Anyone who tells you that reconstructive surgery isn't horribly painful is either lying or has no nerve endings. Bite them. Twice. And if you have a dog, get your dog to bite them, too. Painful? Ewww!!
I had one day before admission when the transport people didn't show up at all, and I had to get a minicab to the hospital so I could have my antibiotics. That was really annoying. But ERS, the hospital transport people, sent three ambulances on Saturday to collect me and take me to be admitted. Talk about overkill! ERS, by the way, is a waste management company. Somehow they got the seven year contract to take over all the patient transport for all the London hospitals. Waste management. Huh. It shows. They are completely clueless when it comes to dealing with people.
So I got up to the ward at the time I was told to be there, and discovered that there were no beds. This was on the Saturday before surgery. Everyone was twitching, flying around trying to sort the whole thing out, and finally I was put on an orthopedic ward, with the hope of moving me to the plastic surgery ward. I wondered what happened to the person they turfed out of the bed on orthopedics. Did they shove him out the window? Well...my mind works in strange ways, especially when I know I am facing surgery. I am most definitely not into pain, and I kept asking myself if I really, really wanted to do this. I figured I had until Wednesday morning to run for the exit.
I had visits from the plastic surgery registrars, checking me out, telling me not to be worried. Seriously? Me, not worry? But I tried to stay calm, and did a lot of mindfulness minutes to remind myself why I was doing this in the first place: I don't want to see my chest in the mirror, see ribs, and scars, and remember that I could have easily died from breast cancer. Who wants that constant reminder? Cancer isn't something anyone can forget easily, even with reconstructive surgery. We know that it can always come back to bite us in the ass. And it does that, so I've heard. Repeatedly.
I got through the next few days without incident. My nurse came up from Immunology to insert a gripper needle into the PortaCath I have in my chest. This was so that people would stop stabbing (and breaking) my veins with a cannula every five minutes. And I felt more at ease, and I got my hit of immunoglobulin on the Tuesday, the day before the surgery. Oh joy: the guidelines stated that I had to have very slow infusions, even though I have been doing them for a year by PortaCath. That was annoying; it took seven hours, when it really should only take three. Good thing I had a book.
On Wednesday morning, I was informed that I was first on the list, and Steve came and took out a Sharpie and drew all over my chest. His team of registrars was there, and he was explaining exactly what he was going to do. So I was Sharpie'd - first time ever. They all left, and at 9am I was taken to the theatre. Now-they no longer do premeds, so I was left thinking that even though the side rails were up, I could still jump over them, sprint (or stagger) back to my room, get dressed and go home. It did occur to me. Frequently.
As the orderly pushed the bed down the operating room corridor, I noticed that there were a lot of plastic sheets covering one side of the hallway. Then I heard it: the sound of an electric saw. And it was loud. So I sat up, bolt upright, and said "Oh my, is someone sawing off someone's leg?". Steve and the team were standing there, heard me, started to laugh, and then disappeared as the orderly said (trying to stifle a laugh) that workmen were building new operating theatres. Nobody was sawing anyone. So I said I hoped they weren't going to start tossing out body parts until I was safely inside the theatre. My nurse said I am great for comic relief on the ward, and I said that as soon as I come around from the anesthesia I will be checking for my kidneys.
Just as I was about to fall asleep, someone (I still don't know the identity of the offending party) said that my kidneys would be the least of my worries. Too late to run. I was out cold.
It was all quite horrible. I came around in recovery, was returned to my room, and given drugs. Morphine, I kept saying, morphine! I got morphine for the next day or so, then I was switched to Oramorph, a morphine derivative that can be taken by mouth. Plus paracetamol (The UK equivalent of Tylenol) and Tramadol, a very mild painkiller. And I kept asking for water.
That first day-and night-I drank so much water I'm surprised I have any kidneys left at all. And, as we know, what goes in must eventually come out. I wasn't allowed out of bed, so I was given a bedpan. Constantly. All night. It drove the nursing assistant crazy; she didn't want to keep coming and bringing a bedpan every twenty minutes, and clearly wasn't pleased. If she'd been a nurse, I would have had a nickname for her: Nurse Ratched.
Thursday night I had enough of the bedpan thing. Really, I think the person who invented the bedpan must have been a misogynist-probably the same person who invented the speculum.
I crept down to the bottom of the bed, thinking that I would climb out and go to the bathroom. This is after a dose of Oramorph, so I think I can be forgiven for such a stupid act. I ended up catapulting myself off the bed and fell ass over teakettle into a big heap on the floor. I could not use my arms, because all the muscles had been cut. So I lay there, swearing, and thinking I should ring for the nurse, but I would get a lecture, and I didn't want a lecture. All I wanted was the bathroom. So I was finally able to hoist myself back onto the bed, and I knocked over the water jug-which was full. Water all over the bed, all over me, all over. Period. I ended up calling for the nurse, but I only said I'd knocked over the water jug. That was it: change of sheets, change of bedclothes, looks of disgust (obviously they thought I'd had a different kind of accident. Please. My bladder isn't that big). And I said nothing to anyone about my excursion, although the wound started to bleed and the dressing had to be changed the next day. Lesson learned.
I was pretty much confined to bed-with side rails firmly up-until Saturday, when one of the registrars came to see me and I said I have to be allowed up to go to the loo. I reminded him that bedpans don't always work well, and that nobody bothers to provide any paper, so I am in danger of developing something that closely resembles nappy rash. That same afternoon I was taken to the loo by one of the nurses, and I can't tell you how great it felt to be out of bed, however briefly.
The best thing about being in the hospital was - leaving the hospital. I have to comment on the food, which really looked like someone else had eaten it first. On one tray someone had put what was supposed to be an apple pie. It was drowned in custard-and the custard was congealed. Actually, it looked like a bowl of pus. Perhaps it was, who knows?
I got out on Wednesday, and I walked through my door at 3:30 Wednesday afternoon. I could not wait. Even the ERS transport geniuses drove me to the wrong address, so that speaks volumes about their competence (or lack thereof). The first thing I did was make a big mug of decent coffee. Then I just went to bed. Didn't unpack. Just went to bed.
This is the first time since I got back on Wednesday that I haven't been really, really sick: too sick to walk, although I did try, and too sick to do much of anything. I'm afraid to move too quickly for fear that one of the implants will move from one side of my chest to the other. Silly, I know, but you should see these alient growths on my chest. There is a huge amount of swelling, and still a lot of pain, but I actually have-cleavage. Cleavage! Amazing. It all looks really strange, but I will have dressings changed and sutures removed at the end of the week, so I will see what Steve says I can and can't do. It isn't even two weeks since surgery, so I guess vacuuming and lifting things are still out of the question. Awww....
I'll stop for now, but there is so much more that I feel like I can get back on the blog tomorrow and tell you the rest of it. I'm not writing a book-at least, not yet.
And what am I going to do now? I'm going to reward myself for these last few weeks of pain by taking the long trek to-Dunkin Donuts!
Munchkins anyone?
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