The next 32 hours are in a perpetual state of half-consciousness. Barely registering the frequent visits from nurses to inject gallons of anti-biotics and pain-killers into my vein every four hours. Hardly able to move and eat the copious amounts of hospital food, that I get scolded severly for barely touching. Finally Sunday morning the moment of truth and first challenge arrises, I have to pee. Needless to say it is an interesting twenty minute attempt to achieve the crossing of 10ft from bed to toilet, what I wouldn't give to have been a fly on the wall to witness the awkward attempts at standing up without using any abdominal muscles... I'm pretty sure I got stuck twice trying different ways and maneuvers.
*Slightly graphic warning*
The unfortunate thing about the pain-killers that are given is the side-effects they leave for your bowels. They stop you up like the Hover-dam. The second unfortunate thing is the nurses' opening line when visiting your room or when there is a shift change is inevitably "Have you opened your bowels?", and in front of three new nurses having to mutter an embarrassed. "No".
To my torture, I had to struggle with this condition for 5 days following my surgery. Meanwhile, forced to chug sluggey helpings of metamucil equivenlent substances thrice daily in the hopes of freeing my excriments from their yards long prison. When that didn't work at 10pm monday night the head nurse walks in and smacks a small cap full of some yellowish syrup and says ominouslt, "It's time for some stronger stuff." Little did I know that the next 8 hours would be a living nightmare. I was woken at midnight with the worst gas pains imaginable and spent the next three hours doing calisthenics, and one leg bicycle kicks to work it all out. From there I spent the next four hours on the loo. The worst part was feeling it push against the recently operated on intestine.
When I was finally able to walk for more then just to the bathroom, I ventured upstairs to visit my friend Josh who had been hit by a motorcycle about six days earlier. The funniest and saddest part was making each other laugh telling ridiculous hospital experience stories etc. This was cause it hurt to laugh. I would end up doubled over clutching my appendix area and Josh would in turn have to brace his broken ribs. One time *another slightly graphic warning* he got me laughing so hard my wound began to seep a little.
We were forced to spend the next week in a hotel with little else to do than to lie around and watch movies or talk for hours sense we were barely mobile.
The Scar:
2 comments:
Ahh, battle scars! You have joined the litany of post-op troopers and lived to tell the tale! Good on you, my friend!
Kate has friends in Jamaica who just say, "You have to laugh, because otherwise you will cry." Indeed! But no more wound-splitting.
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