Despite having to show up at 6 the fuck in the morning, being behind a horrifying collision on I-5, getting lost around the hospital in the dire combination of one-way system, construction, and dark; having to hike to various places around the hospital due to blocked entrances because of the early hour and construction, a lack of available wheelchair booking because early, and general WOEBUCKETS, the procedure was genuinely fun.

A highway sign informed us about the reason for the jam, so I'd called just before the maps rerouted us around the worst of the collision congestion. The person I reached was understanding (when I finally reached a person, through a different number, since the department didn't open until my scheduled surgery time). So when we arrived more than half an hour late, we were greeted with the emotion of "Hooray! You finally made it!" and an explicit thanks for calling, instead of the dreaded *glare* How nice of you to finally make it. *glare*

We got through the preparatory phases fairly quickly. I got into the gown. The non-slippers were mint green. "Seventh House colors!" I told Belovedest, cheerfully. I met the people. I chatted with anaesthesia, who had further questions about my breathing. (My greeting to them: "Hi! Would you like to see down my throat?" This was greeted with amusement.) My breathing is so much better now that I've got my nose fixed, oh man. I got the IV placed: no bad sticks, but they did bring in the guy with the ultrasound to look-see what was best. He had beautiful gauged earrings with lacy edges; when I complimented him on them he said they were mandalas, and then I could see that they were lotus blossom patterned. (The first would-be stabber gave a gasp of horror when I mentioned the Day of Six Sticks.)

My main nurse had asked me what I'd like in a playlist "to fall asleep to". I'd specified R.E.M., Nightswimming, as that's one of the core songs on my perpetual playlist that I title Late Night And Dreaming. This was apparently do-able. (Belovedest helped me grok what sort of answer was needed here.)

Jeff the Anaesthesiologist told me that I'd actually be sort of awake for the whole thing, but I'd be getting numbed and pain controlled, and I wouldn't be able to see any part of it, as they had a drape they'd be putting over my face. But he'd be right there behind me, monitoring me and keeping me comfortable, and talking to me.

I'd already used the bathroom, but the principle of You Shoulda Gone Before We Left is strong, so after one last trip there I rolled down the hall. It was a very short trip, and the gang was already there. They jacked the bed up so I could crabwalk onto the platform. I got armrests, a knee pillow, and my arms securely tucked in with a sheet so they wouldn't fall off the armrests when I relaxed. I corrected someone about my pronouns, raising it as a point of order, and after that my pronouns were correct aside from a "she -- sorry, they" -- perfectly executed.

Someone called "Time out!" and the crew did a huddle, going over my name and birthday, the procedure, and probably a few other things. Safety!

Things got going again. Someone started the music. Jeff put my oxygen mask on me and started my sedatives. Fairly soon I stopped being able to focus my eyes. I'd try to look at objects on the ceiling to count them, but my eyes kept drifting and correcting and drifting involuntarily, meaning I couldn't count the bolts on the ceiling-attached equipment. This was funny. I told Jeff, who cheerfully told me that this was a good sign. Somebody else, cleaning off my chest, remarked at the music, and started to sing along to the chorus.

Singing! To my favorite band! This was awesome. I started singing too.

I continued singing to most of the songs, just happy quiet singing and not performance signing. This was apparently very funny. Some of the 2000s songs I didn't know well enough to sing to. But throughout I was lying there, perfectly comfortable in my propped-up nest, with music that I loved playing, with good company, getting a procedure done that I'd need to start whaling away at my cancer with sharpened diamond points on platinum arrows, slung from a strong yew bow. Feeling no pain. No pain whatsoever. Just occasional pressure and people touching me and talking to each other.

Eventually Jeff said that they were done, and he was going to start turning off the chemicals. Somewhat after that, I could focus my eyes again, and could count things on the ceiling, which meant that I was looking up again rather than off to the side, and the drape had been removed. I was their first singer, but I hadn't sung the whole time; I had slept for bits here and there.

By the time I rolled into Recovery I was still happy but much more alert. My state of consciousness prompted the nurse there to raise me to full sitting position. I happily drank a cranberry and ginger ale and ate some applesauce. The resident, cruising through, had clearly expected me to be coming out from much more. (The guy opposite me was coming out from A Lot, and was also in a lot of pain. Poor guy.)

I was declared Recovered and out quite quickly, signing the release paperwork just before 10:30. Belovedest picked me up, after another few rounds with the one-way system and construction. While my nurse and I were waiting (she'd wheeled me out) we saw several people run afoul of the one-way system.

I located a spot for hamburgers. We found a parking spot somewhat nearby and ordered. That took a while (a catering order came in just about when we ordered) but as we were finishing up, I got a call.

Turns out the linear accelerator is having a bad day, and my doctor said that I can make it up later. So my new radiotherapy end date is the 22nd, which actually works out okay. It's a tiny occasion, and it will be nice to have someone with me to hear it when I ring the bell. So we went home.