The Surgery – Part III – Five-Star Hospital

From the time I got back to my room post-op on Saturday, August 27, the nurses woke me up every 20 to 60 minutes. I hadn’t slept in days, and I’d just had major surgery. My body was screaming for sleep. The first 24 hours after surgery I probably would have paid a thousand dollars for just six or seven straight hours of sleep. Every time I had just drifted off, someone was back in my room waking me up.

Even more frustrating was the incessant beeping. I was hooked up to so many machines. Every time my morphine bottle or an IV bag started to run out of juice, a machine started beeping. I’d have to reach for my call button and call the nurse to come check it. I swear this happened a dozen times a day for the four days I was in the hospital. It drove me nuts.

However, I must say that Swedish Medical Center is the Cadillac of hospitals. On my first day, a young woman dressed in a crisp white shirt and tie - like a server in a nice restaurant - showed up with a menu, announcing herself as “room service.” Was I at the Swedish Hilton? I got the biggest kick out of that. The menu was great, too. It’s too bad I didn’t have an appetite for a full two weeks post-op. Believe it or not, I frequently ordered Jell-o or yogurt from room service. I just couldn't eat.

My fifth floor room faced the east Cascade mountain range. I had a spectacular view, and the weather was just beautiful. Later, when I was able to walk, I learned that I also had a view of Mt. Rainier from one end of my window.

After the surgery, I was up all night watching CNN, tracking the category four hurricane. It was around 4:30 a.m. when Katrina was upgraded to Cat 5. I was concerned for my friend Vonceil, who lives in Long Beach, Mississippi. I worried, too, about all my cousins and my uncle who live in New Orleans. I really wanted to call Vonceil and warn her to get out. But it was early, and I debated waking her up. Finally, at 5:00am I called her on my cell phone, starting with, “I know you’re asleep….”

Vonceil wasn’t too concerned. After all, it was the third hurricane of the year; she was going to wait till the afternoon to decide whether to evacuate. I was like, “But it’s a Cat Five,” to which she said the media always makes it sound a lot worse than it is. When you live on the coast and survive one hurricane after another, it’s easy to become complacent.

But I was worried about Vonceil. Finally that afternoon when I called back to beg her to leave, she was outside boarding up and getting ready to head out. Whew! I could stop worrying about her…and start worrying about some of my relatives.

I learned that my uncle had decided to “ride it out” at his wife’s home in Covington, LA. Ugh! My cousins had all evacuated. I must’ve called my mom three times a day asking if she’d heard from Uncle Ronnie. It wasn’t until the third day after Katrina hit that my family learned my uncle had survived. He and his family were lucky. Nearly every tree on their 12-acre property had come down. It took them two days – without electricity or water – to cut their way out. So you can imagine where my mind was the first few days after my surgery. I hadn’t watched that much CNN since 9/11.

I had relatively few visitors in the hospital. My friends Paul and Janet came by the day after my surgery. I was so drugged up that I don’t remember too much about their visit. I do remember noticing that my left hand and arm had swelled up like a football. The IV had infiltrated. That was kind of gross. (Same thing happened the next day in my other IV.)

My other visitor was an old friend and former boyfriend, Tom. I think he came by on Monday on his way to a Mariners game. I really enjoyed his visit - we had a lot of catching up to do.

I was shocked at how soon after surgery they had me up walking. My surgery was on a Saturday, and it was Sunday afternoon when they made me sit up and stand. Because the incision was anterior, sitting up (bending at the waist) was almost unbearable. My incision started at my belly button and extended about four inches downward. I stood and slowly walked down the hallway with the help of a walker and a therapist who carted along all my tubes and bags and machines.

For some reason, the next day they made me sit up I almost couldn’t do it. Tears just streamed involuntarily down my face as the therapist helped me climb out of bed. Yowza! But once I got going I was able to do at least two laps around the nurses’ station. After that day, walking was easy and I was so proud of how far I could get. On the third day I was out on my own, and as I passed a nurses’ station I overheard one of my nurses – Charles - telling the next duty nurse that I was “doing fantastic."

I was so pleased with how successful the surgery was. It could almost be described as a religious experience. My own elation surprised me. I hadn’t felt this happy in ten years. For the next couple of weeks I just couldn’t stop smiling. After 17 years of chronic pain, I had high hopes for a pain-free future.