Part 3 of 3 — start with Part 1.
Sue shows up, and I tell her I’m ready — she knows better than me, but plays along and suggests we get a fresh round of pain killers in me before attempting.
She was right…
She helps me up about 45 minutes later, and wooooohhhhhhhh. Damn. I have a very creative vocabulary, and some interesting words were said inside and outside my head.
But — I do it — I’ve got my rolling cart that all my cords are connected to — I’ve got my catheter and bag — let’s do this.
I get about 3 feet outside my curtain and rip a very nice fart.
Ooohhhhhh, that’s why they wanted me to walk, to get the excess gas from surgery out.
I make a lap around the nurses’ station with Sue by my side — victory — but I’m so tired at this point. The previous week I was running 9 miles on the elliptical without stopping and now I can barely go 40 feet without wanting to collapse.
I get back to my curtain, sit on the side of the bed (for the first time) and say to Sue — give me 45 minutes and let’s go again. She knows immediately that I’ve had enough of this place and I’m suited up and ready to GTFO of here.
I’m sitting on the side of the bed with my head in my hands, I’m trying to do some structured breathing. I’m thinking about all the things I want to do when I’m finished with recovery, I’m really trying to just make sense of what just happened and what my future looks like.
At this point I know the nerves were spared, but what about incontinence, what about erectile dysfunction? We were weeks or months (or possibly years) from knowing how well my functions sustained through surgery — what’s it going to be like.
No. None of that matters. Just get home to your well-prepared guest room.
As I’m waiting for Sue to make her next round I’m hearing a loud conversation across the curtained hallway. An older gentleman had come in the previous day about the same time I did and his whole family showed up — despite it being 2 people max with him in the room. You could tell he was tired so most of the conversation centered around getting him comfortable.
He was some type of VIP, most likely a doctor or other professional, and they were profusely apologizing about not having a room with a door for him — if he wasn’t getting a door, I definitely wasn’t getting a door.
He was obviously feeling better today because the conversation was non-stop. I’d already heard them talking all morning, but it was just getting more and more incessant and annoying.
On top of the general disruption of peace, it was also clear this was a “high-achieving” family. Multiple members were doctors or nurses — a family business of sorts.
Now, I love most doctors and appreciate their skills and what they bring to the world, but I’ve found in families like this it also comes with a heavy dose of entitlement. My redneck ass has never met someone better than me and you better not try. You are not entitled to me being nice to you if you’re being an asshat.
I’m breathing and trying to get ready for my next walk and the conversations are getting louder and louder.
ENOUGH!
I wanted to scream “Shut the Fuck Up”, but I chose a nice, understated (but audible) “shhhh”.
Not a single decibel was dropped. Not a single member of the family even broke their sentence let alone the syllables that they were speaking.
You have at least 10 men — in pain — within earshot — most without family or friends by their side — and you’re talking and chatting in your very annoying sing-song bad valley girl accent — LOUDLY.
OK, that’s it.
“If you heard that shhh and you’re talking, it was directed at you”
0.000124ms my curtain flings open and I see an early 30’s woman staring at me in my gown and catheter and bluntly asked “Can I help you?”.
I notice she’s in scrubs and it all clicks, that’s her dad — she’s the problem.
I am not a wallflower — anger is not an emotion I have a hard time finding. I’m a kind person, I’ll help you change a tire on the side of the road at 3 a.m. — but I’m not always the nicest.
In this moment, in this place, in this time, with the last 24 hours under my belt — I earned my entitlement — I earned my attitude — I earned my peace and quiet — and this obnoxious woman was not going to get in the middle of that.
“First off, lose the fucking attitude. Second, you’re being too loud, there are supposed to be 2 people in there and I hear 5 voices.”
“There’s only two people in there.”
Give these people a voice-over contract because they can sound various ages and genders on command — it’s so impressive.
She starts to reprimand me and inform me that this is a hospital — no shit, Sherlock. Are we in America too?
You’re in a recovery wing — shut the fuck up — now. Unless you’re a patient or helping a patient — fuck off. Now. Actually, 30 seconds ago is when you should have fucked off.
