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lighterthanair) wrote2013-05-20 10:57 am
lighterthanair) wrote2013-05-20 10:57 am
The Surgery Saga
This is going to be a long post. For everyone's benefit, I'll cut it into days to make for a bit of easier reading. Also, I will probably talk about some semi-gross things, such as what you have to deal with when you go into the hospital to have your belly sliced open. You have been warned.
Wednesday
After not having eaten anything since about 8 PM the night before, I checked into pre-op and got my initial stuff done, including being jabbed 3 times, as nurses unsuccessfully tried to give me an IV. My veins sucks. They suck harder after months of battling anemia, and getting anything into the ones in my arms is nearly impossible at this point. The ritual prep took place, involving questioning me, undressing me, shaving parts of me that normally I don't like other people to touch. Standard stuff.
So then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, about an hour after my surgery was supposed to start, I was wheeled out of pre-op and into that chilly little room that's just outside of the surgery bay. Fortunately after only about 5 minutes of waiting in there, I was wheeled into the OR proper and shuffled onto the operating table.
The anesthetist was the one who (rather painfully) managed to get an IV in my arm.
Someone else put an oxygen mask over my face, which was really uncomfortable and actually made me feel like it was harder to breathe than if I was just breathing normal air.
Then the anesthetist came back and injected something into the IV. I had about enough time to groan before the world went away. Know those shows where doctors get people to count backwards from 10, and everyone's always a sleep before they hit 7? That's an overestimation. I would have been lucky to make it to 9.
The next thing I was aware of was darkness. Somebody asked me if I knew where I was. I did, and I heard him clearly, but I couldn't answer, so I just let myself drift off again.
Came round a little later again. It was still dark, because my eyes weren't cooperating when I told them to open. I was aksed again if I knew where I was. I slurred out, "Hospital," and left it at that. That seemed to be all they wanted to hear, because they didn't ask again. As I slowly came out of the anesthesia, I began to notice little things. Like how heavy and weird the world felt. And how moving any part of my body was like dragging it through molasses. I wanted to just go back to sleep, but things were wearing off and I wasn't allowed.
More awareness. I had another IV hooked up to my other arm. I had a catheter in. And my stomach hurt. My throat felt cloggy, like it does when I normally wake up, and I was afraid that if I couldn't swallow it, I would throw up the way I usually do. I slurred out a request for a drink, even a few sips, and told them why. I wasn't allowed to drink, but they could swab my mouth and tongue with a little soaked sponge. I tell you, nothing felt as good as that sponge right then! I sucked up all the water I could from it!
Apparently that feeling happens often after people have had breathing tubes removed. Looks like I was also intubated. I expected that, but it's kind of weird to know that it happened without knowing that it happened, so to speak.
Also, I remember asking, "How do I pee?" It was a legitimate question, though it sounds kind of silly. I had a catheter in. I needed to pee. I didn't know if I was supposed to do what I normally do to pee and the catheter tube would catch it, or if urine just drains it off without me having to do anything. Fortunately, it was the latter, which made things very convenient.
I was in Recovery for a long time, long enough to wake up more fully and start talking and joking with the nurses a bit. This was because Dr. S had insisted they give me 2 units of blood before taking me to my room on the ward, due to the blood loss I'd experienced during the surgery. Nobody quite understood why they didn't just wheel me up to the ward and give me the blood there, since all I'd be going either way is lying in a bed and not moving much. Oh well, doctor's orders.
I did learn that the surgery had taken around 2 hours. At that point, I started to get a little weirded out, because I'd been told that normally myomectomies take about an hour, and more than that usually heralds complications. Were the complications just the blood loss?
But eventually, I was taken to my room on the maternity ward (because that's where all females sick with female diseases go, doncha know) and left to rest. I was told I'd see Dr. S in the morning.
I didn't sleep much that night.
Thursday
Dr. S didn't come that morning. She didn't come until that afternoon. Fortunately, my roommate was there are the time and got to listen to the whole conversation.
Here's how it went down.
The tumour was far more involved that she'd thought. She'd known it was large (10 cm by 9.7 cm), and that it was located on the top of the uterus, but what she didn't know is that it had penetrated the uterine wall and was now growing down into the cavity itself. It was also starting to infiltrate the fallopian tubes. She had to cut through the uterus itself to get rid of all the tumour, and had a hell of a hard time stopping the bleeding. She used "a ton" of sutures, and manages to stop most of the bleeding, but I could still expect some. Imaging scans would have to be done later to check on the damage to the tubes, but hopefully I could still conceive, so don't worry about that yet. And she was glad she'd chosen to go in and remove the tumour, because of the extent of the damage it had done.
Count the things wrong with this explanation.
