. I'm glad I woke up from my surgery. I've still got a lot of stories left to tell – and make.

Goodnight xo