After surgery, I was transferred from the OR to NCCU (Neuro Critical Care Unit) and I think it took about an hour, maybe a little more, before I started waking up. I vividly remember being in the OR and being given oxygen and my next memory is seemingly very suddenly being conscious in the ICU and sobbing. All who know me well know that it is an exceedingly rare circumstance for me to cry in front of other people, so my full-on post-op losing it is actually kind of hilarious in retrospect. I remember immediately moving my hands and feet (just to make sure!) and then bursting into tears. There were two (I think) nurses in the room with me as I was waking up and I remember them being incredibly sweet, but also assuming that my total breakdown was merely the result of anesthesia and/or pain. I have no doubt that the anesthesia played a role, but I remember trying so hard to explain to them that I was actually experiencing emotion at that moment, not just drug-induced hysteria. Even though I put on a hardcore game face for the vast majority of people I interacted with before the surgery, I was scared out of my goddamn mind. Not just scared of the idea of major surgery and a potentially lengthy recovery, but terrified in an incredibly real and tangible sense, of the reality that I could possibly not survive this. When I woke up, it was a legit “holy fuck, I’m alive” moment. Then I moved my arms and legs (yay for a lack of paralysis!) and opened my eyes (no double vision!) and realized that, not only was I not dead, I was seriously okay. When you’ve convinced yourself pre-surgery that you’re probably going to die, waking up is a pretty intense experience. One of the things I remember most about the whole time in the hospital, but particularly the first day or so, was the cognitive exhaustion – I was thinking normally, but I couldn’t get myself to actually express all of what was going on. So I’m sobbing, thinking to myself that this is really pretty kickass that I’m not dead, and trying to communicate that to the nurses, but only very inarticulate blurty ramblings are coming out. They asked if I was in pain and at that point I wasn’t yet, so I said no… they seemed happy about that, but then a little confused by the epic tears. I remember finally being able to tell them that I didn’t think I was going to wake up, and they were SUPER sweet, exclaiming that this was happy crying! Yay! Still, I also vividly remember one of them semi-quietly suggesting to the other than they give me some Ativan. Ha. I wanted to say no to that, but again, I just didn’t have the energy to speak.
I remember wanting to know what time it was and, without really thinking about it, trying to turn and look at the clock on the wall. That was the first time I realized my lack of ability to move my head! I managed to move enough to see that it was about 1:30 and again, just having that holy fuck moment where I realized that all these hours and this epic event had just taken place and I wasn’t “there” for any of it. I think more crying probably happened after that. After encouraging me to calm the fuck down, they asked if I wanted my parents to come back. I said yes (of course!) and my dad and stepmom appeared a few minutes later and my inability to leap up and hug them pissed me off. My memory was that I wasn’t totally sobbing anymore at that point, but later on Celia said something about how I had been “weepy,” so I think the on and off crying lasted for awhile after they came back. One of the major concerns during the surgery itself was that because I had to be on my stomach there was the potential for significant swelling in my face – the longer the surgery, the more risk there is for this, so since mine was just barely 4 hours (they had predicted 4-6), it didn’t end up being an issue. I was really concerned about this though because the likely outcome of a lot of swelling would have been to keep me intubated in recovery – they very likely would have also kept me sedated if that had been the case, but I was terrified of waking up and not breathing on my own. Seriously terrified. In the end, they were able to extubate me right after the surgery… still, I was curious about how ridiculous my face looked when I was awake (have I mentioned I’m simultaneously really vain and really self-conscious?). I asked Celia how swollen my face was and she said, surprisingly enough, that it wasn’t at all. I kinda thought she was just trying to placate me at that point, so to prove it, she took a picture on her phone and showed it to me. :) Indeed, no swelling!
