Room 623A will be my home for the next 7 days. I had come through Liver surgery with positive news: the margins of the 'good' side of the liver were clear,meaning that they think they got all the 'bad' side with it's tumours out of me. Additionally I won the bonus round I suppose, as I discovered I no longer had a gall bladder in me. Apparently this is normal for this type of surgery. A two-for-one deal. Several years ago a routine ultrasound (checking for kidney stones) found gall stones, but they never really bothered me. I guess they'll never bother me any more.
My next challenge would be to duplicate the efforts of my first surgery: sit up, walk, pass gas, poop, eat clear fluids, eat soft foods, eat real food. I had done this before I knew what to expect. Only this time it was harder, a hell of a lot harder. There lots of reasons for this, my surgery was huge for one thing, I was under for 7 hours. I had my gall bladder removed in addition to the tumour-affected kidney lobe. My blood work was all over the map and I would be on an IV for 7 straight days as fluids and chemicals were constantly being pumped into me. By Saturday my general appearance would begin to resemble the Michelin Man, I was puffy and full of liquids. My two JP drainage tubes worked round-the-clock. Whatever was being put into me seemed to just come right back out. Plus I was zoned out half the time I was there. For whatever reason the anaesthetic and pain meds, plus my general weakness completely sapped my strength and will. Physically I was able to do a few things, like get out of bed and into a chair. Mentally I just could not muster the energy to care.
Sleep was elusive during my time in hospital For me the strangest thing was when I would close my eyes and try to rest. Disturbing images would always come, I never got to go into a deep sleep. The meds from the epidural, the post-anaesthesia, the tons of chemicals I was receiving by IV were all making me better and worse at the same time. Sleep was so difficult to come by, I would have these intense vivid images. Landscapes that moved and morphed into dark, disturbing images. I would feel like I was drifting downwards into an opening into the earth that would narrow the further I went. I would force my eyes open and wonder what the hell was going on. It would happen every time I closed my eyes, for days. Sometimes I would drift off to sleep, as the body can only take so much. It was never deep sleep until after the epidural pump was removed on Sunday, five days after my surgery.
My expectations of following the path of my last recovery probably kept me from asking for help, especially in the sleep department. My doctors were following the process, I couldn't eat anything until Friday, and you know how I feel about Jello for breakfast. Jello for lunch. Jello for supper. From Friday til Sunday Jello and Juice were my dietary staples. When I did dream in those fitful sleeps I thought of nibbling on toast, eating bread, something with a solid texture. Never have I felt so weak, and the depression was lurking behind the veil of my soul, I could feel it coming on. The hardest battle I will have ever fought was not to heal my physical body, but to master my emotions and feelings. My concentration and 'emotional armour' were in ruins. I had to endure this experience with only the belief that the bad times don't last forever. Those late nights of being alone with my thoughts were the most difficult of my life. Now as I write this some two months after the fact, I still experience bouts of depression just recalling those events. Getting through it took all my strength. And I could not have done it alone. The nursing staff, doctors, my family my friends. I needed all their strength and support for this one.
Food. I was hungry, but I couldn't stomach another damn Jello. My physical strength had deserted me. I could muster up the energy to get out of bed, to sit in a chair, to shave. But I needed the incredible kindness of my nurses to help me wash my hair, help with sponge baths. Sitting in a bed, surrounded by curtains while trying to do a sponge bath is hard. Bending down to wash when you have had abdominal surgery is hard. I would have difficulty just putting on the booties on my feet. Water dripping all over, never quite getting that 'shower clean' feeling. Can't shower, you have an incision running the complete length of your ribcage. You can't even stand up without assistance. Those staples keep pulling, and the miles of surgical packing around it don't help you breathe too well.
Food. I was weak. I was urged by my doctors to walk. I was urged to pass gas. My doctors were concerned that my chemistry was too low. I would be given constant IV's to replenish chemicals. I would be given fizzy drinks of the same chemical to supplement the IV. My call bell was used frequently as I alerted the nursing staff that one more IV bag was on it's last few drops. Constant IV maintenance. Constant recording of vitals. Contant drainage of the JP tubes. Constant meds and shots. No sleep. No solid food. Depression was just waiting to come out. That Sunday I had my Epidural removed. Sunday through Monday morning I would surrender to that depression, for there was no longer any defense that I could use.
I forgot the words to my theme song, "The Mary Ellen Carter", a song I knew by heart since the 1980's. I couldn't think of the verse or refrain. The images I would see when I closed my eyes to sleep disturbed me so much I was going to ask for a sleeping pill. But I forgot, my memory and concentration were gone. I tried doing the times tables in my head. My degree in Mathematics did me no good at all. I would get as far as the 'five times' and then forget. I would start again, 1x1=1, 1x2=2, 1x3=2... there was simply no ability left in me to concentrate, to think, to do anything but despair.
At some point I ask if it's all worth it, do I want to continue with this life or not. Surrender the body, surrender the soul, surrender all you have become, admit you are not who you think you are. Learn to live with what you are becoming. Hard choices. Rationality is not to be found in a hospital during the hour of the wolf. The epidural detoxify must be working, sleep is not far away, the body will repair itself in time, hopefuly the rest of me will too.
Sunday passes into Monday. My very first colon surgery was marked by the physical pain as the epidural was removed from me. This surgery, the epidural was of no help for my emotional pain. But I made it through, and I would recover.
Food. Monday I ate 'soft foods' for the first time. The results were nothing short of spectacular. I had energy to walk. For the first time in almost six days I was able to walk, unassisted from my room down to the nursing station. I would repeat that trip, extending it to the remainder of the floor. I would be recognized by the nurses from my previous visit, some six months ago! The joy of walking is the joy of independence. Albeit I'm walking with an IV pole still attached to me. But I'm walking. I'm eating. I sleep hard for the first time, short duration, by my roommates wife comments that it's as if a switch has been thrown. I'm animated, alive, moving, and sleeping soundly. My roommate himself had a bad accident that crushed his muscles in his legs. The pain must be intense but he's stoic, has family and friends to help him through it. He and I finally have some talks after five days, when I'm cognizant of reality once again. It helps to have someone to talk with who is undergoing the 'Hospital Experience'.
Speaking of the 'Hospital Experience' things got better after I ate real food that Monday. My doctor was amazed for it was the first time he saw me out of bed (well if he'd come more than once a day he'd see this weak creature sitting in a chair). My downward slide had come to and end however. Once there was something solid to eat my strength and spirits returned. Once I could walk I could regain a taste of independence and freedom, I was motivated to get better and get out of that Hospital. My thoughts turned to getting home, to a shower, sleep in my own bed, wear my own clothes. I was healing where it counted most: my emotional and mental state. There are now two journeys I am following on my path to recovery: the physical and the spiritual. Guess which one was harder.
The bleak days of my recovery were starting to fade away, optimism was returning with my new-found strength. I once more looked forward, my Journey Onward Yielding again taking me from despair to hope.
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