My first surgery since an appendectomy in high school.

In the years hence, they haven't done much to improve the experience.

Oh, I shouldn't say that. They have this neat thing now called laproscopic surgery, which makes just three little marks on my abdomen (one just above my belly button) so the surgeon can remove one of my enlarged lymph nodes for pathology tests.

My enlarged lymph nodes are mesentary lymph nodes. What does that mean? It means they're on the mesentary. Okay, seriously, it means they're on--as the surgeon described to me--an apron of fat that essentially surrounds the colon. So, it's not just like cutting into the skin and yanking out a lymph node--these are pretty deep, behind a couple of other organs.

I feel pretty good when the time to operate rolls around at eight in the morning. Terry, who is a pastor at a local Vineyard Church, prays with me and Nancy before the procedure. It's nice. This is why I like Catholic Hospitals; they have someone who prays for you before surgery. And I'll take all the prayer I can get.

Then Dave, who we jokingly refer as our Family Anesthesiologist, pops in to start my IV. Dave is a friend of the family, and has been the anesthesiologist for surgeries for both my wife and my daughter (tonsils removed, in both cases). So, when it's time to go under my knife, I request Dave.

After the IV is in, the nurse gives me a shot of Vercid (I think that's the correct spelling), telling me it will take effect pretty quickly and make me forget what's going on.

Good stuff, that Vercid.

Within about five seconds, I can see my vision going. "Whoa," I say to my wife. "Things are already getting blurry."

This is the last thing I remember saying until I wake up at 11:06 in the recovery room. And how do I know I wake up at 11:06? I'm parked right next to a big old digital clock on the wall, and it's the first thing I see when I open my eyes. I'm told everything went well, then asked how I feel.

I feel a little woozy, I tell them.

They give me some anti-nausea medication.

Several minutes later, they ask how I feel again. I feel even woozier, I tell them.

They give me some anti-nausea medication.

We repeat this scene three more times, until I've been given five different anti-nausea medications. By this time, they're allowing family to see me, which is really perfect timing. I feel more nauseous than ever, and I have people wanting to see me.

And so, shortly after my dear mother enters the room and asks how I'm feeling, I tell her I'm doing great and promptly do my best impression of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Immediately after my episode of projectile vomiting (I think I might have a shot at the Olympic team), I feel much better--something none of the five anti-nausea medications has been able to do for me.

About 2:00 in the afternoon, they ask if I'm ready to go home. I say that I am, and my wife pulls the car to the front of the hospital. What I do not tell her or anyone else--until much later--is that I have an odd sensation.

It feels like my brain is itching, and I can't scratch it.

That sensation lasts until 6:00 pm in the evening, as I drift in and out of sleep, and then suddenly breaks. Like a fever, really. One moment, I'm having an itchy brain; the next moment, I'm having some chicken broth.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully enough, but I do take advantage of the opportunity to ask my wife to run to Cold Stone Creamery for an Oatmeal Cookie Batter mixed with cinnamon. I go for the "Love It" size. What the heck; I've had surgery. I can have the "Love It" size.

Now, it's just a matter of waiting to see what the lymph node biopsy says. "Waiting" being the operative word here.