First of all, the decision to cut into me was not hers. It was the most extreme on a list of options she gave me, and she didn't seem that happy when I chose it instead of trying the IUD again, or using radioactive beads to shrink the tumour (but not get rid of it entirely). It felt an awful lot like she was basically taking credit for my idea, which stung a lot especially after she'd twice shot it down in the past, and is only glad she did it now, after she saw the extent of the damage and how far it had infiltrated.
Two, she was still talking positively about me having kids, as though I hadn't already expressed to her multiple times that I didn't want them. Like she was trying to console me that the extent of the tumour's infiltration (which, I might point out, wouldn't have gotten so bad if she'd listened to me all those months ago in the first place) might not have cause too much damage for me to have kids, so buck up, it'll be fine. (Like I give a damn.)
Three, she already told me that if the bleeding was too much to control while she was in there, she'd take the uterus out entirely. She did, in spite of the fact that she had to actually cut into it, take out a chunk, saw that it might have fucked me up in a serious way, added more pain to my recovery time, and couldn't control all the bleeding anyway. Again, more concerned with my ability to reproduce than what was actually going on with my health.
Four, unless that 2-3 cm that grew into the uterine cavity grew there in about 1 month, then she has no excuse for not knowing it was there. Why? Because when she inserted the IUD and scraped out a bunch of tissue, she also did a hysteroscopy, which means she took a tiny flashlight and looked completely inside my uterus. Ah, no, wait, it would have to have grown in about a week, since it was about that long between me getting the IUD and me being admitted to the hospital last time, when they found out that the tumour had grown and the IUD had been bled out. And yet miraculously didn't grow again at all between then and getting it removed.
And five, the woman in the bed next to me also had a fibroid. Which was not as large, not as severe, and wasn't causing her as many problems. She had a hysterectomy. She also had 3 kids. I guess Dr. S considered her duty to the world performed, so her utuerus was fine to come out, but mine had to stay in despite greater complications and greater damage that may leave me incapable of having kids even if I did want them.
Not. Happy.
Between her refusal to do what she said, her previous dilly-dallying that made the problems all worse, and her condescending attitude about what I do with my life and when, I'm now 100% sure I'm reporting her. It's not malpractice, it's not neglect, but by damn someone needs to know about this! I want an explanation for how she missed what she missed. I want an apology for her not taking my life choices seriously, and I want a goddamn heartfelt genuine apology for not taking my reports of symptoms seriously, since I have a hard time imagining her doing so and yet still fucking around for months the way she did. I want an apology for her knowing about the anemia but never addressing it beyond a few vague awkward comments that made it sound like she thought I was at fault for letting my health get that bad.
But it doesn't end there. I'll get to tomorrow's idiocy soon.
Anyway, continuing the day's saga, I wasn't allowed to drink yet. Just suck on ice. Which I did a lot, because I was thirsty and dehydrated and they kept telling me I wasn't producing much urine (well, obviously, because you're not letting me drink anything).
But then something funny happened. I started to pee pink.
Not red. Not bloody urine. The catheter tube was stained pink, and someone likened the colour of what was in the bag to grapefruit juice. Just to be sure, they changed the bag and tube entirely. They had no idea what caused it. They thought it might have been a flaw with the tubing, some dye that was in it that they didn't know about.
They also had to get me out of bed. I knew this was coming. But I was terrified, because even lifting my shoulder about 3 cm off the bed caused me to shout in pain, and I didn't know how I was going to actually stand up!
I managed. With the help of 3 nurses, and a lot of me sobbing and crying. Sitting up made me so light-headed that I thought I would be sick. Standing up made me lose my vision. I remember, vaguely, responding to their questions. I don't remember what I said. I think they cleaned me and changed my sheets while I was standing up, but I'm not sure.
Seriously, if you've never had surgery but will someday, I'm going to tell you right now: nothing will prepare you for your first time out of bed. Nothing. No amount of twisting and moving what little you can while you're in bed. Sitting up for the first time will reduce you to tears. Standing up may be an ordeal you'd gladly sell your soul to avoid repeating. I'd been told it would hurt. I'd been told it would be hard. It was nothing like what I imagined. I have only once before hit a 10 on the pain scale (and by my own personal reckoning, 10 is where I'm about to or do pass out from pain), and this experience bumped that count to twice.
And keep in mind that I'd had painkillers shortly before doing this. Very fast-acting painkillers. They did not help.
