Life's full of surprises... as is your abdomen.

So, yesterday was the oophorectomy and the reconstruction continued (part 5?). I think at least 4 prep nurses came in, which was fine, since Dad and I are old hands at the pre-op prep. My name is Rica Mendes, I was born on June 20, and I'm here for thus-and-such procedure. I so wanted to tell one of the nurses, "My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die," but the last nurse to come in didn't seem like the "Princess Bride" type.

As always, Dr. Nordberg came in, on time, looking dapper in his suit and tie, pleasant demeanor, purple marker in hand. I felt like a road atlas after he was done with me - circles and squiggles all across my chest, under my arms, and a bit below. Dr. Ratner never came in - she had a procedure earlier in the morning that was running late. The anesthesiologist came in and explained he'd give me a TAP block, and additional local anesthesia to my abdomen to ensure the least amount of pain.

I never get over the walk into the OR. Not the actual walk through the hallway, but the entrance into the OR. The room is never as dark and calming as on "Grey's Anatomy." It's bright, you can see the sound-proof ceiling tiles, the floors are white with minimal splatters of iodine staining. Various nurses are attending to tons of trays, and the operating table is there, with arms out, a Hannibal Lecter looking mask sitting where your head goes, and the blue cloths all around. I get that flash of, "Why do I feel like I'm being mounted on a horizontal cross?" when the nurses help me up onto the table and put my arms out to my sides and tell me not to move. There is nothing to do but to stare at the ceiling and the four operating room lights with those weird handles in the middle of the bulbs. This anesthesiologist didn't play music like the others, so I can hear the clanging of tools and the tell-tale, "Ok, we're going to give you a little something in the IV and then some gas and you'll fall.... " And that's about it. I lose all sense of time. I lose all sensation. And I wake up in that awful fog.

I hate coming out of anesthesia. As a result, I'm usually fast to come out - once I start waking up, I'm up.

But not yesterday. I was in that loathsome fog for way too long. I was too sleepy for too long. I had no compunction to move. I couldn't stay awake. I was too unaware of where I was, and what was going on around me. I hated it. I forced myself to try and snap out of it. I saw my friend's little sister, Kara, a recovery room nurse, and called her over. I made her talk to me. But that wasn't enough. I felt bloated - like the blueberry girl in Willy Wonka. I was sore. Something wasn't right. I was parched. The saliva glands in my mouth were in pain. My lips were sticking too much to my teeth. My throat felt way too dry and scratchy. My dad and son kept coming in and out and I couldn't keep my eyes open long enough. I felt clammy. I felt sweaty.

I felt like shit.

Something wasn't right.

I asked to go to the bathroom, and I was walked to the bathroom. I could barely feel my feet. I didn't know if I was upright. I was overly disoriented,. This wasn't right. I got to the bathroom, and all I felt was cool. I started to feel a bit like myself. I didn't even have to go - I just needed to move. Walking back to recovery felt better.

It was too hot in the recovery room. It was too cozy. It was like a womb. I had to get out. Finally, we left, but I still couldn't wake up fully. I dozed off in the CVS parking lot as my dad and son got my meds. The warm, summer breeze felt good and lulled me back to sleep repeatedly.

Ironically, once home, I couldn't sleep. Percocet, Ambien and more, and I couldn't sleep. It was awful.

And today, forget about it. I felt inflated - still. My stomach hadn't been this rounded since I was pregnant. Something was just off. I spent time in the hammock. I couldn't go to the bathroom. I couldn't move without pain - pain focused on the right.

Finally, it got to be too much. I broke down and cried. I called the doctor's office, furious, that I still wasn't "right," that I was still bloated, that I still couldn't go to the bathroom after 2 days, and that she didn't bother to see me before or after the surgery. I was neglected and something was wrong.

After too long, earlier this evening, the surgeon called me. She explained that they inflated me with gas to be able to see my abdomen clearly, and that the gas would pass. She also explained that she had come to see me in recovery - she even drew me a picture. I have zero recollection. That sent me into a panic.

But then, the fun part - they removed a 3-4cm cyst along with my right ovary. That's not small. That's big. They were going to biopsy my ovaries anyway, but holy crap! I cyst! I panicked again.

Dr. Ratner explained they decided to check out my liver and other organs. All was clear. But that cyst on the right side was not easy to remove (hence, the extra pain). But the good news - it was benign. Everything was benign.

So I am further in the clear. But far less than whole.

Good? Bad?

Right now, I'm on Percocet, so I'm in no position to make any sound judgements.

No more Dr. Octopus! Just call me NED!

Thank you, Dr. Nordberg.

