Saturday, 20th July 2013

This is my journal entry that I wrote on the day of my op and over the couple of days straight after my surgery: Today is the day of my op. I am sitting here in my very pleasant private room at Sunnybank Private Hospital. I’ve just found out I’ll be spending the night in ICU, which means I only get one night in my salubrious lodgings. No food or drink today. The toughest part is no liquids as I tend to drink quite a bit. But focussing on the deprivation is counter-productive. I’m feeling reasonably calm with just a hint of underlying anxiety. Mum rang last night and I missed a call from my eldest sister. My other sister rang this morning. I was wheeled into theatre at about 12pm. My surgeon had come by and said, “Hello” and the anaesthetist had inserted the cannula and given me a quick run-down on what was to happen next. Jim, the friendly 57-year-old theatre tech kept popping his head in to check on me. But now this was it. No more pleasantries. Time for some shut-eye and hacking off about ¾ of my stomach. When I say it like that it sounds pretty traumatic, but I was actually very calm and comfortable with my decision. I’d spent the time in pre-op practising meditation to cope with what might await me on the other side. This practice stood me in very good stead for later. I have no further memories of the OT. The next thing I knew I was in ICU and moaning as I was besieged by regular bouts of nausea and almost overwhelming urges to vomit. Part of me was thinking of what a ‘toss’ I must sound like moaning and sooking. Other parts were thinking how intensely uncomfortable I was and if anybody didn’t like it they could go and do the other thing. It was during this time that the meditation practice was most useful. Despite being barely lucid, when hit by a bout of nausea I would tell myself to focus on the light (real or imaginary) and once my mind was focussed I would think about something really pleasant. It worked every time; simple and effective. However, I’m no hero so I supplemented this practice with regular calls to the nurses for meds. I now fully understood why they kept us in ICU. With my history of DVT my legs were wrapped not only in stockings, but in vibrating pads that cycles through each leg every 12 seconds (Yes, I counted the seconds). So for about 15 hours I drifted in and out of consciousness, waking every 15 to 20 minutes with about 3 hiccoughs and a bout of nausea. The worst part was P. I knew he was there but I couldn’t muster the energy to communicate. In my peripheral vision I could see no backpack so he was sitting there just watching me with nothing to read for about four hours. I can’t even begin to comprehend how helpless he must have felt. Perhaps he was sitting there thinking “Shut up you sooky bitch, it can’t be that bad.” But that would be very unlike him. I did feel slightly vindicated a few hours after I arrived in ICU when another sleeve patient was wheeled in making the same noises as me. Between blood pressure checks, the machines that go beep, blood tests, chest X-rays, heparin needles, and the vibrating leg pads, it wasn’t the most restful night I’ve ever spent, but I survived. My surgeon turned up in ICU at about 7am. He had promised he’d see me every day in hospital and he was true to his word. The man is a machine. All was good and I was now ready for clear fluids. Breakfast was half a cup of black tea, some apple juice and jelly, and water. To be honest I wasn’t hungry, but it was nice to get some fluids. The nurses had been brilliant letting me flush my mouth with water at regular intervals through the night. That had given me a huge relief from the interminable thirst, but it’s no substitute for actually drinking to wet the palate. Before breakfast I had my second sponge bath and first pee since leaving my room the previous day. Both were surprisingly pleasant. By now I was coherent enough to turn on the television and mostly listen to ABC News 24. I was heading back to the ward today. At about 7am my phone rang. I sort of suspected it might be P but was yet unable to sustain conversation. The nurse answered and gave the caller fairly short shrift. I asked if it was my husband and she said, “Yeah, the call shouldn’t have come through to here. You’ll have to apologise to him on my behalf later.” I did. P was by my side within a couple of hours. This time, thankfully, with his tablet in hand. I gleaned from snatches of conversation that ICU was sending one patient per hour back to the wards. From what I could surmise I was to be the last. By now, P and lunch had come and gone. Finally I returned to my lovely private room with my leftover juice and jelly and promptly fell asleep again. I was woken at about 2.30pm by P, Mum, and my brother, followed shortly after by my sisters. It was all a bit overwhelming. Mum, P and my brother went off to get some food while my sisters and I ‘chatted’ and took photos of ourselves. When the others arrived there was too much talk of food and vomiting for my liking and the nurse sent everyone packing. I could get no volume on my TV and virtually couldn’t reach anything so the evening was spent in torpor. This night commenced much as the previous one; 15 to 20 minute periods of sleep punctuated with hiccoughs (now up to eight) and nausea. The nurse left a couple of dissolved ‘Panadol’ at my bed. When I finally drank them down at one or two o’clock in the morning I immediately gagged and vomited; I was sure I wouldn’t be discharged on Monday. But at about 3am a miraculous change seemed to come over me and I slept for two hours straight. My surgeon was back at 6am; dark suit and red tie, very dashing. He let me know I was moving on the free fluids and going home today. Things were on the mend. The nurse got my TV working properly and I was on custard and thicker soups. I slept away the morning waiting for discharge and genuinely feeling I was on the road to recovery. Things were looking up.