Part 2 of 3 — start with Part 1.
I’ve had procedures like colonoscopies before, and I always remember the countdown — this time just a gentle opening of my eyes, and I’m in a whole new world from where I came from.
Not in pain, but far from comfortable. I can see a tube coming out from under the sheets — I dare not look what that is. Beeps all around from all the leads and wires hooked up to me.
If this was my first rodeo, I probably would have been freaked out, but I realized in that moment that “the worst is behind me”. While not over, I knew this discomfort would transform to pain, but for now, in this moment — I did it. I didn’t back out, I didn’t reschedule 100 times. I prepared, I was ready, I did it, I was proud.
My husband is shortly brought into my “room” (more on the quotes later).
My team starts buzzing around the room.
“Hi, I’m Sue, I’ll be your primary nurse.”
“Hi, I’m Monica. I’m your care provider (such as a better name than orderly).”
As they leave, my husband tells me that he had talked to my surgeon — everything went great — I was a champ — nerves were spared — all good news. I was so relieved, thinking that this nightmare was done and that once I got home, I could turn this into a dream like our fantasy of easy treatment at the beach.
And that’s when the pain started.
A resident doctor pokes his head in to introduce himself, tell me that he works with my surgeon, and that he’ll be checking on me — again, that 20-year-old face — eek — but again, a brilliant person that you can’t judge by age or looks alone.
The first thing he says to me is that this is a recovery room — recovery comes with pain — don’t be a “big man” and not hit that call button — that’s what it’s there for.
I sat there for a moment after he said “recovery room” and realized that this room I thought was a stopover was actually my bed for the entire stay. There I had two solid, but movable walls and a screechy old curtain to keep me, my pain, my catheter, and my dignity in check.
We sit through the next few hours intermittently getting “refills” from Sue and the team. Medications that were supposed to last 4-6 hours were feeling closer to 45 minutes, and the frequency was making me nauseous.
Tylenol Pill > Dilaudid IV injection > Oxycodone pill > Lather, Rinse, Repeat
OK — I wasn’t exactly prepared for this, but they don’t know my body and my gene mutation, and I don’t want to go into a coma or overdose.
I start to self-moderate the pain meds, then the pain gets worse. I can’t really move that much without hurting. My back hurts — my shoulders (that weren’t cut) hurt. I can’t get comfortable. If my legs are too high, my back hurts; too low, and my knees hurt.
What I wasn’t completely aware of was that during laparoscopic surgery, they “inflate” your body with CO2 in order to make their work area a little easier to get around. They deflate you, but there will always be some residual gas that needs to work itself out one way or another.
I’d read about this in my research and even read that the gas can be painful — I didn’t realize how much of an understatement that was going to be in my case.
On one of her check-ins, Sue highly recommended walking immediately. Everyone had told me that in the lead-up. Walk. Walk immediately. Walk as much as you can. That’s what gets the gears moving.
I pressed on the bed, hoping to have the strength to sit up, let alone go for a short walk around the recovery wing.
Nope. No. Full stop. No. Not happening.
I’m 6’5”, currently 205 lbs, built my entire body up to the best state of my adult life, and I can’t push myself up enough to sit up.
I kindly informed her that it wasn’t happening, and we continued on.
Did I mention that tube coming out of me… that was a catheter that I needed to be careful with that I had finally lifted the sheet to see. I will say, the catheter is the least notable portion of the journey. Relatively painless, just annoying and gross.
All of this was too much thinking for the day I’d gone through, but finally, a good suggestion — Xanax, something I already had a prescription for and was used to. I knew my dose — perfect — at least I can calm down and maybe get some sleep.
My husband wasn’t planning on staying in the room overnight because we have two cats with medical conditions that require an injection twice a day and specialized prescriptions.
You go home — I’ll try and sleep — see you in the morning, Love you!
As he gets just out of earshot.
SHIFT CHANGE!
New nurse — new care providers — new everyone — who have to immediately chat and cackle and catch up.
The nurse’s desk is about 20 feet from my “room” — without a semblance of soundproofing. That desk seemed to be a central hub for the comings and goings — so the other 10 guys around me (it seemed we were all urology patients) had to listen to all of their conversations. This also meant I heard every whine and yelp, every request for food, every blood pressure check, every single word reverberated around me.
This couldn’t be forever, could it? Is this just what it’s like?
Eventually, things did start settling down eventually in the middle of the night, but that lead-up was torture.
I got in my routine with the call button, and finally, the pain was relatively manageable. One more Xanax, and I finally get 2 hours of sleep.
6AM SHIFT CHANGE!!!!
All the commotion, all the patients start being woken up. People that were previously on clear liquid diets can now eat regular food, and they are all talking about how they can’t wait for 6:45 a.m. to roll around and the cafeteria to open up. All the commotion, all the frantic, all the anxiety, all the nerves start rolling back in, and just at that moment, I see the eyes of my husband, who has come to join me again.
I confess that not only is this moment the toughest of my life overall, that was literally the toughest night of my life. Between the drugs, the sounds, the anxiety — it was overwhelming.
For this first time in this process, tears started flowing, and they weren’t going to be controlled. There was no sucking it up and being a big man — this was an emotional breakdown caused by 2+ years of worry, months of planning, and now chaos surrounding me with no respite.
I tell my husband — as soon as Sue is back, I’m going to go for a walk — push through the pain — whatever I have to do.
Continue reading — Part 3: The Walk →