Surgery

It was a long weekend, waiting for an unwanted but necessary colostomy. I was admitted to the hospital on Thursday evening and not scheduled for surgery until Monday afternoon. That's probably too much time to think, especially when a TV-loving roommate, vital-checking nurses, and uncomfortable nasogastric tube prevent you from sleeping through it.

It was almost as if I willed the tube out of my throat when I randomly sneezed ("quite a sneeze," according to the stunned medical personnel) in the middle of the night, two days before surgery, and found the end of the tube in my hand. I sat holding it, in shock for a few minutes before I punched the call button, gradually realizing that although I felt so much more comfortable without it, I probably needed it. To my surprise, a PA gave me a now-or-later reinsertion option (my choice!). Naturally, I chose later, and finally dozed off for a few glorious hours while watching TV. When I woke up later, I asked the nurse if I could possibly take a bath before the tube was reinserted. Even better, I was gifted a real, long, hot shower, my first in days. I washed my hair, brushed my teeth, and hesitated before finally emerging from the bathroom to a clean bed. I felt human again, clean for the first time since I was admitted.

After that shower, I knew it was only a matter of time before the dreaded tube replacement, but I was grateful for the break. A couple hours later, after consulting with my surgeon, three kind, gentle, merciful women trooped in to apologetically reinsert the tube. It was just as terrible the second time. My eyes teared up and I whimpered as they pushed the tube from my nose down to my throat. It took me several minutes to recover, physically and emotionally, from the painful ordeal, but my consultation prize was a potent shot of morphine in my IV that allowed me to drift from pain into gradual sleep.

Monday, my fourth full day, the big day, was a waiting game. Surgery was not scheduled until 2 PM. I gasped, gulped, and gradually accepted the news. I watched Keeping up with the Kardashians for hours, which allowed my mind to drift away from my sorry life and my brain cells to rot while a series of doctors, nurses, and technicians drifted in and out of my room. I banned visitors, not wanting anyone to see me at my worst: in a hospital gown, with a tube, and a crusty, leprous rash-ridden face (broken out by a chemo drug), and not wanting to talk with a sore throat. Nothing really happened until noon when a nurse informed me they would move me downstairs soon for surgery, then probably to a different room after, so I packed my meager belongings and prepared to go.

I was moved soon enough out of my precious private room, but the waiting continued after, as I was wheeled down to the surgical prep unit and waited past 2 PM for my surgeon (though the nurse and anesthesiologist were prompt), half-watching TV in an attempt to distract myself from bloated discomfort and fear of the pain and potential bodily and lifestyle changes to come. Torturous waiting. Then, finally, at maybe 2:30, I was pushed down the hall into a cold, sterile operating room and transferred to a narrow table, strapped down, and then...nothing.

I woke up back in the surgical unit, in pain, and deeply drowsy. My mind was fuzzy and my eyes were glued shut, half-conscious and loopy from 4:30 to 7 PM. After I woke up, I was transferred to a shared room with yet another roommate who watched TV all night, starting with Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, until 12:30 AM, when I'd lost hope of ever sleeping again. I caught up on messages, retrieving my phone at 8:15, for the next few hours and successfully shuffled down the hall and back to my room with a nurse and IV stand at 10 PM before I retreated back to my bed.

I slept only intermittently, spending most of the night combing the internet on my smartphone and listening to music through headphones. I was rewarded in the morning, though, when my NG tube was removed (much less painfully than it was inserted) and a nurse brought me a cup of cold water and a popsicle. Then, just when I thought hospital life couldn't get better, a breakfast tray arrived. After nearly a week without food and drink, it was a feast: chicken broth, decaf coffee, apple juice, Jell-O, and drinkable yogurt. I was full until lunch when another magical tray arrived bearing pureed Italian wedding soup, oyster crackers, pureed fruit cocktail, cranberry juice, and more coffee. Dinner was even better: a bagel, peanut butter, applesauce, strawberry Boost, milk, and coffee.

My roommate was discharged around 7 PM, and I was finally alone and hopeful for a more restful night. I dozed off around 10:30, then was jolted awake by a commotion at 11:45. All the room's lights were flicked on, blinding me, and a team of medical personnel swooped in with my new roommate. That was bad enough, but after falling asleep again, I was startled awake by a technician standing at the foot of my bed and yelling my name. I had to wake up for a 3 AM vitals check, of course.

Uninterrupted sleep continued to elude me through my remaining hospital stay, but there were some improvements. My IV was unhooked two days after surgery, and my surgeon allowed me solid, low-fiber food. The hospital's ostomy care nurse taught me the basics and helped me change my bag. I was struggling with all of it. Just the thought of learning how to take care of the colostomy was overwhelming. Looking at it, let alone cleaning and changing it, grossed me out. I honestly didn't know then if I could handle my new reality (or how).