On a cold and wet Friday morning April 25, 2014 I had gone into the Hospital for Colon Cancer surgery. I would wake up in the Post Operative Treatment Unit. There I would remain until the following Monday afternoon.
In P.O.T.U. I would be closely monitored. It meant being woken up every two hours to have my vitals taken. It mean ice packs would be used to determine the extent and effectiveness of my epidural. It meant lying in my bed feeling disoriented, dry mouthed, spasms in my belly and nausea that would bring up nothing. A breathing tube in my nose. I was catheterized and my left hand was tethered to an IV. I had no sense of the hour or the day. For the spasms and nausea there would be medications. For the constant dry mouth there would only be ice chips. Sometimes I was chilled, other times uncomfortably warm. I was unable to turn on my side or stomach. My transition from Patient to Person had started as it always did: in a drug-infused haze.
The Friday I arrived in P.O.T.U. I was still under the anaesthetic's spell. I remember being woken up so that the blood pressure cuff could be wrapped around my arm and a thermometer placed in my mouth. I especially remember the epidural tests: a bag of ice being applied to various parts of my abdomen and me being asked if it was cold or if I just felt the weight. By this action they made sure that the my lungs and mobility were not impaired. I never knew what time it was. I only way I knew that a new day had begun was the bustle of activity when the shifts changed. Mornings also brought the Student nurses and my bath.
I learned about 'sponge baths' from my very first stay in a Hospital. They're a poor substitute for a shower. But I wouldn't be able to see the inside of a shower for some time yet, tethered and bandaged (and rather unsteady) as I was. The name 'sponge bath' is misleading: I never saw a sponge, just a washcloth and basin. My nurse would fill the basin with warm soapy water, and deliver it to me along with clean towels and facecloth. With pulled curtains I would struggle to sit up and gingerly splash water on various parts of me with the some vague idea of trying to get clean. I had another goal, also learned through hard experience in a Hospital: don't defer shaving.
After the morning bath I was asked if I could sit in a chair. Big, sturdy and heavy, these chairs were moderately comfortable and a key step in the transition back to Person from Patient. It required all my strength and my kind nurse to help me out of my bed and co-ordinate the tangle of tubes attached to me. No sooner had a I sat down than I decided that I wanted to shave. My electric razor was in the nightstand an impossible four feet from where I was sitting. So once again my remarkably patient student nurse retrieved the razor for me. Of course my chair was nowhere near an electrical outlet which was conveniently located near the bed I just vacated. We reverse all my previous manouevers to leave the chair and I sit on my bed to shave. By now I've been vertical long enough to feel confident and I can slowly navigate my way back to the chair on my own. But I have my sights set on another goal: wash my hair.
Hospital bath-in-a-bowl do not accommodate washing your hair. I wasn't looking for shampoo and blow-dry, my goal was simple: rinse my head. To do this I would need to bend my head under the faucet of a sink, a moderately difficult thing to do after abdominal surgery. At my suggestion my nurse places one of the visitor chairs in front of the sink. By kneeling on this chair I can support myself without undue stress on my recent incision. I hoped. For a few minutes I know the feeling of cool, then warm water running over my head. With eyes closed, water dripping over my face I feel fleetingly like my old self. Towel-dry, then a return back to my chair. By first leaving the bed and sitting, then leaving the chair and walking I had accomplished two of my goals. Each goal is a tiny achievement to my recovery. It makes a profound difference being actively involved with the recovery, rather than lying passively back, waiting to be asked if I needed anything. Now that I was cleaned up and back in my comfortable chair, I asked for help plugging in my computer.
Everything I did that first morning was a struggle. Cords and tubes seemed to intertwine in uncomprehending ways. My student nurse would go through complex 'un knotting' procedures with my IV before one of the veterans showed her how to temporarily disconnect and reconnect the tubes, just to avoid that issue. Finally with laptop plugged in and once more back in my chair I fired up my trusty netbook. Which promptly failed to boot. This is an unacceptable situation for an IT professional, so I applied all my 30 years of IT experience and tried it again, with the same results. Instead I simply sat and observed the activity in my ward. By now I had been up for hours and was fatigued by all the morning's activity. Unassisted this time, I returned to bed. I wasn't independent yet, but I was far from helpless. I was satisfied with my progress so far. My computer would eventually work, but my glassy eyes simply didn't focus well enough to read, no matter how large the font. I was too tired and just wanted to sleep. But in a Hospital, you never really rest.
I drift in and out of sleep throughout the recovery process. There's never a sense of being refreshed. I cannot find a comfortable position. Whenever I try to sleep, dark, disturbing images emerge and I feel helpless. The longer my eyes are closed, the worse it gets. Eyes open, the images vanish, only to return after I close them again. My pain-killing medication is responsible, the effects progressively worsen the longer I am on it. Throughout my weekend stay in P.O.T.U. I hope for two things: to sleep, and to taste something that isn't an ice chip.
Sunday afternoon the epidural is removed. I know that my recovery is proceeding and I will get better. I also know that pain is moving in to fill the void left by the morphine. The heat in my belly is kept at bay by ice-cold drinks of water now. I crunch ice chips, imagining them cooling the fires within. I ask for a Popsicle. It's a clear liquid, so nothing medically prevents me from consuming one at this time. My evening nurse cannot find any in the P.O.T.U. but asks other floors if they have any. One is found and I find that a Banana Popsicle never tasted so good. I eat slowly, simply because I have no appetite. The coolness seems to galvanize my determination to drink more ice water as well. I would not experience the fiery pain as I had in my prior surgeries. I still don't sleep well, but maybe I rested better. With the removal of the epidural, I felt I was rising up through hazy depths to clarity once more. And I was able to walk.
My initial walk in P.O.T.U. were unsteady steps, simply to a sink a dozen feet away and back. Each day I strove to walk a little more. By that Sunday two days after my surgery I was gently pushing my IV pole, catheter bag secured and wearing my own bathrobe and slippers, to amble around the P.O.T.U. floor proper. These little jaunts did not last long, I had learned from experience that I needed to build my endurance in small increments. Marathons were not being attempted at this time. As the weekend drew to a close I was mobile, managing my pain but still not sleeping well. My IV had been changed, now on my dominant right hand, it hampered me slightly. Sunday would be my final night in P.O.T.U., the critical aspect of my post surgery was over and the next day I would be moved to another room on another floor. My journey from Patient to Person continues: I was getting better.
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