TheBanyanTree: SI - One Week Report

[Monique]

Today is the one-week anniversary of the loss of my left ovary. Let us
bow our heads for a moment of silence.
 
I'd say I miss my ovary, but so far I can't tell it's not there. And
whatever else that was in there with it, I can't say I miss that either.
I would think, with all that out of me, I'd have lost weight, but
instead I've been all puffy and bloated. This ain't right. This is the
way I see it: They go in, take out unnecessary and irrelevant items are
that either there without permission or attached to something that's
there without permission, and I should be SMALLER afterwards, right? 
 
Yeah, my theories are often wrong. 
 
Anyway, it was one week ago today that I submitted to Western medical
care and allowed someone with sharp instruments close enough to slice me
in half. Okay, so technically not cut quite in half, but that's
semantics. We checked in promptly at 11:30, as we'd been told, and I
hadn't eaten since the evening before. I would have thought that the ban
on food and drink could have been extended past midnight since I wasn't
scheduled for morning surgery, but nooooooo. So at 11:30 I'm getting
hungry. Or I would be, if I wasn't thinking about someone deep in the
bowels of the hospital sharpening their scalpels in preparation for the
afternoon festivities. As it was, I didn't really care. I just wanted it
over.
 
I got a window bed. That's very important, when going into the hospital.
One wants a good view as one's laying there, after all. Lots of trees
outside my window. People kept introducing themselves. "I'm Nancy, and
I'm your nurse." "I'm Debbie, and I'm your other nurse." "I'm Sheila,
and I'm your other nurse." "I'm Joe, and I'm just here to pick up the
trash." I then introduced everyone to everyone else, only to find out
they'd already met. 
 
For people who were co-conspiring against me, everyone was terribly
cheerful. But was I worried?
 
Damn right.
 
We read for awhile, to pass the time. Until someone came for me.
 
A large person in black, carrying an axe with which to chop off my head
. . .
 
No, wait, that was something else.
 
I was wheeled away, and my significant other told where to wait while
secret experiments were underway. I was subjected to persistent poking
for the IV - quite an intensive project, that putting in an IV. I was
then wheeled away to a room that didn't look at all like the clean shiny
surgery rooms on TV . . . oh sure, it was clean, but it looked smaller.
I was urged to think of a beach, a nice warm place where there were no
sharp instruments poised over me . . . 
 
The next thing I remember, people are talking about me right in front of
me, as if I weren't even there. Perhaps I wasn't there. I'm not really
sure. Blankets, lights, people asking me questions. "What year is it?"
"1975" "Do you know where you are?" "Pittsburgh." "Do you know why
you're here?" "I was abducted by aliens?"
 
I was pronounced fine. I'm not sure anyone was listening to the answers,
but that's okay. I think the idea was to find out if I was coherent. I
was told the operation was a success and that I lived through it. Well,
I could see that. Even my most perverted visions of heaven don't bear a
resemblance to post-op. 
 
The rest of the day was passed in a haze of morphine and pain and not
moving. I was propped on my side, I was positioned, I was given lots of
ice chips, I was immobilized. When my regular nurse came into my room
and started looking at how I'd been sent over from post-op she about had
a fit. Blankets. And blankets. I was swathed and wrapped and covered
with what looked to be fifty or so blankets. I wasn't having a problem
with it myself. I was perfectly happy to be just a big ball of blankets
where nothing could touch me, but she was having none of it, and she
remade me. 
 
My significant other was there. He was there when they wheeled me out of
post-op, waiting in the waiting room, he was there in the room. He told
me it went well. Later he would tell me he'd been rather concerned,
since it was a big day for these types of procedures and the two
notifications that had come before mine had not gone so well. Full
hysterectomies, with who knows what else. 
 
The next day I ate breakfast. Breakfast! I was still supposed to be on
liquids, but I convinced them that solid food would be a better idea.
Cheerios! French toast! (well, one slice.) Bacon! (One slice. Rather
stingy with the food.) Orange juice! I ate everything. I was starved.
All of my equipment was detached and I was freed from the tyranny of
machines. I even got up, though it really wasn't fun at all. 
 
I talked to friends and a couple of clients on the phone. I read one of
my two books I'd brought along for just this reason.
 
I awaited lunch. 
 
Lasagna. Green beans. I ate it all.
 
I rested. I missed my morphine drip. I adjusted to oral painkillers. I
got up again. I strolled through the unit. I talked my doctor into
releasing me early, that night, after my significant other would get off
work. (When notified of my early release, he was amenable, happy even,
but did say, "But I haven't even had a chance to clean the house!" I
told him I'd overlook that little faux pas - I just wanted to go home,
even though my bed at home isn't capable of all the tricks my hospital
bed was.
 
I watched bad tv. I got flowers from a client. I napped. Throughout all
this, people kept stopping by to check my temperature, my blood
pressure, my psychosis. I was noticeably psychosis free, which is
unusual for me. 
 
Throughout all this, everything hurt. 
 
I awaited dinner. I was starved after a day of . . . well . . . doing
nothing. Salisbury steak! A mound of overcooked spinach as big as my
head! A dinner roll! The only edible thing was the dinner roll, and that
was only saved by butter. 
 
I awaited my significant other's arrival. It was his first day at a new
downtown location for his company, and the first day of carpooling, and
he didn't get off work until 9 pm. Just before ten I was dressed, and
ready, perched on the side of my bed. I'm not saying I was in a hurry to
get out of there . . . and I saw him walk in. 
 
Did he come in to my room? Nooooo, he stopped at the nurse's desk
outside, pulled up a chair, and sat down. Then began asking them
questions. How was I doing? Had I been eating? What should he feed me?
What should he do for me? And even . . . horrors! Had I had a bowel
movement yet? He is nothing if not thorough. I finally launched myself
off the bed and went off to save the nurses, who were by that time
trying to talk him into counseling another patient who needed to stop
smoking . . . .
 
A nurse packed up all my belongings, including my hospital provided
water pitcher, my breathing exercise thing, my plastic washbasin, my
cup, and my flowers. I declined a wheelchair. And out we walked. Or
ambled. Or did something so slow that it was hard to tell we were moving
at all, but we were. Since this was such a late release, one of the
latest they'd had, we had to exit through the emergency room after
picking up my meds at the pharmacy. I was free! 
 
And I'm still not able to run a marathon, or walk the dog, or vacuum, or
travel to far off lands to visit cool people, or bear children, or
drive, or ride a bicycle, or play the clarinet, or withstand 68 pounds
of puppy on top of me, or go out in a rowboat or a canoe, or even,
heaven forbid, work. None of that is within the realm of possibility
today. But soon. The easier things first, the harder things later. I
think that's one way to do it. I don't know - maybe if I tried the
harder things first? No, maybe not. This afternoon is scheduled pretty
heavily: I'll make myself a smoothie, drink some more water, work on the
book project, talk to do the dog, consider starting back to work on a
limited basis on Tuesday (our weekend goes through Monday), and try not
to think of the million things clients are waiting for that I should be
working on right this minute. And a nap. I'll probably have a nap. This
is hard work, this recovery.
 
M