As promised, I’d like to backtrack and recount the surgery experience … let’s go back to a kinder simpler time … June 15, 2009. I remember it like it was two months ago! T’was a cold and rainy day as the wife, kid and I drove from New London to New Haven for my scheduled 2:00 check-in time at Yale New Haven Hospital.

This hospital is an incredible mass of people scurrying about their tasks. Doctors, nurses, students, housekeeping, security, patients, and patients’ loved ones. You can tell by the eyes and body language who is a patient and who isn’t, who’s checking in or checking out. The people leaving seem generally happy, even if convalescing. The people checking in are generally apprehensive and wishing they were doing something else … anything else.

I am looking forward to having surgery so I can recover, but I’m also dreading it like little else I can remember. This was not elective surgery and it makes me wonder. I know there are some elective procedures that are probably advisable, but, the only surgery I’m EVER having is totally essential. I can’t think of anything crazier than frivolous elective surgery: eleventh-finger or eleventh-toe removal. (By the way, if you have six fingers on one hand, which is your ring finger and what do you do when you get mad at someone in traffic?) Or peck implants. Or nose jobs — and, believe me, I’m a walking advertisement for people who could use a serious Rhinoplasty. An old girlfriend of mine used to talk about my beak — that it could split wood — but going under the knife for something non-essential is not happening. Besides, in spite of my nose, I was able to marry a beautiful woman and my daughter was spared the “big schnoz” gene.

Anyway, on to the admissions waiting room. It was large and serene, with a couple of flat screens tuned to CNN and a report on President Obama holding a town hall meeting concerning his health care plan. How apropos! Everyone in the waiting room was quiet and talking in hushed tones — you could cut the dread and anticipation with a scalpel. One by one, the patients were “called up” and prepped.

Finally, the nurse called my name and we took the elevator to the 2nd floor. There, each party is met by a nurse who takes you to your very own little prep room. These areas are about 15’ x 15’ with an inviting and comfortable easy chair for the patient, and a couple of standard chairs for family. The atmosphere was sterile and professional. Though it might have been nice to lighten the mood, I’m not sure how I would have felt about a juggler or magician in the room. Maybe just some easy listening music piped over an intercom speaker. Soothing versions of Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” or The Stones’ “Some Girls.”

As with all the medical professionals we’ve dealt with, our nurse was very warm and reassuring, with a terrific smile. She ran through my vitals and was able to verify a couple of things I already knew: blood pressure? High. Pulse rate? Elevated. Knees? Weak …

On the modern technology front: the coolest thing I encountered in my entire hospital stay was the thermometer. To take my temperature, they swiped a wand across my forehead — no danger of saliva exchange here! If taking my temperature can be done with such modern accessories, imagine the selection of tools available to my surgeon!

Then it was time to disrobe and put on the hospital surgical gown. I also had to remove all jewelry, which for me consisted of a watch and a wedding ring. First time in 19 years since I’ve gone anywhere without my ring … a little strange. Imagine my surprise when I was told the surgical gown had warm air hose attachments into which warm air could circulate to keep me toasty. This was not your grandfather’s gown! It almost made the draft from the rear bearable.

The anesthesiologist then came by to give me the lowdown on the drugs, but first he had to ascertain the size of the opening in my throat to make sure the tubes they would soon be inserting would easily pass. I found out that throat openings come in sizes one-to-four, with one being the best and largest while four was the smallest (and often a problem). I was relieved to hear my throat was a solid three and should work sufficiently for passing tubes.

We went through a checklist to confirm my overall state of readiness before the operation, and it was all systems GO! One of the last steps was the IV in my arm. One look at the horse needle and my daughter almost fainted. She is not good with needles and, even at 16, we still have to force her to take shots when her doctor mandates. Seeing Dad’s soon-to-be-inserted railroad spike almost brought her down.

OK, everything was ready and off we went, rolling down the hall with me on a gurney and my wife and daughter close by until we got to the No Admittance doors. They swung open and I got a last look at my girls. I got a little sentimental and thought about how much I love life and my many blessings. How lucky am I to have such a great wife and daughter — two of my biggest blessings. I was crazy-nervous and tried not to think about Rod Serling, the “Twilight Zone” creator who died during heart surgery. How did that get in my head? Boy, I was ready for some drugs.

In the operating room was my anesthesiologist, who informed me he was giving me a feel-good drug to relax me before they put me under. Sweet — and sweet it was! I was suddenly so totally relaxed I couldn’t remember who Rod Serling was — and I was damned ready for colon cancer surgery!

Meanwhile back at the ranch, my wife and daughter had three hours to kill, during which they had lunch, shopped the gift shop, wandered the halls and, eventually, headed back to the waiting room. After precisely three hours, my surgeon, Dr. Walter Longo, appeared and pulled my girls to the side to tell them I was out of surgery and everything went well. They could go up to the recovery area and visit with me for five minutes, after which they’d need to wait for me in my room on the seventh floor.

I have no recollection of the recovery room, but Sara tells me I complained of pain and asked loudly how I should go about pooping and peeing since, as a result of my colon resection, I was now sporting a new Ostomy bag. I suppose I just wasn’t sure how to conduct “business” with my new appliance, but even in my drugged state I clearly didn’t want any problems.

In less than 30 minutes, I was in my luxurious double room and unloaded from my gurney to my bed. Now I could sleep it off, dreaming of a life free of colon cancer! The doctor said it would be five-to-seven days before I could go home to convalesce.

Little did I know that the real work of recovery was just beginning.

Next time: Hospital Adventures.