Cleaning up and moving on - A Woman, A Splotch, A Thang
My drug-induced stupor has faded sufficiently that I feel ready to write the penultimate chapter in A Woman, A Splotch, A Thang. While I would like it to be the final chapter, I have a feeling that I'll have a bit more ventilation some time.
My day at the hoSPAtal started at 8:00AM on Friday. Nothing instills confidence like the front desk people looking very confused as to who you are, why you are there and where you need to go. Nonetheless, they are all very nice so it makes it hard to get too excited. Heck, at 8AM it takes an awful lot to get me awake much less excited.
My hubby, son and I lounged around in the lobby. The gift shop was closed so there was no amusement for an 8 year-old happening there. Starbucks' "Muffins As Big As Your Head" were entertaining to view for about three minutes. After that, it was just separating the boys - overtired, stressed hubby and kid who wanted to cuddle all squished on a loveseat.
So silly. Once the appropriate plan for me was located, I was sent to nuclear medicine. We sat in the sparsely populated waiting room. This one had a TV so it was already 100 miles ahead of the last waiting room. The first thing we saw was some show with darkness and two cut apart bodies on slabs. Wow. That's the first thing I want to see in the morning. Not to mention the part where I was having to explain to my son why that was inappropriate for him to watch and explain why on earth ANYONE would want to watch that at 8:30AM.
I was given a questionnaire by a young efficient woman who slid her glass service window open and didn't even look at me. It's ok - that's why they give you those bracelets - so they specifically do NOT have to look at you. Whatever gets you through the day, I guess? The questionnaire had seven questions on it with big boxes to check YES or NO. The first question was:
"Have you had a hysterectomy/menopause? If yes, do not fill out the rest of this form."
That's a big 10-4, good buddy! I checked YES and sat there with my clipboard, wondering if I should give it back to the glass-woman-who-does-not-see. As I pondered this important question, my DH stepped over from the opposite sofa where he'd landed and asked, "Are the questions hard?"
In retrospect, I do believe he was serious.
I took the opportunity to return my minimally filled in form to the lady-of-glass when another invisible patron checked in. Moments later, an elfin man appeared and called me back. His name was Allen and I like him immediately. Turns out that was a good thing because we were going to spend an awful lot of time together. I kissed my family goodbye and followed him through the portal.
Have you ever noticed how you are ushered to rooms in doctors' offices or hospitals and then left to find your way out on your own? It usually takes me two or three tries to leave. But that's another story.
i was given the first of my stylish hoSPAtal gowns of the day. Allen explained the test to me. I would lie on my stomach for an uncomfortably long period of time, the radiologist would inject me four times with radioactive sulfur/saline solution and a series of scans would be taken, playing the "Find the nearest lymph node" game. He'd mark them and then I'd be on my way.
Once I laid on the table, I lost track of time completely. Not that there was a handy clock nearby or anything. The radiologist came in. I, being on my stomach, could see his beltline clearly. I'm sure I could pick him out of a lineup if I had to do so. The injections encircled my already-raw excision site - the hole the size of a quarter and about 75 cents deep. Radioactive sulfur/saline burns. Just in case you were wondering. The first injection made me jump, partly from the needle, partly from the fact that I couldn't possibly see it coming and was harpooned in the exact same spot adolescent boys used to poke you to make you jump when you were in high school.
By the fourth injection, I was back to my usual in-control insensitive ways. Then Allen put a blanket on me, turned the lights down, slid me into a notch under the xray's watchful eye, pushed a button and left. I did what every thinking individual would do. I fell asleep. Every few minutes, Allen would reappear, apologize for making me lie there so long, push a button and be gone again.
I assured him time and again that is was really NO problem. I hadn't slept for days. This was VERY nice - fluffy pillows, dim lights, thrumming machinery doing its machinery thing... aaaaahhhhhh...
Several naps later, Allen declared that he had found my lymph nodes. It was time to mark them. Literally. With a Sharpie.
If you've never had a near-stranger draw on your butt with a Sharpie, you may not be able to fully appreciate the surreal quality of this tableau. It got slightly weirder when Allen said he was pretty sure the nodes were on the front of my back. I dutifully squirmed to turn myself over. Now I had a near-stranger coloring in that little space between my thigh and parts only my hubby gets to see.
I couldn't be embarassed by this. Really. It was too damned funny to be embarassing!
After the successful scan-n-color session, I got dressed and Allen took me back to the waiting room. My family was gone. Vanished. Disappeared. By the old clock on the wall, I had been in scan-land for over two hours. Who knew? I had a GREAT nap!
Moments later, I was escorted down the hall to the day surgery waiting area. No family of mine in there, but there was a family so I figured if push came to shove, I could borrow them. I called my hubby from the wall phone and told him where to find me. He had taken our son to a friend's house where the boy would spend the balance of the day.
A few minutes after I hung up the phone, I was taken back into the pre-op area, given my gown and slipper-socks-in-a-bag combo and instructed to make myself at home. The hospital very thoughtfully keeps temperatures very low in order to speed things along for the morgue folks. Within minutes, my feet matched the hospital blue slipper socks.
It was 10:15AM. I was quizzed multiple times by people who took my left arm and made me recite my name and birthday. Some even asked why I was there. That was a tough one. "Because he said so" didn't seem convincing enough to them. I had long since forgotten or blocked the official name of my procedures (sentinel lymph node study and wide excision, in case you were wondering). I was too cold to care.
My sweetie showed up about 20 minutes later, just in time for another round of "Who are you and when were you born?" That particular nurse started my IV. An hour dragged by after that. I begged for blankets and yet another nurse appeared with two, straight out of the toaster. That was VERY nice!