Later I spoke with someone in pain management about the dilaudid pump I was using, because it wasn't doing much good. It would take the edge off, but I couldn't draw even a normal breath without pain. This concerned people, because my heart rate was high and my O2 sats were low. (Another piece of idiocy. Dr. S asked me, "Is your heart rate so high because you're in pain?" Well, I can assume so, but since I'm not the one with the goddamn medical degree, why are you asking me? Especially when you've never listened to my opinion of my own health before?) Anyway, they gave me something stronger, which allowed me to take a deeper breath (though not exactly deep) before the same level of pain kicked in, and that wasn't an on-demand thing like the dilaudid pump.
So they talked about switching me to morphine. Dr. S came talked to me about it, too. I figured it was worth a try, since if it took away my pain, great! Everyone went away to get things set up.
Then the nurse from pain management came back. It was a no-go. I'm asthmatic, and morphine might depress my breathing to dangerous levels, and they didn't want that. It was dilaudid or nothing.
Sigh.
Another nurse dropped by before I fell asleep in order to get me out of bed again (difficult, but far easier than last time) and clean me up. We had an awesome discussion about YA novels we'd read. I liked her.
I passed the night as well as I could. I had strange dreams, the strangest of which was a plague wiping out most of humanity, but the survivors turned into humanoid food products. Olivia Newton John was a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and sang about how great it was that people could pay for university now by selling off regenerating body parts to feed others.
I shit you not. I wish I could be this insanely creative when I'm conscious and not on narcotics, because I could make a small fortune doodling odd comics of what runs through my brain like that.
Friday
Friday did not go well. I was allowed to start drinking liquids again, which made me happy when breakfast came, but I felt nauseous. I saw a cup of Instant Breakfast on the food tray, and figured I'd drink that, because it would have the most nutrition. Big mistake. That came back up about an hour later, after I'd spent that hour feeling so nauseous I was sweating and whimpering and called a nurse in to beg for a cold cloth for my head.
At lunch, I figured I'd have something milder. Let's try some apple juice. Nope, to hell with that. Came back up too.
All I could do was suck on ice again, the way I had been, and one nurse was kind enough to bring me a can on ginger ale to sip too, which helped.
They took away the pain pump, saying I was using it little enough to be able to switch to painkillers by mouth if need be. Goodbye, happy dilaudid pump. I will miss you.
I eventually got up, and sat in a chair, and entertained some company for a while. Company is nice when you're in hospitals, because even staring at the ceiling for hours gets very boring after a while.
The catheter was taken out that day. Just after the tubing had started to turn pink once more. It hadn't, in all the time, but now it was. Still, nobody knew why.
Dr. S dropped by shortly after that. She asked if the morphine had helped me any. I was confused, and told her that they didn't give me any morphine. They told me it would be too dangerous with my asthma, and kept me on dilaudid. Her turn to look confused. "That's not what the nurses told me," she said. Not much I could say to that. I mean, I was tempted to ask if she'd even read my chart, but that was just get me labelled as belligerent.
I also mentioned the catheter tube turning pink again. She reminded me that this was why they changed the bag and tube; the problem was with the previous equipment. She'd seen the new ones and they were fine. I repeated that they were fine, for most of the day, until only about half an hour after they removed it the pink stuff had started to show up again. She seemed even more confused, and once again nad no idea why that could possibly be happening. That mystery remains unsolved. It may be related to the kind of anesthetic they used during the surgery, but I'm not sure.
Following a nurse's advice, for supper I nibbled on crackers, and managed to keep 2 down. Progress! I finished a third before bed! I was elated!
But I still couldn't breathe properly. Lying at an angle compressed my lungs and made it hard to breathe. Lying flat did the same. My O2 sats dropped to 90 at one point. I focused on breathing better and hoped it would all go away. If the day of hell would end, I could be happy with that much.
Saturday
I slept as well as I could, all things considered. I managed to eat about 1/4 of a bowl of cream of wheat for breakfast before feeling it was the time to stop, and though that may not seem like much, considering the previous day, I was elated.
I also got so bored of lying in bed and listening to my lungs crackle that I started wandering around just for the fun of it. It got easier every time. I even managed to read a little, which was extra nice because I hadn't had the brainpower to do so on any of the other days. Felt good to get that little bit of myself back.
Dr. S visited. Asked, a little nervously, how the bleeding was doing. I said not bad, I only had to change my pad 2-3 times a day. She seemed relieved, said my hemoglobin was around 82-84, and since I was doing so well, I could be discharged that day!
YES!
So I called my roommate and we came home. I had a brand new bed set up for me that would be easier to get into and out of than the old one, and I managed to eat a few small bowls of soup that evening, which was the most I'd eaten in the better part of a week. Things seemed to be shaping up quite nicely, I must say! I was amazed that I'd gone from screaming pain to coming home in just a few days.
The rest...
Saturday night, I couldn't sleep. My lungs still crackled. Or rather, my left lung only, especially when it was compressed. The bleeding wasn't slowing, and in fact seemed to be getting heavier. In my inifinite wisdom, I took a couple of leftover cyklo, since they slow down bleeding.
