Medical Memories

I know it is silly, but I’ve been feeling a low-level concern over how Howard is doing today. Most of the concern is probably due to the fact that I’m reading Reflex by Stephen Gould. The major plotline of this book is “Woman searches for missing husband.” The husband in question was snatched, put through unpleasant surgery, and then kept in inhumane circumstances. I’m pretty sure that none of those things apply to Howard, but he hasn’t called me yet today. It’s being a fun read and I’m enjoying the book. I just wish my subconscious wasn’t hijacking the material to feed my silly anxieties.

My subconscious has sideswiped me with material from this book in more ways than one. A description of the husband waking up just post surgery to discover what has been done, let me to have…I’m reluctant to call it a flashback, but it was definitely a vivid memory of a similar waking of mine. In my case I knew about and consented to the surgery, but that in no way decreased the disorientation of discovering that things had been done to my body while I was completely oblivious. I expected the incision and stitches. I did not expect the patches and stickers where sensors had been attached, or the pairs of pinpricks where a drape had actually been sewn to my skin to keep it in place, nor the fact that I was wearing a different hospital gown that the one I’d gone into pre-op wearing. I’m pretty sure that the sewn drape and the gown change were a result of the surgery being more involved/exciting than anticipated by the surgical team. They anticipated a 2 hour surgery and it was more like 4 and a half. I was supposed to be able to go home the same day, I ended up staying overnight. I was too groggy to ask, but I suspect that the reason for the clothing change was because the orgininal clothing had gotten disturbingly bloody. I’m also pretty sure they were changing the clothes as I was coming out from under anesthesia because I remember being rolled around. I was very dizzy and it felt like they were rolling me right off the table. I remember flailing my arms to regain balance and someone grabbed them and reassured me. Then the rolled me the other direction and I flailed again. I think they changed me from one bed to another too.

I remember the nurse that night was very kind and sympathetic. She kept looking at me as if I reminded her of a dead loved one. I was partially grateful for the attention and a little creeped out by it. There was a thunderstorm that night and I got out of bed and went to the window to see if I could see it. I couldn’t see it well and the nurse found me by the window and ushered me back into bed. I don’t sleep well in hospitals. Howard brought Kiki to come visit me at some point. She was wearing a dress that I’d never liked the look of and so had never pulled out to put on her. But it looked cute on her and after that she wore it alot. She was 18 months old. Howard didn’t bring her when it was time for me to go home. Howard helped give me a sponge bath before getting me dressed in my own clothes. It felt so wonderful to be clean. It felt even better that Howard was doing it and not some creepy nurse (who had thankfully gone off-shift). During that clean up we discovered even more patches on my back and blood that the nurses had missed cleaning up. I remember groggily showing Howard the matching pinpricks and telling him “They sewed it to me!” in a petulant/outraged tone. Howard laughed and somehow that let me laugh too and it was better.

At home I was groggy/drugged. Good friends came to visit. I was supposed to be resting, but somehow the drugs affected my sense of touch. Everything I touched was so soft that it was distracting. I got out of bed, staggered down the hall, and told everyone “I couldn’t sleep everything is too soft!” They laughed and put me back to bed anyway. My speech was noticably slurred for a month after the surgery. Talking was difficult and I often had to repeat things to make them understood, so I often didn’t speak up when I wanted too. I worried that the slur would be permanent and pondered how that would change my life. I’m so accustomed to being articulate. The incision and stitches were very lumpy. The lumpiness went away as the internal stiches were absorbed by my body, but it was a really impressive wound for awhile. We all joked that I’d timed the surgery wrong because it was healed into a pink scar before Halloween came two months later.

My second surgery was essentially the same surgery, same location, same length, same tumor, but the experience was much easier. We knew it would take place almost two months in advance and my mom came to help watch kids. At least I think she did, I may be confusing it with her stay during radiation therapy 8 months later. We knew before surgery that I’d be staying over night. There was no sewing of drapes or changing of clothes while I was unconscious. I still had sticky patches to wash off, but not blood. The incision and stitches were neat, not lumpy. The surgeon was much more experienced and I’m pretty sure that is what made the difference. No surgery is pleasant, but the second doesn’t have the dark lingering angst from it that the first does. In fact I’m pretty sure that much of my hospital aversion dates from that first surgical recovery. I don’t like hospitals not even for happy events like having babies. Bad things happen in hospitals. Or at least so my buried psyche tells me.