I wake (yes, I slept!) amazingly calm and focused. Thirsty, hungry, dying for a cup of coffee (why do they place the Café Aroma stand en route to everywhere you must head in the hospital?)!
I feel rather like a lamb to slaughter — not the exhilaration of a new beginning or whatever other euphemisms some people cite at times like this. Quiet dread, calm with jagged edges … as ready as I could ever be, I guess.
In addition to my beloved husband, his sister and brother-in-law wait with me and then with each other, when they are no longer welcome. My girlfriend Janet comes after leaving work at noon, as does Tom’s childhood friend, Corky.
As expected, I cry as the IV is inserted and feel pukey as I always do with needles. I have to ask for the poor technician to distract me on one side while stuck in the hand on the other - but at least it provides a modicum of comfort to very alone, childlike and blind (without my glasses) me as I enter the final preoperative step.
I do remember blurry awakenings - people talking to and about me - strangers noting my vitals; that I was okay and one who talked directly to me, that surgery was over and I had done well. Before this I felt as if in a dream - ie. a slightly nauseating, hazy sensation that I had slept through something very important but couldn’t recall what.
But apparently I got an “A” anyway!
Later, I learned that there was trouble inserting my breathing tube which explained the very sore throat, raspiness; extra hour plus that I was supposedly in surgery and my need to vacation in the ICU my first night out.
Mostly I recall pain; dings and dongs of the nursing station; being woken constantly by nameless, faceless nurse-type people for various samples of assorted bodily fluids; and did I mention pain? Not horrible - maybe not even as bad as I’d thought it’d be - but perhaps that’s also because I was so wholly focused on other matters of complete misery and torment. Like being totally helpless; bloody and smelling; as nurses with various personalities come and go and I am constantly poked and prodded while unable to speak due to excrutiatingly dry mouth/sore throat.
And individual insults to my sense of peace and “safety” continued - an arterial blood gas draw that did involve a deep needle stick and hurt like shit; constant fingertip sticks that bled more profusely as coumadin was increased, and certain staff who shouldn’t be working in a helping profession, tested me in several ways.
Although I do admit I’m a wimp and would probably fold like a pancake if left to fend for myself or deal with pioneer or expedition realities. This was as close as I’d come voluntarily and by far, the hardest of my four hospitalizations to date (gall bladder removal; umbilical hernia repair; encephalitis).
But - I did it for the greater good and someday (certainly not now); I’m sure I’ll be glad about it!
April 28th, 2009 | 
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