Leading up to my surgery I received a lot of advice. Most of it scared the crap out of me. One family friend who meant well started off his well wishing saying he had been through the same thing a few years ago. He said I shouldn't get too worried, because after they removed his testicle, they found out it wasn't cancer after all. I had already come to grips with the fact that I was going to lose a "boy", but I was certain it was for a good reason so I wasn't too worried. I know he meant to tell me not to worry, I may not even have cancer, but what I kept thinking is "they are going to take out one of my testicles, and they don't even know if they have to?" I would hope they did not just randomly chop off balls on the odd chance one may have cancer inside. Me and the boys have been through a lot. I will be tough saying goodbye to one, especially if he is moving out for no good reason. As if that wasn't enough "advice", I get warned that the bandage removal is worse than any of the surgery. Great, something else to look forward to.
The night before I wasn't tired at all. We had to get up around 4am to start getting ready, and even at 2am I am wide awake. I figure I should probably at least try to get some sleep, something that has been hard to do ever since the diagnosis. I lay in bed, thoughts swirling through my head. I still didn't sleep much. The morning came way too soon. We hop in the car and head to the hospital.
I start my prep, and lay like what seems an eternity in the hospital bed. Obviously, the nature of the surgery has me naked except for a flimsy gown, and in typical hospital fashion, the average temperature in my room is just slightly warmer than a Canadian winter. They talk about how hot a day it will be outside, while I ask every nurse that walks by for another blanket. Soon I look less like a patient and more like a pile of laundry. I don't want to be here, I don't want to do this. The advice I got keeps echoing through my head and I contemplate the consequences of just walking out.
The anesthesiologist comes in and gives me some "calming" meds in my IV. She is nice for a gas passer and soon we head to the operating room. The team starts gathering around me and the nice gas passer gives me the good stuff. I drift off knowing that the poison will soon be gone and I will be on the road to recovery.
I wake up dying of thirst. The funny thing about strong painkillers, your inhibitions go out the window. Where a normal person wouldn't scream over and over again that they are really really thirsty and would kill to get some more ice chips, I in my my opiate fog begged and bartered for some frozen gold. I don't think I was technically ready to get more ice yet, but soon every nurse in the place was walking by handing me a cup of ice just to get me to shut the hell up. The sore throat and thirst was a good diversion for the huge gash in my abdomen, which I suddenly became acutely aware of after eating my fifth cup of ice. The drugs wearing off, I start acting like a civilized person again, just as they wheel in some old lady from the operating room. She starts asking for ice and complaining about the pain, and I think to myself,"what a rude, whiny, little, bi...wait, that's what I sounded like 4 cups of ice ago". Now slightly more comfortable, I am still fighting the meds and the lack of sleep. I close my eyes and start to drift off. It feels so good to sleep. The pain starts to subside, my body is begging for some more rest when "BBBBBBBBBBBBBBWWWWWEEEEEEEPPPPPP" an alarm screaming right behind my right ear followed by nurses gathering around me screaming "BREATHE DEEP, BREATHE DEEP!!!" Startled from waking up from such a sound relaxing sleep to the equivalent of a smoke alarm sitting on my forehead and a nurse bum rush, I of course start breathing deep. Hell I am hyperventilating, followed by happy nurses saying "good, good, you need to keep those oxygen levels up". This gets repeated several more times in this recovery room. I can't see the oxymeter to verify that any of this was actually happening. Personally, I think this is just sweet nurse revenge for all those ice chip runs I demanded earlier.
They finally decided to not be so sadistic and put me back in my own room. I start to shake off the heavy stuff and now I just want to be in my home bed. My butt hurts so bad from being in the same position in this hard bed for so long. I want my achy butt back in my own bed. In another page our of the Marquee de Sade's book, the nurses tell me as soon as I pee, I can go. Hmmmm. Apparently the recovery room nurses have been talking to these nurses. This turns out to be a very hard task. I try standing, sitting, in the toilet, in the milk-jug-on-its-side thingy they give you. Nothing. As I am sitting down thinking of better days when I could pee with no problems, a nurse works to slam shut my already shy bladder by ignoring all the "Knock Before Entering" signs and walks right in on me. After what seems like dozens of trips and trials of perfect water flow in the sink for inspiration and rubbing ice chips on the back of my neck (I don't know how/why that worked but it did) I finally get a few drips. Then a trickle. Then a slight stream. Not exactly relief, but enough for them to look for blood. The nurses send me on my way. As soon as I get dressed I can leave. Now I just sit there helpless as I wait for someone to dress me.
I'm dressed, I high, I am sitting in the sun, waiting for the car to pull up so I can be on my way. Now I it's time to do what I have been doing so much since this all began, hurry up and wait for test results. Tomorrow, I talk about the recovery and the waiting (just ask Tom Petty, that's the hardest part).
No comments:
Post a Comment