Thursday, March 1 was my surgical liberation day. After 15 days of wearing the same surgical vest (ok, I alternated between a couple, but when you wear a garment for 24-48 hours or more in rotation with an identical garment for another 24-48 hours, does it matter?), 2 drains sticking out of both sides, and surgical pads being held in place by sheer will, I'd had it. I was grouchy. I was angry. I was in pain (when I wasn't on pain killers). I felt that the drains owned me, and had a mind of their own. Yes, folks, I'd turned into Dr. Octopus - down to the sad little hair. I was a grimacing mastermind, who desperately wanted to sever my inorganic appendages as much as I was a master to them. But, on Thursday, after some Lidocaine shots, I was rid of these stupid drains. No more tubes sticking out of my sides that I could accidentally yank, no more strange things tugging at my insides, no more draining icky yellow fluid and praying there weren't any surges. The drains were out. And I could bathe again. (My apologies to those poor souls who, knowingly or unknowingly, were subjected to my rather Elizabethan sanitary standards.)

But, that was just the beginning.

Today I met with my oncologist, Dr. Tepler. Sometimes, it's a hard read with him. There are a lot of strange silences, unspoken questions, and a lot of moments where I wonder, "Should I say something? Is he going to say anything? Are we done talking? Did we start?" It was one of those days.

First, I walked into the Hematology & Oncology practice at the Bennett Cancer Center at Stamford Hospital, and was completely confused. The entire reception/office facility was planted firmly right in the waiting area, with their office space blacked out - renovations. But I didn't see the signs about pardoning any one's appearances on my way in. I was running a bit late, but with Dr. Tepler, that should have been fine as I'm usually waiting a good half-hour. But, to my surprise, he was standing by the desk, as though he'd just called my name. With a surgical mask on. I assumed that either he was sick, or he really didn't like the dust and muss of renovation. Turns out, he was sick.

While I was waiting to check in, he grabbed a paper and sat with us patients in the waiting area. I awkwardly sat next to him, unsure whether or not I should say hello or let him read his newspaper in peace - perhaps this was his way of relaxing? We sat, silently, next to each other for a moment, and I asked, "Should we head into your office?" He looked at me and asked if I'd had blood work done yet. I shoot my head and asked, "Am I supposed to?" He said that I am supposed to and that I was supposed to fast. It was news to me. I went to the desk to inquire about it, and Briana said, "Yes, you need to have blood work done." We both looked to Dr. Tepler, who stared back at us. After another awkward lull, I asked if we should wait, and he said to just skip the blood work. Then we did our usual shuffle back to his office - I start out following him, he stops/slows down along the way so I'm in front of him, I feel strange leading him to his office, so I stop and we end up staring at each other for a moment, then he steps forward, I step forward, and eventually, we politely allow one another to lead the other into his office.

I'd go into further detail into our appointment, but, it's patient/doctor privilege and, frankly, it was a lot of short questions and answers, silences, me staring at his computer screen as he clicks buttons and reviews my chart, quietly, and us looking at each other blankly.

You have to understand, as strange as this ritual seems, I appreciate it a great deal. First, it's terribly amusing. Second, I get why Dr. Tepler is so quiet and introverted. The man is a genius. He's that kind of quiet genius that, on some level, I have to wonder if he just forgets about the verbalizing step in the process because his mind is moving so quickly forward.

Anyway, after I felt that I had counted all the pores on what face was exposed beyond the surgical mask, I asked, "So am I in remission? I know I'm not cancer free for 5 years, right?"

He smiled (I could tell - his ears lifted the surgical mask off the bridge of his nose and the corners of his eyes wrinkled), clicked his tongue, and said, "Well, no, Rica, you're not in remission. You're in a much better state."

I looked at him quizzically, waiting for the punchline, forgetting with whom I was speaking, and grunted, "Huh?"

Dr. Tepler said, "Rica, your status is better than remission. You are 'No Evidence of Disease.'"

I asked, stupidly, "Well, I get that that's good, but that's better than remission?"

He smiled again and said, "Yes. It means that not only do all your tests show that you have no more cancer, but that we don't expect any recurrence. You have no evidence of the disease left in your body."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"But is that until the next body scans?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because does it make any sense for me to scan you, increasing your chance of new cancers, when I can tell you don't have any cancer left in your body?"

"So you can see that in my blood work? I don't have to have annual or quarterly scans?"

"Not unless you really want them."

"Oh."

"Yes. You're in good shape, Rica."

And that was that.

So, time to celebrate. I'm N.E.D.! Woo-hoo!

Would you consider making a donation to LIVESTRONG of $18 to help me celebrate my N.E.D. status?