Big mistake. Though there are no drug interactions, I had forgotten the side effects of cyklo. Forgotten them because I hadn't experienced them since the first few times I had to take some. I woke up at 4 AM, unable to remember that I wasn't an injured werewolf.
No, seriously. Getting stuck in a dream for a few seconds was one thing. But I was so dizzy and disoriented from the cyklo that I couldn't pull out of it. I went to the bathroom, struggled around, entirely convinced that I was not human, that the incision in my gut was because I'd been injured in battle, and it took about 10 minutes for me to properly remember who I was. spent that time nauseous and overheated, dizzy and about to throw up, and fuck it if cyklo would help the bleeding, I am not putting myself through that again! I guess my body was weakened enough from the surgery that it bumped me back where tolerance to the drug was concerned, and I started from ground zero with the side effects again.
But by morning I still heard the crackles, and decided that since I had an increased risk of a collapsed lung or pneumonia, I should go to the ER. Better safe than sorry.
Apparetly being post-op with potential surgical complications gets you nowhere at the hospital, because the girl having trouble coming down from her high was seen before I was, in spite of arriving after I had. After 2 hours of sitting in the waiting room and trying not to pass out, I staggered back to triage and told them that although I wasn't here for pain, my pain was rapidly getting worse. Okay, they said, come with us!
I was taken to an exam room, where I lay for another hour and a half, whimpering in pain and fatigue, until somebody came to see me. ECG, chest x-ray, respiratory therapist, the whole thing. Took me another long while to actually see a doctor after that, but the verdict was good. Likely it was nothing serious, just my asthma making total lung recovery a little tricker than normal. Which sucked on one hand, because I could do nothing but tough it out. On the other hand, my lung hadn't collapsed and I wasn't developping an infection.
So home I go. My incision was killing me at this point. I hadn't had painkillers that day, hadn't eaten, and hadn't slept much.
I checked the incision. Near one of the staples was red, and near to that was a small abscess.
Fuck.
Likely all that was caused by me sitting at the hospital for almost 7 hourrs yesterday, unable to clean it or air it out or anything, so it sat and stewed in sweat and lack of air until infection formed. It wasn't there on Saturday.
I checked it this morning. It's still there, but I think it looks a little better. I'll keep a very close eye on it, though.
But what interested me the most while I was at the hospital was that the doctor was kind enough to show me the results of all of my blood tests done while I was hospitalized. Now, Dr. S was a little unclear, but she said immediately after the surgery that my hemoglobin was at 77, and they gave me 2 units of blood after. I also lost about 500 ml of blood during the surgery, but I'm not sure if that's prior to the 77 rating or after it. Still. My hemoglobin rose to 81 while in the hospital, and kept steadily dropping.
I wasn't discharged with a hemoglobin level of 84. Nor 82. No, it was 72, or almost as low as it has ever been for me.
That fucking bitch lied to my face! Twice. With my roommate there to be a witness to the whole conversation! The doctor at the hospital said that all things considered, with anemia that bad again, I was still having an excellent recovery in spite on complications, and you know? I agree. I didn't know I was that bad. If he hadn't told me, I would have gone through things thinking I was healthier than I was, and probably been really confused as to why my numbers didn't climb higher over time.
But that dumbass motherfucking idiot blatantly lied about my stats, about my health, about important information that I have a need and a right to not be lied to about! Given that she didn't know I hadn't been given morphine, or that I hadn't had my catheter removed, the best thing I can think about her is that she's just an idiot doctor who can't be bothered to pick up a goddamn chart before consulting her patients. Which isn't exactly any better. Would you rather have an incompetant doctor or one who just lies to you?
So this was the last straw. She's being officially reported. All the other stuff was bad enough, but this? She has endangered my health. She has lied. She had dismissed symptoms and delayed treatment which ultimately made the underlying condition far worse than it needed to be. She has belitted and ignored my choices and recommendations and lifestyle again and again. I need some justice here, because she is a foul doctor who doesn't deserve to be seeing people if this is the quality of care she's going to give them. I'm completely disgusted, and ashamed that I ever had to trust her with my health at all.
I see her tomorrow to have the staples removed. If I can't switch my 6-week follow-up appointment to a new doctor, I'll have to see her again, then. But after that, if I can get away with it, I don't want to see her face. I don't want to talk to her. I especially don't want her to have any say on what happens to my body or my health, because all I know now is that she'll either fuck it up or lie about it. Or both. I can't trust her, and the reasons I can't trust her are ones she brought down entirely on her own head.
Lousy fucking bitch.
