My son,  Cameron arrived a few days ago in preparation to drive me to Denver and be there during surgery.  We’ve had snowstorms for two days and bitter cold. We only ventured out to get groceries, in case we would be snowed in. (No really.) We took a short walk just to get aired out. The rest of the time, he was busy with work and I was busy with prepping, cooking and freezing meals ahead for our return, when I can not do these things.

My little buddy came to have help with his weekly homework. My friend came to drop her two dogs off. Pumpkin and Max. They absolutely enriched our days. Other than that, nothing exciting going on.

Friday, after noon, I’d asked Cameron to give Julianne, Denver coordinator a call to ask how we’re progressing. Then, suddenly we have a date. After all that waiting, it seemed nearly too fast. As in, ‘oh, I’m not sure if  I’m ready for this!’ But, there it is. THE date. Pre-Op appointment is set for Wednesday, 11:00 o’clock in the morning. Anschutz Cancer Center in Denver. At that point I will find out everything.

This means, getting everything ready and set up for a Tuesday departure for the 5+hr trip. Hopefully, the roads and passes won’t be too stressful to get over. Luckily, we have a place to stay with a very generous lady, who offered her home to both of us.

I am ever so grateful to have my son there, to be my ears and common sense, when my brain turns to mush when I walk through those doors. To ask questions and to champion my cause. I will hang on to my daughter’s words, that I have her heart with me. I’m trying to figure out, how we can have her come, at least for Easter, so we can all be together for a little while. She’s so sad, that she can’t be here but we do understand.

Each time, that I’ve had surgery (meanwhile a few), I’ve had this fear of not waking up from anesthesia. At my surgey, ten years ago, to remove cancerous Ovaries and lymphnodes, I started to cry as I lay there IV in my arm, waiting to be rolled to surgery. My son was with me and asked why I was crying and I said “I am soo afraid of not waking up.’ I did, of course but I also remember the horrible pain.

When I was 8 and half years old, I had a tummy ache. Mom was getting ready to go to work, for a few hours and allowed me to stay in bed. (We had no babysitters those days.) I remember laying on the couch, vomiting vile and bitter stuff. Next day, I was already having delirious dreams. I do remember, vaguely, dreaming of large Gnomes. (Honest to God.)

When the doctor came, he pushed on my large, tautly swollen belly and quickly called an ambulance. I remember seeing neighbors gathered outside the apartment house, to see who was sick and I felt very important. I remember getting a thick- needled shot.

I’ve had ruptured appendicitis. Mom told me later, that it was already touch and go. Someone, meaning well in the most awful sense, had told her not to fret too much as she had three more children.

I remember waking up, in pain and after awhile, I felt overwhelming thirst. I’d asked the nurse for something to drink. I asked for peppermint tea as this was what I’d had at home. She said NO. I asked for something else but she said NO. Never explaining why not. After awhile longer, I just got up and went over to the faucet and drank …water. Lots of it. Well, the hoopla after that was bad. They rushed me somewhere but now I don’t remember what they did. (Pump stomach?) I remember, having this dream. I was walking toward a walled city. Everything was gold. Trees, houses, the river winding around, outside the walls, like a golden ribbon. Not made of Gold but like, evening summer-sun-gold. There was a bridge that I needed to cross to get inside. Suddenly, I heard my name . ‘Inge! I-N-G-E!’ I stopped walking. I woke to see my friend, Irene by the window. Since she was so young, she was not allowed to visit but I am sure that she saved my life, by calling me back.

After a few days without having a bowel movement, the nurse came with an enema bucket and hose contraption. At that time, I did not know what this was.  I had also had developed an abcess. When she tried to insert the hose, the pain was so excrutiating, that I screamed bloody murder and wiggled to get away from that source. Well, this nurse came from Haides Hell. She hauled off and slapped me in the face. Hard.  Then continued to ram this hose in. I sat in bed, sobbing when my mom came. She looked at the marks the 5 fingers left on my cheeks and asked how this happened. She took off. I could hear her shouting all the way. Mama-Bear. She went to the Administrator, she went to the Professor. She cleaned up!! I never saw this nurse again. (My daughter is a lot like her. The protectiveness is alive and well a generation later.)

After about a month, I was released. I needed to recouperate. So it was decided to send me to the country. Plenty of good, fresh air and wholesome meals. This was through the catholic ‘Caritas’. The small village was about 1 hr drive from Erlangen. Set in a very scenic and pretty village surrounded by forests, gentle, sloping hills. They call it the ‘Little Switzerland’. The little house was a kilometer or so, outside the village. Two nuns lived there. In their care was a small orchard with plum, apple and other fruit trees. Then, there was a small, lovely chapel. The ‘Sisters’ themselves were very firm and stern. (I suppose, never having had children, they just didn’t know how to interact.) It was not a good time.

My duty was, to ring the bell to assorted prayers. The length of the prayers, decided how long the bells wer to be rung and why. It all went well until another girl came. Then we both got into trouble because we were just not as pious as they expected of us. When we rang the morning vespers, we got to talking and rang and rang that bell. Village people thought there was a fire and ran outside.

When I was in Germany, several years ago, I asked my cousin to take me there. Pinsberg, fifty years later had not changed much. The village fountain, surrounded by geraniums and other beautiful flowers was the focal point. The houses, more modern and added on, white washed with brown balconies, with many, colorful flower boxes.

The Chapel still the same. Walking inside, the smell of  centuries of francincense. A beautiful, crochet, starched, white cloth on the altar as well as flowers. Even though not used much, it was still lovingly cared for. It was emotional to see myself there, as a child. We had lunch at one of the ‘Gasthaus’ there. It was the best Trout I’ve ever had.

I can safely say, that there won’t be any slapping in Denver.

 

 

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