I don’t remember much of the next couple hours – I know that my dad and Celia stayed in the room with me, alternately resting on the chair in the back of the room and standing by me and holding my hand and talking to me, and I know that as I woke up more and more, I became more aware of both pain and of the ten million things that were attached to me. It was a good hour or two before I really started feeling any significant pain… but when I did, holy mother of god. I remember when my parents were first in the room that I was asking for water because my throat was incredibly scratchy and dry (no doubt from the tube), but that was denied. Then once I was finally in a sufficient amount of pain, they gave me Lortab pills, so I got some water that way and I was quite thrilled about that.
It was ridiculous how much stuff was attached to me – I had gone from one IV in my hand to (at minimum, this is just what I remember) one in one hand, two in the other hand, and an arterial line in my left wrist… the latter was painful as all fucking hell and the bandaging to keep it in place took up most of my left forearm. Given how difficult it typically is to get IVs started on me and the intense pain of having an arterial blood gas drawn (had that once and hopefully never again), I am so glad I wasn’t awake when they placed that. I also had a catheter which, without being too wildly TMI, is really freaky and weird. Given that my surgery was long and that I was also expected to be fairly immobile for several days, my lower legs were done up all fancy – I had compression socks on both legs (super tight socks that go up to your knees, with an open space for your toes) which prevent swelling, and then these crazy ridiculous alternating pressure pumps on both of my legs – they were basically like blood pressure cuffs, but they went from my ankles to my upper calf and were constantly squeezing my calves in an attempt to prevent blood clots. Not gonna lie, there were occasions when they were actually kind of nice – a bit like a slightly lame massage, but it was nice to have my muscles “moving.” That said, they also made it difficult for me to sleep, both because I was constantly being “squeezed” and also because this contraption was LOUD. The thing that surprised me the most was that my head wasn’t fully wrapped – I had a bandage along my incision on the back of my head, but that was it. I hadn’t had significant swelling issues so I didn’t have a pressure monitor in my head (score!), so it was just that bandage in the back.
The way they had the room positioned, I could see all the stuff that was physically attached to me, but other than that all that was visible was the sink, curtain, and door to my room. A couple days later, I said something to Emilie about how I was impressed that an ICU room was so empty and not ICU-looking. She laughed a little and told me that, unbeknownst to me, there was a HUGE pole of medically scary gadgets hanging from the ceiling behind me… and apparently I was attached to that. I had no idea, so to me, it was just a lovely and calm little room! Props to whoever came up with the secretive logistical placement of scary things in intensive care.
I think I drifted in and out for a few hours that afternoon but I remember that around 4, Emilie called my dad to let him know she was on her way to the hospital – I remember him asking me (as Em had asked him) if it was okay if Sommer came too. I said yes, but I knew that I wasn’t truly expressing my level of excitement – the idea of having Em and Sommer there with me had me full-on giddy, though I don’t think I had the ability to convey that at that point. A few minutes after my dad got off the phone with Emilie, I was a little more awake… and the epic nausea began. It went from kind of feeling nauseated to that horrible awful super-salivation stage of nastiness. I told my dad I felt like I was going to throw up and to get the nurse… I remember him going out into the hallway and then coming back in and sweetly saying that she wasn’t out there. I was doing everything in my power to not throw up all over the world at that point, so I think I turned on the sass a bit and told him that I needed someone right then. He went back out and a couple seconds later, another nurse ran into the room with the bucket that would become my best friend for the rest of the night. I have no clue who this nurse was, but she was awesome – she ended up plastering my whole face with cold, wet rags and also having me smell alcohol pads. Both of these things succeeded in getting the nausea to pass without actually throwing up (for the record, I have a HUGE puke phobia which made all of this even more fun!).