So that hopefully concludes the surgery saga. If that sore looks bad again later, I may end up back at the ER, but if not, great. I'm hoping for not, but I really don't want an abdominal abscess to spread very far, so again, better safe than sorry. But we'll see.
Wednesday
After not having eaten anything since about 8 PM the night before, I checked into pre-op and got my initial stuff done, including being jabbed 3 times, as nurses unsuccessfully tried to give me an IV. My veins sucks. They suck harder after months of battling anemia, and getting anything into the ones in my arms is nearly impossible at this point. The ritual prep took place, involving questioning me, undressing me, shaving parts of me that normally I don't like other people to touch. Standard stuff.
So then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, about an hour after my surgery was supposed to start, I was wheeled out of pre-op and into that chilly little room that's just outside of the surgery bay. Fortunately after only about 5 minutes of waiting in there, I was wheeled into the OR proper and shuffled onto the operating table.
The anesthetist was the one who (rather painfully) managed to get an IV in my arm.
Someone else put an oxygen mask over my face, which was really uncomfortable and actually made me feel like it was harder to breathe than if I was just breathing normal air.
Then the anesthetist came back and injected something into the IV. I had about enough time to groan before the world went away. Know those shows where doctors get people to count backwards from 10, and everyone's always a sleep before they hit 7? That's an overestimation. I would have been lucky to make it to 9.
The next thing I was aware of was darkness. Somebody asked me if I knew where I was. I did, and I heard him clearly, but I couldn't answer, so I just let myself drift off again.
Came round a little later again. It was still dark, because my eyes weren't cooperating when I told them to open. I was aksed again if I knew where I was. I slurred out, "Hospital," and left it at that. That seemed to be all they wanted to hear, because they didn't ask again. As I slowly came out of the anesthesia, I began to notice little things. Like how heavy and weird the world felt. And how moving any part of my body was like dragging it through molasses. I wanted to just go back to sleep, but things were wearing off and I wasn't allowed.
More awareness. I had another IV hooked up to my other arm. I had a catheter in. And my stomach hurt. My throat felt cloggy, like it does when I normally wake up, and I was afraid that if I couldn't swallow it, I would throw up the way I usually do. I slurred out a request for a drink, even a few sips, and told them why. I wasn't allowed to drink, but they could swab my mouth and tongue with a little soaked sponge. I tell you, nothing felt as good as that sponge right then! I sucked up all the water I could from it!
Apparently that feeling happens often after people have had breathing tubes removed. Looks like I was also intubated. I expected that, but it's kind of weird to know that it happened without knowing that it happened, so to speak.
Also, I remember asking, "How do I pee?" It was a legitimate question, though it sounds kind of silly. I had a catheter in. I needed to pee. I didn't know if I was supposed to do what I normally do to pee and the catheter tube would catch it, or if urine just drains it off without me having to do anything. Fortunately, it was the latter, which made things very convenient.
I was in Recovery for a long time, long enough to wake up more fully and start talking and joking with the nurses a bit. This was because Dr. S had insisted they give me 2 units of blood before taking me to my room on the ward, due to the blood loss I'd experienced during the surgery. Nobody quite understood why they didn't just wheel me up to the ward and give me the blood there, since all I'd be going either way is lying in a bed and not moving much. Oh well, doctor's orders.
I did learn that the surgery had taken around 2 hours. At that point, I started to get a little weirded out, because I'd been told that normally myomectomies take about an hour, and more than that usually heralds complications. Were the complications just the blood loss?
But eventually, I was taken to my room on the maternity ward (because that's where all females sick with female diseases go, doncha know) and left to rest. I was told I'd see Dr. S in the morning.
I didn't sleep much that night.
Thursday
Dr. S didn't come that morning. She didn't come until that afternoon. Fortunately, my roommate was there are the time and got to listen to the whole conversation.
Here's how it went down.
The tumour was far more involved that she'd thought. She'd known it was large (10 cm by 9.7 cm), and that it was located on the top of the uterus, but what she didn't know is that it had penetrated the uterine wall and was now growing down into the cavity itself. It was also starting to infiltrate the fallopian tubes. She had to cut through the uterus itself to get rid of all the tumour, and had a hell of a hard time stopping the bleeding. She used "a ton" of sutures, and manages to stop most of the bleeding, but I could still expect some. Imaging scans would have to be done later to check on the damage to the tubes, but hopefully I could still conceive, so don't worry about that yet. And she was glad she'd chosen to go in and remove the tumour, because of the extent of the damage it had done.
Count the things wrong with this explanation.