I don’t (yet) know who this woman was or what, if anything, she did at the hospital — but all the thoughts went through my head.
What if there’s a shift change and now she’s my nurse — fuck that — life finds a way.
She clearly sees that she is wildly under-matched for the level of vitriol and snark that is possible from my body in this moment with the pain killers and emotions running chaotically through it. There were no limits to my vocabularic creativity and manifestation in that moment. I was ready to make her cry in shame.
As she flees to the safety of her own curtain, I start hearing beeping. Sounds had been going off all night, but this was much closer — it was in my room — it was me.
My body was so off-kilter that I had gone into tachycardia, and my heart rate was over 180. Within milliseconds, I saw what was actually possible there.
The charge nurse manager rushes in, then the care provider shows up, then my primary nurse, then the resident. I hit all the alarms, I guess.
My first words were “I want her name”. I was ready to be full Karen and talk to her manager — but for some reason, this seemed like a pretty legit reason.
The lead nurse had a presence about her. I hadn’t met her in the visit, but I already trusted her more than anyone else around me.
I told her I have bad anxiety, and that woman just wouldn’t shut up. The woman and her excess family were quickly ushered away from the wing, and apologies for not taking care of them earlier started.
I looked at the lead nurse and I said “give me 5 minutes, and I’ll get the heart rate down” and I did. I sat there, I did my breathing exercises, I focused on the things that matter like seeing my cats and being in my house, and I did it. My heart rate dropped slowly, and then by the end of 5 minutes, the chaos was over, and the team was closing my curtain.
Sue came back in to apologize. I hate when people apologize for someone else’s behavior — this was not Sue’s fault — but she was going to be my way out.
OK Sue — let’s walk again. We did another walk, it’s actually getting easier. The gas is coming off a little and I have a little more energy.
My resident doctor walked by as I’m out and about and I looked him in the eye and said “I’m ready” — he got it and the paperwork started.
An hour or so later I’m wheeled out with a few oxycodone, a QR code with instructions on how to clean myself, and a hope and a prayer.
My husband and I made the now nearly two-hour ride home in traffic. He’s avoiding every bump in the road, every crack, every crevice — but it’s not exactly helping.
We made it home — uh oh — I’m way worse off than I expected, I can’t exactly take care of myself and the guest room seems miles away compared to our primary bedroom.
Plans changed quickly, my husband reorganized the supplies. I apologized knowing that he wasn’t getting sleep and tried to get comfortable.
Over the next few days it’s a dance between knocked out or in pain. The more I move the less the pain is, but it’s a cycle and I just want out.
We realized quickly that there wasn’t enough oxycodone to last me, Tylenol doesn’t work for me, and I’m just going to sit here miserable until I’m not.
The next morning, my husband tried to get a refill for me but had to wait on the surgeon to approve it. Spoiler alert: the approval came the following Monday.
But… as the days went by, the pain lessened. The gas did truly start to evaporate, and most (but not all) of my pain with it.
I could finally see the light, so to speak.
7 days post-surgery was my scheduled catheter removal. It’s wild how time dilates and expands when you’re going through a lot. It felt so fast while everything else crawled by.
Once again — the catheter was more annoying than painful, but it’s a very obvious visual sign that you just went through some serious shit.
Getting the catheter out, they fill your bladder with water, remove the catheter, and then make sure you can urinate normally — I did — yay.
Another long car ride back home, along with every bump and turn, this time noticeably easier.
Each day from there got better. There were many two-steps forward and one-step back, but I got there — I did it — I got through the toughest week of my life.
It had been just over two years since my physician’s assistant found a “bump,” and in that time, I’d transformed myself into a person who can handle this — and did.
I’ve always struggled with self-esteem and confidence, but there was something about this process that made me want to talk about it where other guys don’t — if I can be strong and get through this with my head above water, I can also pass that strength along.
I’ve discovered people past and present in my life that I didn’t know were diagnosed; it’s something people keep very secretive — men don’t want to talk about the potential of their dicks not working.
But I firmly decided that I didn’t want this on my mind and that the last thing I wanted was to die from cancer, let alone be sick with it… and I made sure that wasn’t the case.
The journey continues,
-rp