Three Week Recap

Feb 08, 2011

I said I was going to blog constantly, update the community and have this first part of my journey chronicled to look back on in a year (or years) to come.

I lied. But, here's a run-through of my life since surgery, starting with January 18th, The Big Day.

I checked into the hospital, determined not to think about what was about to happen for fear that I would bolt. I remember sitting in the preop bed, hooked up to IVs and in a very fashionable 12x gown (seriously? 12x?), fighting tears and putting on a brave face for my mom next to me, who was, shall we say, less than cool as a cucumber.

Rolling off to surgery was surreal. The first thing I remember thinking about the operating room was "This looks nothing like it does on Grey's Anatomy!". My doc wasn't in there, the nurses, anesthesiologists and techs were all female, and there was country music playing in the background. After a brief struggle getting my mattress to blow up enough for them to heave me over onto the very skinny operating table, I laid down and looked at the ceiling. This was it. Now or never. I didn't even have time to panic, as a woman at my side said "We're going to give you something to relax now.".

"Okay," I agreed, ready to break into tears. I didn't have time to get into a full tizzy. Three seconds later I was out cold.

The next thing I remember is waking up in recovery. This memory is very brief. A very dark room, a nurse with a blurry face and my mom walking in. I don't remember if we spoke. I don't remember anything until getting up to the room.

Ah, my room. When I got there, I had a senile roommate who kept screaming for the nurse, refusing to use the call button. Over and over, "Nuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuurse!" And when the nurse would show up, "I asked for green jell-o, this is red!". Good thing I was medicated.

Being that we live over an hour away and were in the midst of a bad snow storm, my mom left just after I was put into the room. I was hazy, in and out of it, but I noticed the clock on the wall read 10 o'clock. Funny, because I had my surgery at approx noon. That didn't occur to me, I just hoped my mom would be okay driving home at such a late hour in such bad weather. Later, when she called, she told me about getting home and letting the dogs out, having some dinner... still, my clock read 10 o'clock. I was confused, but not quite comprehending. I figured I must have read the clock wrong the first time. When I passed out again only to wake up to two very nice nurses, I was still perplexed as to the time. I finally mentioned it, and they had the clock changed. As anyone who's been in a hospital for any period of time knows, time drags by in the first place, there's no need for a sluggish clock!

At some point during the night, my roommate was taken away (hehe hoho haha) and I was blissfully alone. Except for the nurses who seemed to come in every half hour to check one thing or another. I was using my pain pump often, but the pain isn't very memorable.

The next day it was up and about. When the nurse told me I'd be walking the ten or so feet to the transport to radiology for my swallow test, I looked at it as if she had horns growing out of her head. What lunacy! I could barely see straight with the meds they had me on, and she wanted me to walk! A bunch of malarkey if I ever heard it. But I finally did manage to stand, and shuffle my way over. "This is only the beginning," I remember my not-so-fabulous day nurse say. "You'll be all over this floor when we get you back up." Images of myself either sprawled out on the tile or my guts exploding from my sore incisions 'all over the floor' flooded my mind on the way to radiology.

The swallow test went well, which meant I could start on sips of water. I was so thirsty, I had been using little sponges to keep my lips wet, but it just wasn't cutting it. All I wanted to do was stand in the shower with my mouth open and drink until the well ran dry. No dice, I got two table spoon cups that were to take me fifteen minutes to drink. Well, it was better than nothing, especially since my every attempt at bribing the nurses to bring me a big Polar Pop was thwarted.

My surgeon came in that day to visit. He asked how I was, to which I groggily replied, "Thirsty.". He was there all of a minute and a half, then blew out the door and left me to pass in and out of morphine-induced unconsciousness.

The day nurse that first day was, how shall I say, busy. Being in nursing myself, I can't blame one of my sisters for being overworked (and undoubtedly, underpaid), but I buzzed 3 times and waited half an hour for somebody to help my sore behind to the bathroom. This was a feat, as I was connected to every machine known to man and needed to be thoroughly unplugged before making the trek. Ah, well. C'est la vie.

Day two I met with the doc's PA. A sweet lady with beautiful hair, she was kind, patient, and there for more than 90 seconds. She was the first to tell me that due to the fact that my liver had been slightly enlarged, they had decided to keep one incision - the retractor incision - open in case of infection. Ah ha! The source of the majority of my pain, explained! So, the gaping abdominal wound under that dressing had something to do with the angry ache when moving, eah? I finally understood why that area hurt but nothing else came close.

With her blessing, I moved to clear liquids, and was told I could go home that evening. Oh, and I also got another roommate. The night before - around 8pm - a self-proclaimed night-owl moved on in the the bed over yonder and brought with her two kids, and two loud adults bearing Wendy's take-out. She, obviously, wasn't a bariatric patient. Funny thing was, the scent wasn't even enticing. Mixed with the scent of hospital, actually, it was kind of revolting. So I was left with my nasty beef broth, lemon jello and cranberry juice, all of which I finished, except for the broth - no beef has passed these lips in years, and I wasn't starting with broth.

For lunch it was chicken broth, red jello and grape juice, all of which I was able to get down. Did I mention they were served in these tiny little condiment cups? And it still took me a good hour to eat it all. But I was on a mission, you see - Operation Get the Hell Home. No food - liquid or otherwise - was going to keep me in that bed one more night.

However, looking back, maybe it should have. When I was released, it had been snowing for three days straight. I ran into my nearest and dearest co-worker on my way out, who was coming up for a visit. She came bearing a rose and news of bad road conditions. Boy, was she ever right.

Here, I should interject that my mom doesn't drive. Now, don't get me wrong, she can drive and is fully accredited to do so, however, she's disabled, we have only one car which I use primarily to get to work, and she hasn't really driven in probably over a year. So, naturally, an hour drive on icy, slick roads with semi's and 4WD vehicles whizzing past while snow and ice pelted my little Cobalt from above.... well, let's just say it turned into a two and a half hour trek, at the end of which I was too tired to even get my slippers or coat off. With a pillow clutched to my side, I collapsed on the couch ("Ow! When did this thing get so low to the ground?"), and slept there for a while until I could muster the energy to make it to my bed.


To be continued.....

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