It was suppose to be a simple D&C and removal of a fibroid in my uterus. I avoided sharing the news at-large as it seemed too dramatic and personal. I asked for general prayer from my church family and a few friends off and on Facebook.
After giving up all my personal possessions, shoes, socks, underwear... you know... I lay in the pre-Op cubical 6 while a tech poked several times and finally got an IV in top of my left hand. Highland Hospital, Friday afternoon, August 11th.
The usual suspects came to say hello-- the surgeon, the operating nurse assistant, and the anesthesiologist. 12:15 I was rolled away and expected to return in about 2 hours. I remember saying goodbye to Peg and watching my bed wheeled by other people coming and going, under white sheets. The ceiling, too, was white and whisked above me in tiled blocks. It’s really all I remember until I woke up about 6 hours later.
My memory is very sketchy at this point. The only thing I remember about post-Op is my surgeon and 3 other doctors standing behind her looking down at me. No one was really smiling. I think I heard someone say, “Well that was a little bit more than we expected.” The next sort of coherent memory was in a small room where everyone in my family had assembled. Again, people were talking to me and I was replying but I don’t remember what was said. I do remember my roommate was a small woman who was very angry that there were so many people now in the room. I go back to sleep.
Later that evening as I begin to come out of a fog I am acutely aware of my belly feeling different. Sore. Painful, actually. A nurse comes and takes my vitals. A technician comes and takes blood. Both stand at the foot of my bed and individually type information about me onto a computer monitor. I think Peggy is there. The surgeon comes to see me. She is still not smiling, and seems very concerned and serious. She tells me what happened in surgery and it really isn’t until the next day that it all sinks in. I had an emergency hysterectomy. Gone is the uterus. Gone are the ovaries. In the process, the top of my bladder was sliced open and a urologist was called in to repair it. There was also a small nick to my sigmoid colon and a gastroenterologist was called in to stitch it and check for any other wounds. It was such a surreal amount of information that it seemed as though she was talking about someone else.
It took several days for it all to sink in. I was rather stunned and in extreme pain, especially when I was asked to get out of bed and walk. The only good thing about that first walk was it took me across the hall to a private room. This was where I got to see the incision that traveled from the left side of my belly to the right side-- better known as a C-section. I also had an abdominal drain, a catheter, and a little green button on the end of a white cord that I was to push whenever I needed pain medication. I wore plastic leg compression boots and got Heparin shots in my thighs 3 times a day. The coming days just ran into one another.
Little by little personal stories came out. My son-in-law was so concerned he visited the hospital chapel, something he said he hadn’t done in 20 years. After hours went by with me still in surgery and nothing was reported to my family, he called the other siblings to come to the hospital. My minister arrived. I had played the surgery down and now realized it had exploded like a scene from Code Black.
I left the hospital the following week for a 6 to 12 week recovery, wearing the catheter that would become the bane of my existence. I had a visiting nurse once a week which was actually a relief to me because in the hospital one is under total observation and at home, well... the mind plays all kinds of worrisome tricks. “Is this normal? What’s that sensation? Is it still suppose to hurt?” I stay away from the computer and resist watching a similar surgery on YouTube. I take up residence in the guest bedroom at our house as the bed is lower to the floor, and my getting up and down will not be a nuisance to Peg -- (though she would deny it.)
There’s not much more to say, actually. I’m still on the journey to recovery and I know that many women before me have gone through this and probably much worse. I think about my uterus and ovaries that created three beautiful children -- now gone to pathology where they were deemed “unremarkable and benign” -- all well and good. But it should have been treated to some ending ceremony of ritual and remembrance, like a croning or buried out back with our deceased cats.
I was released from the Foley bag aka catheter, 19 days later. In numerology that’s a perfect 10. The number of the pre-Op room was 6, which I always related to a negative number but I read that it represents “care-taking.” Just what I’m now doing for myself. Alas, you say that’s all superstition. Maybe.
I have occasional talks over my porch railing with my neighbor Gladys who has been a steady buoy of faith for me these past few weeks. Each day she tells me that God is lifting me up and that I am on the mend. It’s where I need to keep my focus. I tell her when I was young I did not doubt God’s presence, but some times now that I’m older, I wonder if I’m more on my own. She says that’s because when we are young we think we are invincible, and when we get older, we know that’s far from the truth, and I am NOT alone. At night when I lay down in bed and the belly stitches pull and I think about the vacancy inside me, and the darkness hovers around the walls, I think of the angel that enfolds me and also whispers to me throughout the night, “I am here; You are healing; You are going to be just fine.” And I know for sure, this is not superstition.
(Shared from my Facebook Note)
