Back to September 11:
My dear pal, Tom, calmly gave me a hug and drove me to Adventist.
They took me to a big open room and a bed between a couple of curtains. The surgeon and the anesthesiologist came and greeted me. An attendant took my clothes, and put me in some anti-clot stockings (which I found out later were several sizes too small.
In the operating room, the anesthesiologist told me "you're getting your margarita now" and a half second later, I was out.
I had expected to wake up screaming and to continue screaming until they tossed me into a broom closet to avoid scaring the others. Instead, there must have been some anesthetic still in me, since I woke feeling fine and talking to the nurse.
Eventually, I was taken to a private room, shown my big IV tree, and handed something with a push button--my pain drug pump. I decided I did not want the pain meds with their accompanying nausea. But just in case I might change my mind, I clutched the little pump.
It was a long first night, but not quite as bad as I expected. I had survived. I was alive. 'Nuf said.