First of all, the decision to cut into me was not hers. It was the most extreme on a list of options she gave me, and she didn't seem that happy when I chose it instead of trying the IUD again, or using radioactive beads to shrink the tumour (but not get rid of it entirely). It felt an awful lot like she was basically taking credit for my idea, which stung a lot especially after she'd twice shot it down in the past, and is only glad she did it now, after she saw the extent of the damage and how far it had infiltrated.
Two, she was still talking positively about me having kids, as though I hadn't already expressed to her multiple times that I didn't want them. Like she was trying to console me that the extent of the tumour's infiltration (which, I might point out, wouldn't have gotten so bad if she'd listened to me all those months ago in the first place) might not have cause too much damage for me to have kids, so buck up, it'll be fine. (Like I give a damn.)
Three, she already told me that if the bleeding was too much to control while she was in there, she'd take the uterus out entirely. She did, in spite of the fact that she had to actually cut into it, take out a chunk, saw that it might have fucked me up in a serious way, added more pain to my recovery time, and couldn't control all the bleeding anyway. Again, more concerned with my ability to reproduce than what was actually going on with my health.
Four, unless that 2-3 cm that grew into the uterine cavity grew there in about 1 month, then she has no excuse for not knowing it was there. Why? Because when she inserted the IUD and scraped out a bunch of tissue, she also did a hysteroscopy, which means she took a tiny flashlight and looked completely inside my uterus. Ah, no, wait, it would have to have grown in about a week, since it was about that long between me getting the IUD and me being admitted to the hospital last time, when they found out that the tumour had grown and the IUD had been bled out. And yet miraculously didn't grow again at all between then and getting it removed.
And five, the woman in the bed next to me also had a fibroid. Which was not as large, not as severe, and wasn't causing her as many problems. She had a hysterectomy. She also had 3 kids. I guess Dr. S considered her duty to the world performed, so her utuerus was fine to come out, but mine had to stay in despite greater complications and greater damage that may leave me incapable of having kids even if I did want them.
Not. Happy.
Between her refusal to do what she said, her previous dilly-dallying that made the problems all worse, and her condescending attitude about what I do with my life and when, I'm now 100% sure I'm reporting her. It's not malpractice, it's not neglect, but by damn someone needs to know about this! I want an explanation for how she missed what she missed. I want an apology for her not taking my life choices seriously, and I want a goddamn heartfelt genuine apology for not taking my reports of symptoms seriously, since I have a hard time imagining her doing so and yet still fucking around for months the way she did. I want an apology for her knowing about the anemia but never addressing it beyond a few vague awkward comments that made it sound like she thought I was at fault for letting my health get that bad.
But it doesn't end there. I'll get to tomorrow's idiocy soon.
Anyway, continuing the day's saga, I wasn't allowed to drink yet. Just suck on ice. Which I did a lot, because I was thirsty and dehydrated and they kept telling me I wasn't producing much urine (well, obviously, because you're not letting me drink anything).
But then something funny happened. I started to pee pink.
Not red. Not bloody urine. The catheter tube was stained pink, and someone likened the colour of what was in the bag to grapefruit juice. Just to be sure, they changed the bag and tube entirely. They had no idea what caused it. They thought it might have been a flaw with the tubing, some dye that was in it that they didn't know about.
They also had to get me out of bed. I knew this was coming. But I was terrified, because even lifting my shoulder about 3 cm off the bed caused me to shout in pain, and I didn't know how I was going to actually stand up!
I managed. With the help of 3 nurses, and a lot of me sobbing and crying. Sitting up made me so light-headed that I thought I would be sick. Standing up made me lose my vision. I remember, vaguely, responding to their questions. I don't remember what I said. I think they cleaned me and changed my sheets while I was standing up, but I'm not sure.
Seriously, if you've never had surgery but will someday, I'm going to tell you right now: nothing will prepare you for your first time out of bed. Nothing. No amount of twisting and moving what little you can while you're in bed. Sitting up for the first time will reduce you to tears. Standing up may be an ordeal you'd gladly sell your soul to avoid repeating. I'd been told it would hurt. I'd been told it would be hard. It was nothing like what I imagined. I have only once before hit a 10 on the pain scale (and by my own personal reckoning, 10 is where I'm about to or do pass out from pain), and this experience bumped that count to twice.
And keep in mind that I'd had painkillers shortly before doing this. Very fast-acting painkillers. They did not help.
Later I spoke with someone in pain management about the dilaudid pump I was using, because it wasn't doing much good. It would take the edge off, but I couldn't draw even a normal breath without pain. This concerned people, because my heart rate was high and my O2 sats were low. (Another piece of idiocy. Dr. S asked me, "Is your heart rate so high because you're in pain?" Well, I can assume so, but since I'm not the one with the goddamn medical degree, why are you asking me? Especially when you've never listened to my opinion of my own health before?) Anyway, they gave me something stronger, which allowed me to take a deeper breath (though not exactly deep) before the same level of pain kicked in, and that wasn't an on-demand thing like the dilaudid pump.