A while later, Emilie and Sommer appeared and I was so. flipping. excited. to see them. Before I knew it, I had one friend on each side holding each hand and I remember just feeling so calm and okay and incredulous that this whole production was over and I was finally on the other side of it all… and with my wonderful friends there supporting me at that! I remember talking and laughing with them for awhile, but having my eyes closed most of the time, and again, feeling like I wanted to say so much, but not being able to get the words out. I apparently responded appropriately to their humor tests and even threw out a couple “that’s what she saids” of my own, which confirmed for both of them that I was, indeed, okay! I also apparently told Emilie that I was cognitively intact… this is a joke that stems for a procedure I had done last February (a transesophageal echocardiogram – avoid at all costs if you can! Traumatic is an understatement) that required that I be sedated. Emilie was there to pick me up after the procedure and when I was wheeled out to her after it was over, I stated that though I was slightly dizzy, I was “cognitively intact.” You know you’re a psychology nerd when… Anyway. The other major conversational thing I remember when they were there is that, again, being the psychologist-in-training that I am, I asked Emilie to do Digit Span with me (a subtest of a larger cognitive assessment)… she complied, and I got the first 3-digit sequence correct, but got the 4-digit sequence wrong. I got the numbers right, but they were in the wrong order (not good!!). I remember knowing that I had gotten it wrong, but asked Em anyway… and the loving punk that she is told me that I got it right and that that was enough fake cognitive testing for now. :)
The visit with them was lovely… until the puking started. And oh, when it started, it was there to stay. Being the completely ridiculously amazing friends that they are, Em and Som just hung out next to me, holding my hands, replacing the washcloths on my head, and continuing to keep the mood light. I only remember this vaguely (very vaguely!), but they apparently spent a decent amount of time figuring out a way to get the multiple washcloths on my face to stay on instead of constantly sliding off. This included genius folding and tucking in order to keep everything in place and, knowing them as I do, I can only imagine that they took this as a very serious and very real engineering challenge. It took me a couple days to realize the actual sweetly disgusting role they took in this process – a few days later, Emilie and I were talking about what that first day had been like and all the sudden I asked her, “Wait… the nurse was in there emptying my puke buckets, right?” Her answer? “Nope, that was me.” Oh my god. Talk about a best friend, folks. That is simultaneously mortifying for me and also so incredibly adorable and love-filled. But still, so gross. I remember just being absolutely miserable once the anesthesia really started to piss off my body – I, of course, hadn’t been allowed to eat since like 6pm the day before, so I had absolutely nothing in my stomach (which, without any seriously disgusting details, you all know how miserable that is). I remember saying several times that I “don’t have anything in there,” and I remember having a hard time communicating that I wanted water to rinse out my mouth. I also remember how insane it was to go from unable to turn my head to look at the clock to being up off the bed throwing up – using my neck muscles like that was decidedly less than comfortable (oh hey understatement!). Apparently throughout this whole process, Emilie was being all supportive BFF-bear (as opposed to mama bear!) and constantly calling nurses in to demand that I get more pain and anti-nausea meds. :) Given the miserableness, I don’t remember being terribly coherent once the puking started… I think I was mostly not conscious when Sommer left, but I know Emilie stayed awhile longer. I remember waking up and I was thrown off for a second because Emilie had switched to the other side of the bed. My primary memory of that evening (and just bear with me here as I get all sentimental and weepy!) is lying in the bed, connected to a million things, my body feeling so odd and simultaneously broken and victorious, and having my best friend next to me holding my hand. Once the nausea subsided (temporarily), I fell asleep… I remember waking up just enough to feel Em slowly and carefully pulling her hand away from mine and packing up to leave. Again, I remember wanting to talk (give her a hug, say goodbye) and just not being able (I know I’ve said this a million times already, but it was such a weird experience to literally just not have the ability to SAY what I was thinking). She headed out and I think my parents returned a few minutes later.
I don’t think my dad and Celia stayed for terribly long after that (it had to be 8pm or so at that point). I don’t have any specific memory of them leaving though, and I really don’t have much memory of the rest of the night… save for some pretty significant pain and continued puking throughout the night. When I was asleep I was okay, but as soon as I was awake and moved at all, the bucket and I were reunited. Otherwise, I have no clear memories of how I slept or who was in and out of my room that first night.
…part III soon!!
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