Last November, I found myself for the second time in a Manhattan doctor's office.

I sat in an exam room, alone, with an operating gown on, a net over my hair, and some really cozy slippers on my feet.

I was there early, at 7 a.m.

A nurse came into this tiny exam room to ask me a series of questions before I went under anesthesia.

She started with the basics.

How tall are you?

Uh, five-five.

Did you empty your bladder?

Yes. She took my blood pressure. Yes. She took my blood pressure and told me what I'd be in for after I had this small surgery.

A lot of people have the bloating, the pressure, the cramping, the lower abdomen, the thighs, the back, the buttocks, right?

Mm-hmm.

So the pain medication will kind of numb some of that cramping, the thighs, the back, the buttocks, right? So the pain medication will kind of numb some

of that cramping, but like pressure and bloating, and not so much, okay? Now, I do have people

that come out and they're like, oh, I don't feel anything. Yeah, I did this once and I didn't feel

anything. Okay, and then I have people that come out and they feel horrible, and it's different

every time. Okay. About 15 I have people that come out and they feel horrible, and it's different every time.

Okay.

About 15 minutes later, I was brought into an operating room. A mask was fixed to my face.

I breathed in deeply and faded under the anesthesia.

When I woke up about a half hour later in the recovery room, I was in severe pain.

It felt like my insides had gone through a blender, so I was given fentanyl through an ivy.

I was there on that chilly November morning, watching the liquid slowly drip through the tubes and into my arm, feeling hazy from the drugs.

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