Happy Anniversary!

A year ago today I had surgery to remove my colon.

Looking back on that day, which I mostly spent either completely knocked out by the anaesthesia, or completely loopy from the morphine afterwards, I realise how far I've come since being so sick last year. And I am very grateful.

I remember waiting that Sunday morning for the call that I would be going into the operating room. My surgeon had come in on his day off to do my surgery, as it seemed that it really couldn't wait a couple more days. I had spent the previous 5 weeks in hospital in the gastrointestinal unit on the 5th floor, but on the night before surgery I was moved to the surgical unit on the 3rd floor so that I would be closer to the surgical suite. I was so incredibly nervous the night before - both my husband and my mother stayed with me to try to keep me calm, as I would spontaneously burst into tears on the slightest provocation. I had had a private room on the 5th floor, but I had to share the 3rd floor room with another patient.

When I had the private room, my husband would often spend the night with me in my hospital bed. Now I'm not a big girl and I had lost a lot of weight during my hospital, but my husband is 6'4" and so the fit in the bed was very tight (but also very welcome). He climbed into bed with me the night before the surgery to try to comfort me, and one of the nurses came in and tried to kick him out of the room. Luckily, I was able to plead with her to let him stay, as there was no way I could be alone that night. I mean come on, what was I going to do with my husband in the hospital bed, another patient right next door? Remember, I was there with a bad case of colitis - it's pretty hard to feel sexy when you're running to the bathroom every few minutes with bloody diarrhea.

The next morning, I was on pins and needles waiting for the intercom announcement that I would be going in. I finally heard it around 9:00 am: "Pre-op, bed 2-1". And then everything happened very fast and before I knew it, I was on the gurney while the porter wheeled me to the waiting area right outside the surgical suite. I was crying my eyes out and clutching my husband's hand - luckily, they let him into the waiting area with me, which is a little out of the ordinary. Letting go of his hand right before I went into the operating room was the hardest thing I had ever done up to that point in time. And again with the tears.

Just to clarify - I didn't have what I've heard are the classic fears of surgery, i.e. waking up in the middle of the surgery, or not waking up at all. I was scared because I didn't know what to expect after the surgery - no colon, new ostomy, would there be pain, how much of it, that sort of thing. Although it had all been explained to me, I still wasn't sure what to think or how to feel about the whole thing. There was still a stubborn part of me that thought if I could just be patient, I could ride it out and this too would pass. Stubborn, and a bit delusional.

So I get rolled into the operating room, which was extremely bright. I didn't have my glasses on and I am extremely near-sighted, so I couldn't make out very much. I remember being rolled onto the operating table, which was much narrower and colder than I thought it would be. I had my arms spread out on the table extensions and I waited there while the prep work was being done and while the very pleasant anaesthesiologist explained what would happen next. I last thing I remember before falling asleep was a strange sensation along my arm as some sort of medicine coursed through my veins, and the plastic smell of the mask that was placed on my face...

Apparently, I was in surgery for approximately 6 hours, and then another couple of hours in the recovery room. I vaguely remember coming to every once in a while in the recovery room and trying to ask for more pain medication. I also remember having a few blood transfusions while in there, as it seemed that my blood pressure was too low or my pulse rate was too high - not quite sure, but it seemed like I was in there a while. I also remember hearing nurses talking with each other about why I was in there so long, and then finally I had clearance to leave and be put back into my room.

I had a bit of trouble while I was waiting for the porter to take me back to the unit. I was on a PCA pump - which stands for "patient controlled analgesic", I think - with morphine to control the pain. The way it works is that an IV tube is in the patient which is in turn connected to the pump. The patient decides when to receive the morphine and presses down on a button to have the morphine pumped into the IV tube. But there is a hospital policy that you can't have any more pain-killers within 20 minutes of being transported, so the nurse had to stop my morphine for 20 minutes before the porter could come to take me back to my room. But unbeknownest to everyone, the porter decided to take a break and I couldn't receive any more morphine, so I was in quite a bit of pain. The nurse was very apologetic and gave the porter hell on his return. And that's how I left the recovery room.

I remember seeing my husband and my family waiting in the hall for me as I was being wheeled to my room. The porter asked me if I wanted to stop and say hi to them, but seeing as I was hurting, I told him to take me directly to my room so that I could be hooked up to my PCA as soon as possible. So, I wound up in my room, the nurses were waiting for me to do all the post-op workup, and after another 20 minutes or so, I was allowed to see my family. I confess that I don't remember much of who was there or what was said - I don't think I talked very much as my throat was so dry and I had tremendous difficulty even trying to form words with my mouth. I just remember the look of relief on my husband's face. And I'm thankful that he spent that night with me, although it was cramped between two hard chairs.

Afterwards, I got a glimpse on what it was like for my husband and the other members of my family. Apparently, the whole family was there, including all of my inlaws, for most of the 7 or 8 hours I was in there. My husband couldn't eat a thing the entire time. My sister, who was so tough and upbeat right before I went in, trying to cheer me up and comfort me, broke down into tears as soon as I was wheeled into the surgical suite. It seems that she was pretty inconsolable throughout the surgery. I guess I didn't really appreciate the seriousness at the time, but everyone was incredibly worried. I still feel somewhat guilty over putting that, regardless of whether or not it's reasonable to feel that way.

So, that was a year ago today. Good times. But I am incredibly grateful for the last year, despite the hard times that followed. I did get my life back. And that's a pretty big deal.

I should really send my surgeon some flowers.