So they talked about switching me to morphine. Dr. S came talked to me about it, too. I figured it was worth a try, since if it took away my pain, great! Everyone went away to get things set up.
Then the nurse from pain management came back. It was a no-go. I'm asthmatic, and morphine might depress my breathing to dangerous levels, and they didn't want that. It was dilaudid or nothing.
Sigh.
Another nurse dropped by before I fell asleep in order to get me out of bed again (difficult, but far easier than last time) and clean me up. We had an awesome discussion about YA novels we'd read. I liked her.
I passed the night as well as I could. I had strange dreams, the strangest of which was a plague wiping out most of humanity, but the survivors turned into humanoid food products. Olivia Newton John was a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and sang about how great it was that people could pay for university now by selling off regenerating body parts to feed others.
I shit you not. I wish I could be this insanely creative when I'm conscious and not on narcotics, because I could make a small fortune doodling odd comics of what runs through my brain like that.
Friday
Friday did not go well. I was allowed to start drinking liquids again, which made me happy when breakfast came, but I felt nauseous. I saw a cup of Instant Breakfast on the food tray, and figured I'd drink that, because it would have the most nutrition. Big mistake. That came back up about an hour later, after I'd spent that hour feeling so nauseous I was sweating and whimpering and called a nurse in to beg for a cold cloth for my head.
At lunch, I figured I'd have something milder. Let's try some apple juice. Nope, to hell with that. Came back up too.
All I could do was suck on ice again, the way I had been, and one nurse was kind enough to bring me a can on ginger ale to sip too, which helped.
They took away the pain pump, saying I was using it little enough to be able to switch to painkillers by mouth if need be. Goodbye, happy dilaudid pump. I will miss you.
I eventually got up, and sat in a chair, and entertained some company for a while. Company is nice when you're in hospitals, because even staring at the ceiling for hours gets very boring after a while.
The catheter was taken out that day. Just after the tubing had started to turn pink once more. It hadn't, in all the time, but now it was. Still, nobody knew why.
Dr. S dropped by shortly after that. She asked if the morphine had helped me any. I was confused, and told her that they didn't give me any morphine. They told me it would be too dangerous with my asthma, and kept me on dilaudid. Her turn to look confused. "That's not what the nurses told me," she said. Not much I could say to that. I mean, I was tempted to ask if she'd even read my chart, but that was just get me labelled as belligerent.
I also mentioned the catheter tube turning pink again. She reminded me that this was why they changed the bag and tube; the problem was with the previous equipment. She'd seen the new ones and they were fine. I repeated that they were fine, for most of the day, until only about half an hour after they removed it the pink stuff had started to show up again. She seemed even more confused, and once again nad no idea why that could possibly be happening. That mystery remains unsolved. It may be related to the kind of anesthetic they used during the surgery, but I'm not sure.
Following a nurse's advice, for supper I nibbled on crackers, and managed to keep 2 down. Progress! I finished a third before bed! I was elated!
But I still couldn't breathe properly. Lying at an angle compressed my lungs and made it hard to breathe. Lying flat did the same. My O2 sats dropped to 90 at one point. I focused on breathing better and hoped it would all go away. If the day of hell would end, I could be happy with that much.
Saturday
I slept as well as I could, all things considered. I managed to eat about 1/4 of a bowl of cream of wheat for breakfast before feeling it was the time to stop, and though that may not seem like much, considering the previous day, I was elated.
I also got so bored of lying in bed and listening to my lungs crackle that I started wandering around just for the fun of it. It got easier every time. I even managed to read a little, which was extra nice because I hadn't had the brainpower to do so on any of the other days. Felt good to get that little bit of myself back.
Dr. S visited. Asked, a little nervously, how the bleeding was doing. I said not bad, I only had to change my pad 2-3 times a day. She seemed relieved, said my hemoglobin was around 82-84, and since I was doing so well, I could be discharged that day!
YES!
So I called my roommate and we came home. I had a brand new bed set up for me that would be easier to get into and out of than the old one, and I managed to eat a few small bowls of soup that evening, which was the most I'd eaten in the better part of a week. Things seemed to be shaping up quite nicely, I must say! I was amazed that I'd gone from screaming pain to coming home in just a few days.
The rest...
Saturday night, I couldn't sleep. My lungs still crackled. Or rather, my left lung only, especially when it was compressed. The bleeding wasn't slowing, and in fact seemed to be getting heavier. In my inifinite wisdom, I took a couple of leftover cyklo, since they slow down bleeding.