It was getting a little tedious. My husband is a hovercraft under the best of circumstances. He's completely around the bend in hospitals. Having to reassure and comfort him, getting him to stop saying, "My poor honey..." was getting very old. I made him send emails to distract him.
The anaesthesiologist appeared and we talked about going to sleep. Another nurse appeared and said my surgeon was in the next building over and would be there shortly. It was 11:45AM. I was already whining about being hungry and thirsty. People like me who drink a minimum of 64oz of water every day and eat every three hours do not do well when we're kept from our nummies!
Fortunately, my whining also helped distract my hubby so it wasn't so much for me as it was for him that I complained. Yeah. Right.
At around 12:30PM, my surgeon appeared and suddenly my little closet of a room burst into activity. Anaesthesiologists appeared, nurses in surgical scrubs, my glasses were swept away and my sweetie became a fuzzy blur as I was rolled out of the room. I saw a set of double doors and that was the last thing I remember until I heard lots of recovery room clatter.
Coming out of anaesthesia is one of my favorite things. The blackness punctuated by sound, the unintelligible voices, the slow realization that you can feel parts of your body, starting with the annoying automatic blood pressure cuff crushing your arm at what seems like five-minute intervals. And all you want to do is tell everyone to hush up, take their cuff and leave you alone because this would be AWESOME sleep if they'd just HUSH!
Of course, especially in the outpatient surgery business, you and sleep are the last things they want in the recovery room. They want YOU out of there, into the post-op staging area and out the door by 5PM when they close because dammit, they've got reservations at The Outback!
I had a sensation of being moved, rolled to someplace slightly less mechanically noisy but infinitely more people-noisy. Loud talking because, after all, we're in drug-stupor and are basically unresponsive so the answer is to YELL IN OUR EARS. I just wanted to sleep. Then the invisible hands started ripping things off of me. RRRIPP! adios, blood pressure cuff. RRRRIIIIPP! Whoa - that was a little personal...that sensor was stuck to my chest... RRRRIPPP RRRRRIIIPPP RRRRIIPPPP! I found myself thinking, "This would really hurt if I could feel anything... wow... I'm thirsty..." then sleeeeeeeeep.
When I finally opened my myopic peepers, the blur of my honey was right there. It was a beautiful sight. The fuzzy blob of black shirt with his golden head floating above - his soft voice saying, "Hi honey!" I could have floated in that spot forever.
Then the yelling people returned. I know it's a tough job, recovery nurses of the world, but good lord - I'm not deaf! I may be stoned, I may be stoopid, but I'm not deaf! And I really do understand words of more than one syllable. My nurse made every effort to repeat everything eight times, increasing volume with each repetition. Bless her heart - I would have killed her if I had been able to move more than my eyelids.
I was given ice water and told I could have pain meds if I needed them. Now if anyone can explain that whole "On a scale of zero to ten" thing, I would appreciate clarification. I am an analytical person. I have to have a frame of reference. I have to know what 10 is like in order to quantify anything between at a given level. I didn't know the right answer so I ballparked - "six?" I croaked.
Then I was told I needed to eat and I could have saltines or graham crackers. I chose graham crackers. I believe I was given silica gel crackers. My husband broke off a small piece and put it in my mouth. This chewable dessicant immediately sucked the four drops of saliva I had been able to form and coalesced into a small gravel pile in my mouth.
I could barely swallow and could barely get enough water in my mouth around this pile of sawdust to make it move. For a few moments, I thought I was going to have graham cracker paste permanently fused to my tongue, unable to talk or swallow ever again. What a tragic end to this day! Beaten by a cracker!
After what seemed like an eternity, the gob finally released its grip on my tastebuds and rattled down my throat. I finally got enough control over my hand to shove it in my mouth and pry the remaining gobs off my teeth.
Then came the heavenly codeine. Aaahhh... It was 3:30PM and the drugs were starting to flow. Half an hour later, I was still hurting a whole lot. The nurse deafeningly repeated to my husband that "she COULD have two pills but she's LITTLE so I think ONE will do it but if she NEEDS it, she can have ANOTHER ONE. But she's LITTLE..."
At this point, I mentally leapt from the bed, grabbed her by the throat and shrieked, "GIVE ME THE DAMN DRUGS, WOMAN!!!!"
In reality, I just whimpered and squeaked out a hopeful "five and a half?" to the scale o' pain question.
The pain situation settled and I slept as much as one can when all that separates you from mayhem is a shower curtain. Time passed, my honey remained at attention, holding my hand, talking to me softly. He was instructed in my care and feeding in great detail, leaving nothing out, and with at least 8 repetitions just in case he didn't get it the first time - bandages off it 24 hours, eat whatever as long as she doesn't puke, showering with steri-strips is fine.
I sensed an upswing in activity around me - more interruptions, more 'wakey wakey!' calls. A phone jangled on the other side of my curtain and I heard a nurse say, "I'll transfer your call - we closed at 5PM."
AHA! I was making them stay late! Not wishing to overstay my welcome any more than I had, and even though my therapeutic trip across the hall to the bathroom was borderline disastrous, I got dressed, got hustled into a wheelchair, jounced out the front door and into our car.
I have spent the last two days drifting in and out of sleep, lying propped on cushions like Cleopatra on her barge, with attendants every bit as dedicated as any she had. And I don't even have to chain them up to make them take care of me!
My lymph nodes were clear. This cancer had its turn and, as far as I'm concerned, it's over. I win. I'm wealthier by far than any queen.
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