Friday 22 May 2015
When I first embraced my post-surgery, heart-shaped therapeutic pillow, I wondered: “Did I have a teddy bear when I was a child? —probably not—I can’t remember!” Why? That question was the first one I thought of while hugging it.
Without it, coughing would have been more painful. One of the worst episodes of pain, post-surgery, was sneezing. No matter how hard I embraced the heart pillow, the pain was agonizing. Sometimes I sneezed, utterly unprepared for it. Crying also hurts more than usual.
I learned there are many, different kinds of pain: throbbing, radiating, stinging, itching, burning…. Sometimes, I felt simultaneously these different types of pain. The best analogy I could think of to describe the pain is: the worst case of sunburn is nothing to compare with what I experienced. I also learned I tolerate a lot of pain. A lot. Throughout my hospital stay, I refused to take Oxy, until I couldn’t bear it anymore. Taking Oxy felt like a disappointment. I feared becoming addicted. So, I took the minimal dose. The painkiller worked for 2-3 hours. Then, the pain returned.
My chest not only hurt; I had terrible back pain. I took medication for it. The muscle relaxant stopped working. So, I stopped taking it, rather than increasing the dosage.
Late night imaging tests, assessing for internal bleeding. Sleeplessness. Exhaustion. Then Doctor rounds. Breakfast delivery. And yes, there are different kinds of exhaustion.
Tubes in my neck. A drainage tube below my chest incision. Hospital beds are like medieval torture devices. I couldn’t lay flat. The chest stitches felt as if they were ripping apart (of course, they weren’t), and tossing and turning felt like strenuous daily exercises. If I slept for an hour, then I felt accomplished. Each hospital monitor beeped; therefore, there was no quiet.
“What do I need to do to get out of here,” I asked my medical team. Walk. “How many steps?” I asked. They looked perplexed. “Before the surgery, I walked at least 10,000 steps with my dog. So, how many steps?” I added. I easily walked around the entire floor—even walking through other hospital units. I insisted on not using a walker. I could have walked home.
Next, to go home, I needed the medical team to remove the catheter so I could urinate independently. I also needed to have a bowel movement. Your digestive system is the last organ system to reawaken after anesthesia. So, yes; I swallowed laxatives like candy. I’ll just say, doing so took time and endurance. Sitting down and getting up were tests of strength—not just physical. Until my medical team removed the tubes from my neck and abdomen, they also needed to disconnect certain medical lines and hook them to a mobile contraception for me to walk to the bathroom.
The third day tested my limits. Blood pressure was too high, then low. Monitors blared with numerous warnings. I lost two units of blood and needed a blood transfusion. I needed to give the hospital my consent to receive the transfusions. My blood was too thin, then not. I needed to transition from one kind of anticoagulant to a permanent one: Warfarin. Lifetime, daily Warfarin.
When I did return home, I couldn’t sleep in bed—laying flat was impossible for a while. I slept—if I can call it that—in a reclining chair.
And I thought I could have my surgery during Spring Break and still teach. Yes, total absurdity! I had forgotten the lesson COVID taught me: vulnerability, humility and patience. I (re-)learned another Nietzsche lesson: “Human, All Too Human.”