Cancer No. 3

It’s official. Late next week, I am having a partial thyroidectomy at the same hospital where CeCe Halpert was born.

Well, no, not really. I googled “hospital where CeCe Halpert was born” and I couldn’t find anything, so I’m not sure if they ever specified the hospital during the show. But the hospital is otherwise very dull and normal, so I suppose, as always, I will have to make it exciting on my own

I met with the surgeon early last week. His office is part of an Ear, Nose, and Throat practice and, judging by the number of children in the waiting room, initially fooled me into thinking there is a pandemic of thyroid problems among America’s youth. Silly me. Forgot about those tots and their dang ears. Our meeting was brief and went something like this:

Surgeon (His name is Michael. This is a prerequisite to be a doctor in Pennsyltucky. My other two doctors are also named Michael.): Even though Ned is only on one side, I want to cut your whole thyroid out. You are also the whitest person I’ve ever seen, so your scar is going to be worse and it’s not my fault.

Me: No way, Jose. (Or, perhaps, Miguel?) I don’t want to be hormonally out of whack for the rest of my life. You can have the left side. I’ll tell people I was in a knife fight. Why does everyone have to remind me I’m so pale?

Surgeon: Whatever. I don’t care. Keep your right thyroid, pasty. Be that way.

Then he sprayed anesthesia up my nose and chased it with a scope to look at my voice box. It was awkward and unpleasant and if my life were a sci-fi movie, I would now have something growing in my trachea. (Are they even connected? My sinuses then, perhaps.)

I left the office feeling like I had a nostril of Novocain, but otherwise in good spirits: out with the bad, keeping the good, and hopefully avoiding a life addicted to Synthroid.

Later on in the week, I had to go to the hospital for pre-admission testing. It was wonderfully boring and involved no Alien-esque scopes or faux nasal drip. I successfully irritated both the EKG and X-Ray tech by moving and not moving at the incorrect times, but they still validated my parking, which by the end of the morning was all I really cared about. (There was also some blood testing at a lab that doubled as a Dharma Initiative set due to it's groovy 70's dinginess, but sadly, the grossness of the office was the most exciting thing that happened there.)

Am I nervous? Yes. That’s why I scheduled this whole party as soon as I possibly could. (Let’s be real. Nervous or no, after a year and a half of looking, I’m so ready to leap. Let’s cut this time bomb out.) Excepting my wisdom teeth, I’ve never had surgery before, although because of my wisdom teeth, I also know I am an anesthesiologist’s dream. The Doc says I’ll wake up with an oxygen mask on, which makes me feel claustrophobic just thinking about it. They may or may not keep me overnight. “It depends on how you’re doing,” the Doc says, which also freaks me out. (There’s a chance I won’t be doing well?!)

But other than nerves, I think I’m alright. I know lots of people are praying for me, which helps. I don’t really get how God operates, but I guess he knows what he’s doing, so I’ll hang in there for the time being. Visits, cards, and care packages full of coupons are always appreciated and, if you want a good laugh, give me a buzz when I’m still on the painkillers. I’m told I can be quite the entertainer.