Day One: Surgery

Get to the hospital early and get processed through. All very professional and not much time to get worried (I’ve never even had a broken bone before, so I was really apprehensive about the surgery, even though I knew it was minor). As I was wheeled in, the anesthesiologist called out, “okay, start the joy juice!” “That sounds pretty good to me,” I said, laughing. The next thing I remember, the surgeon(s) and nurse(s) were leaning over saying, “all done—and you’ll be all healed up in time for bikini season.” “Honey,” I said, fighting through the fog, “if I ever had bikini days, they are long behind me.” Then I was in the recovery room, where I heard a nurse say, “on a scale of one to ten, what would you say your pain level is at?” I said,”uh, an 8.” Immediately I felt something wonderful go right to where my pain points were and after dozing for a few minutes, the patient liaison came by and said, “oh, good, you’re awake. Can you tell me who’s out in the waiting room for you?” I told her Beloved, and she asked if there was a message she could deliver to him. “Tell him I love him, I can’t wait to see him, and tell him I hope my parents don’t keep him on the phone too long.”

The next hours were boring. They wanted to keep me overnight because my gallbladder was inflamed and had been pressing up against my liver, so they wanted to douse me with antibiotics through my IV to make sure all was well there. But, they couldn’t find a bed for me and they let everyone else in recovery take what opened up because “I was doing so well.” I didn’t feel so good, but I could tell from the noises around me that I was better off then my fellows, so it made sense. Meanwhile, outside the recovery room, Beloved was giving them the business, saying I couldn’t be comfortable so he was just going to take me home. I passed the day people-watching, too dull-witted to read, too much in pain to sleep (after the first IV pain meds, I was just given a low dose of Vicodin—again, because I was doing so well and the more with it you are, the better they can tell that you’re coming out of the general anesthesia). They brought Beloved back for only infrequent visits, which “vexed me greatly” (name the quote). At the end of the first visit, the nurse pulled back the curtain, catching me stroking Beloved’s face. “Oh, no,” she laughed, “I can see you turning red. I embarrassed you.” “No way,” I croaked, “I won’t be ashamed of our love.” She gave Beloved the side-eye and said, “please tell me that’s the medication talking.” Beloved laughed and said, “Nope—that’s just her.” Later, when I was the only one left, the nurses told me how well I was doing…I could walk back and forth to the bathroom with assistance. It felt painful and the only assignment I can give the pain is that it was like I had done 10,000 abdominal crunches, plus my whole body including all limbs were asking, “Dude, what the hell happened?” The nurses encouraged me to stand up straight, and I felt like I’d rip my insides if I did, but I did it as best I could.

By the time I got a bed, it was 11:30 p.m.—about 12 hours after I woke up from my surgery. I took my pain meds and went right to sleep. I felt very poorly at that point.

Oh, but I have to mention two things:

1. Nurses rock—this will have to be a whole other post.
2. They have these leg compression thingies. They go on your shins and they regularly compress around the bottom of your legs, then go limp. They are awesome; I believe it’s to encourage blood flow, since none of my limbs or digits ever fell asleep, and I was in bed for a long, long time.