As I’m wheeled through the silver doors of the operating room, I begin to panic. I’m 15, and it is my sophomore year in high school. This is my first surgery ever, and I feel like I am in a living nightmare. My parents are also nervous, but they know I am in good hands. I’m their only child, so seeing me undergo surgery is scary for them as parents. They are doing their best to keep a calm exterior so as not to make me even more nervous than I already am. Before I can even think about it, the nurses guide me onto the cold, skinny, white operating room bed. They cover me with warm blankets. A few seconds later, the transparent light green anesthesia mask is put on my face, and I feel like I am going underwater with my eyes closed. My eyes become heavy and tired. Then everything around me goes completely black.

My dad is a podiatrist and has been practicing medicine for over 30 years. He’s done everything from the simplest splinter removal to complex foot and ankle surgery requiring anesthesia. I tell him how nervous I am.

“You’ll be fine”, he says reassuringly.

“But what if something happens? What if I don’t wake up?”, I ask in a trembling voice.

“The doctors have done this a million times. Don’t worry so much”, he replies as he turns on the tv. This does not reduce my anxiety levels even the slightest bit.

I was diagnosed with a rare, non-agressive type of skin cancer on my scalp in 2011. Soon after diagnosis, I underwent an MRI to see exactly how big the cancer was. Fortunately, it was only the size of a pencil eraser. After seeing countless doctors, my parents and I finally decided to see a cancer surgeon at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago. We met with the cancer surgeon (Dr. Wayne), and he agreed to remove the cancer. He said he would have to remove about a softball-sized amount of tissue, so we also saw a plastic surgeon (Dr. Kim) to discuss reconstruction options so that my scalp would look as normal as possible (relatively speaking) after the surgery. Dr. Kim told us that he could perform the reconstruction surgery at the same time that Dr. Wayne removed the cancer itself.

My surgery is scheduled for the morning of February 8, 2012 at 7 AM; however, we arrive at the hospital at 5:30 to start the preparation process. As we walk through the Outpatient Surgery unit doors, I notice the amount of chaos surrounding the unit. It didn’t seem like it was only 5:30 AM with all the noise. People are making phone calls, calming crying babies, and others are trying to escape it all by quietly reading a book. We wait for what seems like hours (although it was only a few minutes). My mind is running a million miles a minute with questions such as, What if I wake up during the surgery?, What if something goes wrong?, and What if I don’t wake up afterward?

Finally, a nurse calls my number (In the waiting room, patient names are omitted for privacy) and guides us to a room the size of a closet. From here, the day is out of my control, so I mentally brace for impact. In the center of the room sits a white hospital bed, complete with wheels so that it can be moved. On top of the bed, folded up, lays a drab green hospital gown, along with a fashionable pair of beige no-slip hospital socks. On the wall behind the bed sits an assortment of scary-looking medical equipment, such as an oxygen tank and various monitors.

After I change into my gown, the pace of the morning starts to pick up. I meet the anesthesiologist and nurses. They’re all wearing scrubs, gym shoes, and masks. So official and impersonal. I think to myself. I try my best to stay calm, but I’m not sure how good of a job I do of that. The nurses are all smiling and relaxed, but this is routine for them- it’s all new to me.

I look at the brown tray table in front of my bed to see an IV bag and a needle. When I see the needle, I immediately tense up. A male nurse in a dark green uniform walks towards me, and I start sweating uncontrollably.

“I want to warn you right now that I’m terrified of needles. I’ve never had an IV before”, I tell him.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine”, replies the nurse hastily.

I close my eyes and imagine myself lying under a palm tree on a beach in Hawaii. I smell the rubbing alcohol as it’s dabbed on my skin, followed by the prick of the needle in my hand, and then I clench my eyes shut even tighter. My heart is beating super quickly, and my palms are sweating.The whole time, the anesthesiology resident is holding my hand, which helps. She is very calming and reassuring.

“Don’t worry, everyone’s afraid of getting the IV put in. Heck, even doctors get nervous!” I let out a nervous chuckle.

After a few minutes, the procedure is over. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Good job,” says the nurse.

My next visitors are the surgeons, Dr. Kim and Dr. Wayne. Dr. Kim is a short Chinese man with black hair. He has a very cold demeanor and is soft spoken. Dr. Wayne, however, is much better. He is a white man with brown hair, and he is very warm and friendly. They mostly talk to my parents to make sure they understand everything. They talk for what seems like forever, and I don’t understand most of what they’re saying. I hear words such as “excision” and “margins”. I try to figure out what those words mean, but naturally I can’t concentrate on anything except what is about to happen.

