Post Surgery

June 1

A male voice on my left side: “How do you feel?”

“I’m thirsty,” I whisper. I feel a straw between my lips, take a sip of water and drowse off again.

Sometime later, another voice, this time coming from my right. I manage to open my eyes for a second and recognize the surgeon I’d met a week earlier. 

“The operation took twelve hours, longer than anticipated, but it was successful,” she says.“ The intestines were clean, so you didn’t need a stoma,” she adds.

I feel foggy and relieved. Bowels, bladder and heart still in the right place, I reason before I doze off again.

*

June 2

The same male voice. He speaks international school English. I talk nonsense. It takes too much effort to open my eyes. I sense he’s monitoring me.

More voices, the smell of coffee, a different kind of light filters through my closed eyes. Maybe the early shift?

I can’t recall being transferred from the recovery to the gynaecological ward.  Neither am I aware of my husband at my bedside. “I was there around noon,” he told me later.

At 17:00 my husband gives me an update of the phone conversation with the surgeon last night. “No tumours were found in your intestines,” he confirms. 

I’m heavy with drowsiness and nod. 

“They removed part of the liver, your spleen, the reproductive organs and all visible tumours. The surgeon said this was the best possible outcome of the surgery,” he concludes. 

“Good,” I reply apathetically and fall asleep.

*

 

June 3

I become aware of the drains, tubes, catheter and the abdominal binder (some sort of corset) around my abdomen. Two other patients in the room. I raise my hand to greet them. I still feel drowsy.

Nurses try to get me up. I feel I might faint but stand straight for a second or so. They praise me for the effort but I’m glad to be back in bed and tucker out immediately.

*

June 4

One of the nurses, bless her, offers to give me a shower. Cables and drains are disconnected, the corset comes off and I’m wheeled to the bathroom. Warm water over my battered body. I feel shaky, rejuvenated and exhausted.

*

June 5

The physiotherapist brings a support walker and together we walk through the hallway. It goes well. Haemoglobin (80g/l) and oxygen are still too low. I’m dog tired.

Ascites drain removed.

*

June 6

I walk independently to the toilet in the hallway and that’s very much needed as my bowels are trying to get back to normal. The doctors prescribed constipation medication with diarrhea as a result.

Nasal oxygen cannula removed.

*

June 7

Urine catheter removed.

I have a bladder infection and keep running to the toilet. I barely sleep anymore. It’s a challenge to roll the infusion pole silently through the cramped hospital room. My nightly expeditions to the bathroom bother fellow roommates.

The doctor visits, I might be released in two days. Yay.

*

June 8 

Epidural and IV cannula removed.

Early afternoon: I’m icy cold. Shivering and shaking I call the nurse who measures my temperature. No fever. I take three blankets, wrap myself in and try to find a comfortable position in bed. In vain, I keep tossing and turning, feeling restless and anxious.

17:00: I’ve had enough. I want to go home, sit in a comfortable chair and quietly sleep in my own bed. I call the nurse and tell her that I have decided to go home. “I keep rolling and moving, there’s no position I haven’t tried,” I say.  “The mattress is uncomfortable, my back hurts, I keep running to the toilet and constantly wake up my roommates. I can’t stand the hospital food, I’m freezing cold, I need woolly blankets, a thick pyjama and my own bed,” I blurt out.

The nurse disagrees, comes up with arguments, valid arguments even – for instance about the need for supervision, about the drain stitches that aren’t removed yet and the immunisation shots I need. Still, looking at her face I can tell she understands I’m serious. I realise I behave like my strong minded Mum now (Dad would never go against the rules), but I feel desperate. Another night on the ward would mean another sleepless night. I’m anxious and worn-out already. I just can’t stand it any longer.

The nurse promises to call the doctor and half an hour later I get the green light. My husband and our youngest who’d just arrived to visit me are taken by surprise when I tell them I’ll be coming home with them. “Are you sure this is a good decision?” my husband asks. But he has seen me sobbing earlier that day and knows I’ve made up my mind. He packs my stuff and our youngest arranges a wheelchair.

The nurse, sporty of her, helps me to get up, and gently administers four (pneumococcal, haemophilus influenzae, meningococcal B and ACWY) intramuscular vaccinations in my thighs. She removes the drain stitches, hands over antibiotics to treat the bladder infection and gives me a sheet of paper with a date to get the sixty-one staples on my surgery incision removed.

“I hope I will never see you here again,” she says with a cheeky smile as she waves me out.

*

During the twenty-minute ride home I notice summer has started. Fresh green leaves on the trees, white blossoms, wildflowers on the roadside and a bright blue sky. I feel as if I’ve just crawled out of a long and dark tunnel and blink my eyes. “The world looks colourful,” I mutter.