Big mistake. Though there are no drug interactions, I had forgotten the side effects of cyklo. Forgotten them because I hadn't experienced them since the first few times I had to take some. I woke up at 4 AM, unable to remember that I wasn't an injured werewolf.
No, seriously. Getting stuck in a dream for a few seconds was one thing. But I was so dizzy and disoriented from the cyklo that I couldn't pull out of it. I went to the bathroom, struggled around, entirely convinced that I was not human, that the incision in my gut was because I'd been injured in battle, and it took about 10 minutes for me to properly remember who I was. spent that time nauseous and overheated, dizzy and about to throw up, and fuck it if cyklo would help the bleeding, I am not putting myself through that again! I guess my body was weakened enough from the surgery that it bumped me back where tolerance to the drug was concerned, and I started from ground zero with the side effects again.
But by morning I still heard the crackles, and decided that since I had an increased risk of a collapsed lung or pneumonia, I should go to the ER. Better safe than sorry.
Apparetly being post-op with potential surgical complications gets you nowhere at the hospital, because the girl having trouble coming down from her high was seen before I was, in spite of arriving after I had. After 2 hours of sitting in the waiting room and trying not to pass out, I staggered back to triage and told them that although I wasn't here for pain, my pain was rapidly getting worse. Okay, they said, come with us!
I was taken to an exam room, where I lay for another hour and a half, whimpering in pain and fatigue, until somebody came to see me. ECG, chest x-ray, respiratory therapist, the whole thing. Took me another long while to actually see a doctor after that, but the verdict was good. Likely it was nothing serious, just my asthma making total lung recovery a little tricker than normal. Which sucked on one hand, because I could do nothing but tough it out. On the other hand, my lung hadn't collapsed and I wasn't developping an infection.
So home I go. My incision was killing me at this point. I hadn't had painkillers that day, hadn't eaten, and hadn't slept much.
I checked the incision. Near one of the staples was red, and near to that was a small abscess.
Fuck.
Likely all that was caused by me sitting at the hospital for almost 7 hourrs yesterday, unable to clean it or air it out or anything, so it sat and stewed in sweat and lack of air until infection formed. It wasn't there on Saturday.
I checked it this morning. It's still there, but I think it looks a little better. I'll keep a very close eye on it, though.
But what interested me the most while I was at the hospital was that the doctor was kind enough to show me the results of all of my blood tests done while I was hospitalized. Now, Dr. S was a little unclear, but she said immediately after the surgery that my hemoglobin was at 77, and they gave me 2 units of blood after. I also lost about 500 ml of blood during the surgery, but I'm not sure if that's prior to the 77 rating or after it. Still. My hemoglobin rose to 81 while in the hospital, and kept steadily dropping.
I wasn't discharged with a hemoglobin level of 84. Nor 82. No, it was 72, or almost as low as it has ever been for me.
That fucking bitch lied to my face! Twice. With my roommate there to be a witness to the whole conversation! The doctor at the hospital said that all things considered, with anemia that bad again, I was still having an excellent recovery in spite on complications, and you know? I agree. I didn't know I was that bad. If he hadn't told me, I would have gone through things thinking I was healthier than I was, and probably been really confused as to why my numbers didn't climb higher over time.
But that dumbass motherfucking idiot blatantly lied about my stats, about my health, about important information that I have a need and a right to not be lied to about! Given that she didn't know I hadn't been given morphine, or that I hadn't had my catheter removed, the best thing I can think about her is that she's just an idiot doctor who can't be bothered to pick up a goddamn chart before consulting her patients. Which isn't exactly any better. Would you rather have an incompetant doctor or one who just lies to you?
So this was the last straw. She's being officially reported. All the other stuff was bad enough, but this? She has endangered my health. She has lied. She had dismissed symptoms and delayed treatment which ultimately made the underlying condition far worse than it needed to be. She has belitted and ignored my choices and recommendations and lifestyle again and again. I need some justice here, because she is a foul doctor who doesn't deserve to be seeing people if this is the quality of care she's going to give them. I'm completely disgusted, and ashamed that I ever had to trust her with my health at all.
I see her tomorrow to have the staples removed. If I can't switch my 6-week follow-up appointment to a new doctor, I'll have to see her again, then. But after that, if I can get away with it, I don't want to see her face. I don't want to talk to her. I especially don't want her to have any say on what happens to my body or my health, because all I know now is that she'll either fuck it up or lie about it. Or both. I can't trust her, and the reasons I can't trust her are ones she brought down entirely on her own head.
Lousy fucking bitch.
So that hopefully concludes the surgery saga. If that sore looks bad again later, I may end up back at the ER, but if not, great. I'm hoping for not, but I really don't want an abdominal abscess to spread very far, so again, better safe than sorry. But we'll see.