  Next thing I know, it’s time to go to surgery. I am so emotionally worn down by the anticipation of surgery that I start to hyperventilate. Dr. Wayne notices my apprehension, and pats me reassuringly on the shoulder. After that, I calm down the slightest bit. I glance over, and Dr. Kim just stands there staring at me, with no emotion whatsoever on his face.I ’m terrified, and this is how you treat me? I much prefer Dr. Wayne’s demeanor to Dr. Kim’s. Dr. Wayne treats me like an actual human being with emotions, whereas Dr. Kim treats me like a piece of meat with no emotion whatsoever. He seems to lack the understanding that I am a teenager who’s on an emotional rollercoaster, and he makes me feel as if my emotions are not justified at all. Dr. Wayne does the opposite; by patting my shoulder, he shows me that he understands how nervous I am, and that my anxiety is justified. In my mind, Dr. Wayne is a better doctor than Dr. Kim because, in addition to being a good surgeon, he also has a great bedside manner. Part of being a good doctor is knowing how to appropriately interact with your patients and show empathy towards them, especially in situations like this in which the patient is vulnerable. In these situations, they need their feelings to be validated more than ever. One question remains in my mind: How could two doctors working together have such different demeanors?

The bed starts moving towards the hallway. This is it. I think to myself. We go down the unit’s hallway through a set of double doors. Beyond the double doors is yet  another hallway with white tile flooring and impersonal fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Right before going into the Operating Room, I notice a row of coat hooks, each with a white lab coat hanging on it. “You ready?” asks the anesthesiologist.

Do I have a choice? I think. “I guess so”, I say in a small, trembing voice.

  We go through a set of grey double doors to the Operating Room. At this point,  my mind is numb. I have moved on from worrying about the surgery, and have accepted that whatever happens is out of my control.
In the Operating Room, I see big, round, white lights and lots of people. They’re all talking to me, but I’m too mentally worn out to listen to any of them. The nurse guides me onto the operating room bed and covers me with two warm blankets. I focus on taking deep breaths to calm my nerves.

The anesthesia mask goes on my face, and again I start to panic. My eyes start to feel tired, and just like that, I fall asleep. That’s the last thing I remember about the Operating Room.

Next thing I know, I wake up in the recovery room. The surgery is over, and a different nurse is taking care of me.The nurse is african-american, and she is wearing a light blue uniform that consists of scrubs and a short sleeved shirt. I hear other patients waking up next to me, and some of them are very irritated and upset as a side effect from the anesthesia. It takes me a few minutes to realize where I am.
“How are you feeling?” asks the nurse while she takes me blood pressure for the millionth time that day.
“Like crap. Is the surgery over?” I ask groggily.
“Yes, and you did great. I’ll get you some anti-nausea medicine and some pain medicine”. The moment she said that, my heart rate goes down, and the butterflies in my stomach dissappear. I had gotten through the surgery, and the worst was over. All I had to do now was go home and recover. Right then, I realized that my dad was right all along when he told me everything would be fine. Even though I was really scared, I got through it.

A couple hours later, it’s time to go home. I change out of my horrid hospital gown as fast as I can. I get into the wheelchair and my dad wheels me to the car.

“Your personal transportation service has arrived”, he jokes.

The whole car ride home takes about 40 minutes, and it goes by in a blur since I still have anesthesia in my body. I struggle to hold my eyes open. I’m not really concentrating on anything except for how much pain I am in. It feels like someone is hitting me in the head with a thousand-pound weight.  I tell my dad, who says, “Don’t worry, we’re almost home. You can take something for pain in a few minutes.” A wave of relief floods over me when I hear that.

   When I get home, I am relieved to see the familiar pink walls of my room, and the site of my comfy bed is like a feast to my eyes. I pass out the moment my head hits the pillow on my bed, and I sleep for a few hours. I awaken a few hours later feeling a little less out-of-it. I’m a little less tired and a little more alert. I can now keep my eyes open for more than five seconds at a time.

A few days later, when I’m feeling back to my old self, my mom comes into my room and asks me how I’m feeling. She is carrying her teachers’ gradebook and a huge stack of first grade math papers that she is in the process of grading.

“Better now than before, although  I’m still in pain. My hair looks horrible with this dressing on my head”, I tell her. The dressing is yellow and looks like a sponge. It’s stitched on over the wound, and under the dressing is a set of staples that was used to close the incision. My hair is a mess, and it looks like I had a fight with a zombie and lost. To make matters worse, I am not allowed to wash my hair for five days, so my messy hair will not be going away anytime soon.

“ Your hair will look better in a few days when it’s ready to come off. Your dad and I are incredibly proud of how well you handled the last few weeks. Was it as bad as you thought it was going to be?”

“Yes, especially the anesthesia. But I’m so glad it’s over. Maybe next time I’ll be less nervous about needles and surgery. I think the first surgery is always the worst because you have no idea what to expect.”

“I know you’re less scared of needles, which is good. You used to cry when you had blood drawn, and now you don’t even shed a tear at the sight of a needle.Let’s hope there’s not a next surgery”, said my mom.