Just when I thought I was going to lose my sanity, after a full week in the hospital, I was finally freed. I held my breath all morning on that last day as I told each nurse and technician I was going home until confirmation came, via the medical director, and my discharge papers were presented.
So I washed up as much as I could, using the bathroom sink, a bar of soap, and a washcloth, got dressed in the jeans and t-shirt I'd come in wearing a week before, packed my belongings, and waited for my boyfriend to pick me up. When he texted that he was waiting outside, I was wheeled downstairs by an orderly and slowly clambered into his Jeep. He never looked better to me. I wanted to hold on to him forever...and keep my distance at the same time, all too aware of the fact that I had diarrhea, hadn't showered in days, and had leprous scabs covering my face (a side effect of one of the chemo drugs).I felt hideous, and didn't want to be seen by anyone (let alone the man of my dreams).
I couldn't wait to be home, alone in my apartment. Finally, freedom: privacy (no annoying roommate) and no late-night beeping, light flicks, and 3 AM blood-pressure checks. I wasn't completely free of nurses, however. But that was a good thing. A visiting nurse arrived the next day and opened my new-patient case, updating my medication list and going over my hospital discharge instructions. Over the next few days, I was assisted by a series of nurses who provided invaluable services, helping me change my colostomy bag and contacting my doctor's office on my behalf to question if diarrhea was a normal post-surgical problem.
No one seemed concerned about the cramps and diarrhea, which became unmanageable and forced me into diapers, except me. My surgeon assured me that it would end within a few days. But it didn't. It continued unabated for a week, leaving me weak, bedridden, and depressed. I didn't know how to respond to my well-wishers (family, friends, and colleagues) who sent me messages, cards, and flowers and said they hoped I was "feeling better every day." I wasn't. I was feeling increasingly hopeless and fearing a return to the hospital with dehydration.
Finally, a week later, having reached my limit, and not wanting to wait another day for a nurse to intervene, I called my surgeon's office and scheduled an appointment with him for the following afternoon. The next day, having thrown a few essentials into a bag (just in case I was hospital bound), I went to his office, prepared to beg, and unwilling to leave without a solution. Fortunately, he took my complaints seriously and explained that the only way to stop the digestive issues was a surgical tweak. I heaved a deep sigh and said, "OK." I couldn't go on like I was, so there was no alternative to another hospital stay. My surgeon scheduled the procedure for the next day, a Friday afternoon.
Everything moved quickly after that. I left his office and went to the nearby hospital for pre-op testing, then went home to pack and toss and turn instead of sleeping. My mom drove me into surgery the next day, and I was in a surgical bay before I knew it. The last thing I remember before surgery is the anesthesiologist saying he was giving me something to help me relax. That's it. I have no memory of going into the operating room. I woke up post-surgery, back in the bay, and was wheeled up to a private room on a quiet floor a few hours later. I still didn't sleep well, though, even without a roommate, as the nurses and technicians passed out pills and checked vitals on the hospital's designated timeline throughout the night.
My surgeon had said I could go home the next day, but honestly, I didn't want to leave until the diarrhea ended. He and the nurses assured me it would be over within a few days, but I had heard that before and I wasn't sure if I believed it. I just didn't want to go until I knew the problem was solved. I don't know if post-surgical depression is a clinical diagnosis, but it's common for me. And it hit hard in the hospital as I pondered if I would ever get better. Would I survive cancer? I'd started doubting I would.
I reluctantly went home on Sunday afternoon even though the diarrhea persisted. Finally, a few days later, it ended, taking my hopelessness with it. After two rounds of surgery and two weeks of severe digestive issues, I could start coping with having cancer and a colostomy bag and contemplate resuming chemo and returning to work.
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