I’m having another one of those days where if I woke up feeling this way, I’d go to the hospital. Ah, the joys of surgical recovery. At least it was day surgery, and I was fit to go home yesterday afternoon. For some value of “fit”.
We got to the hospital at the 8:30 reporting time, which then resulted in close to an hour and a half of loitering in a waiting room. Eventually I was called back to the prep area.
Oh boy, a matched set! Luckily that eventuality did not come to pass.
They got me on an IV (always a difficult task, see above note), got the anaesthesia lady in to see me. She told me they usually use talking sedation. I asked how well that work when rooting around in a patient’s neck, didn’t people usually object? No, no, no, I was told. Well, not me.
The last thing I remember, thanks to the miracle of retrograde amnesia, is being wheeled into the day surgery OR area. It’s much grungier than the OR I was in last month, looking sort of like Mad Max had opened a medical overstock warehouse. Somewhere near that thought, I lose the thread.
I woke up in Recovery, where they’d told me I wouldn’t be taken. Much later,
While I was still pretty confused I got taken from Recovery back to the prep/discharge area. There
As I am not allowed to shower til Friday, to allow for wound healing, there was no question of going home to wash my hair. One of the nurses suggested finding a salon with the head sink.
Dad drove us back to Nuevo Rancho Lake. At this point, I had a very sore left chest with limited range of motion from the thoracic surgery. I had a very sore right chest with limited range of motion from the port implant surgery. Though I was not terribly uncomfortable in any particular position, changing positions was pretty damned painful. Even a couple of Vicodins on board weren’t helping much.
I took a nap, called
Oh. My. God.
Having the blood washed out of my hair was one of the most humiliating, embarrassing experiences of my life. I’m not even sure I can explain why. Nobody, least of all John, realized how much blood was in my hair. Apparently it was scabbed through an area the size of my hand or more. The surgeons hit a gusher at some point in the surgery.
Even getting into the sink position was very difficult for me, though once I was in place it wasn’t too uncomfortable. He gloved up, and with help from
Finally John got me up and into the cutting chair, where he combed out the last of the scabbing with a comb that he then had to throw away. That took quite a while longer, so that we were in the shop for over an hour. He blow dried me, French braided me, and sent me on my way, refusing any payment. It was an effort way above and beyond the call of either duty or friendship, as any rational person would have just cut the hair away.
Everybody came through for me yesterday, in ways both to be hoped for and unexpected. I am still boggled by the hair situation.
Overnight I slept ok but not great — can’t roll in either direction, so I’m stuck on my back like a turtle, which is decidedly not my natural sleeping position. Today I’m uncomfortable as all get-out but mentally alert, functional, and in the same low-grade surgical pain I’ve become accustomed to lately. No more Vicodin, no Dilaudid, so I get to keep my brain intact.
But wow, what an exhausting day. And such a fool I felt, for no good reason, when I was being cared for beyond reason.
I love my friends and family, but fuck cancer.