For those who believe that a night in a private hospital room is, restful, let me disabuse you of that notion. Vitals every 3-4 hours, bed check hourly, staff chatting outside the room, bangs, clanks and the odd wail “help me” from a surgical patient who was also suffering from dementia. I just wanted to be home in my own bed. Well, somehow, I made it. I was on “NPO” (nil per os), or “nothing by mouth”. Notwithstanding that my mouth tasted like the inside of a garbage can (conjecture…never actually tasted the inside of a garbage can), I really wasn’t thirsty or hungry, and the IV was taking care of hydration. But I was already well into my fourth day with little or no food.
The surgeons came by…first the Resident then the team’s boss. They were approachable, reiterated what they would do once an OR (Operating Room) was secured, and responded to my questions and concerns. I was very comfortable with the process. But I was concerned that, overnight, my heart had begun to beat irregularly. This is an ongoing condition, and not of itself a worry, but I am usually protected from the resultant stroke risk by the daily intake of anticoagulants, the last of which I’d taken on Sunday. And I couldn’t have more before the operation. They had an ECG machine rolled in, and of course the rhythm was strong and regular while they measured it. My eyes followed the technician out the door, and as soon as she left, I was back to arrhythmia. Oh well, damned if I do; damned if I don’t. Satisfactory ECG results in hand, the surgeons told me that that they’d probably get an OR later in the afternoon. So I waited, and tried to sleep.
The night now seemed to have been very quiet. There must have been three times the staff on duty, plus technicians running around taking blood samples, nurses taking vitals, ward administrators chatting at the nursing station close by, meals being delivered, and who knows what else. Sleep could wait for the bliss of anesthetic.
The Pas came for me at 1:15. I quickly dashed off a text to Diana, or so I thought, and lay back while they navigated me through the ward corridor, made narrow by small workstations for the nurses, crates of gowns and other PPE, boxes of paper towels and other supplies. Looked a bit like an episode of M*A*S*H after a bombardment. Another side-effect of Covid? I hope that these aren’t the normal working conditions for the good folk who take care of us so well.
I was left in a chilly corridor for just a few minutes while the OR was prepped. The anesthetist came by to ask a few questions and tell me what was going to happen; then I was asked if I could walk in under my own steam. If I were capable of running at that moment, I would have. The pain was not subsiding. Up onto the table, arms stretched out each side crucifix-style, a few last checks by the surgeon, a valve opened, and I woke up disoriented but delightedly pain free in recovery. Once they thought I’d recovered my senses (difficult, if they’d known I’ve never had much sense), the PAs were called and I was whisked back to my room.
By the time I was settled and had recovered my phone, the surgeon had already talked to Diana and she knew that except for a minor complication all was well. The doctor’s call was extremely fortunate, given that in my haste earlier I’d texted a friend, instead of Diana, that I was going to the OR.
I called Diana and told her she could call for permission to visit for a maximum 2-hour stay, and she showed up not long after. Things are a bit fuzzy here, and she later had to remind me that I was given my first sustenance by mouth in four days, the most solid of which being jello.
While the reader’s mind is on food, I’ll mention the complication. My gall bladder was gangrenous and had apparently not been functional for some time. This was evidenced by a large gall stone blocking the entrance/exit duct. The normal male gall bladder is apparently like a balloon that is 8-10 cm long and 4 cm in diameter. The large stone (and there were others) was almost 5 cm in diameter. Nothing was getting in or out. In most cases, the duct can be sewn shut, laparoscopic instruments removed, a stitch or two here and there, and…Next in line. I didn’t make it that easy for them. The duct was too weak to hold a stitch, so it needed to be left to self-close after a few weeks. Meanwhile a drain tube was inserted and attached to a small rubbery bulb (I later discovered that this is a JP drain, named for the initials of its designers) that accumulates the draining fluids while the duct is still active. It’s manageable and doesn’t interfere with most daily activities. Although I have to be careful lest it be torn out (ouch!). One more day in hospital while the fluid flow slowed, and I could be on my way home.
Diana, my personal researcher, had been reading about gall bladder removal for some time, as she is waiting for a non-emergency opportunity to arise and is currently booked in for February 2022. There is a lot of information about post-surgery diet and strong recommendations to minimise fats during the body’s readjustment process. This is said to reduce downstream complications. I mention this as I was told that evening that I would be on a normal hospital diet from the following morning. Hmm. I wonder what breakfast will bring me. Let me tell you: Cheerios (cold cereal), 2% milk, a croissant, margarine, peanut butter and strawberry jam, coffee with 10% cream and orange juice.
The day following the operation passed uneventfully; I was still in what I was now calling the “Presidential Suite”, and other than checking of vitals, emptying the JP drain and ensuring that my natural digestive and waste systems were progressing. Lunch and dinner were uninspiring but nutritious – by now I’d been able to select the meals from a limited menu – and at that point, I didn’t need inspiring, having not eaten for so long, I filled up quite quickly.
Just before bed time, I was told that my luck had run out, the Presidential Suite was needed for a new patient, and I’d be moving almost immediately to another room. What a come down! Four men in a room not much larger than the one I had just vacated; beds separated by about a metre but curtained-off for privacy. I think that this room must have been the source of much of the banging, rattling, and other noises I’d heard before. And of course, once everyone was settled and drifted off, the night shift nurses came around, turned on all the lights and began to record everyone’s vitals, etc. Not a restful night and one more reason to hope for discharge the following day. I admit it. I’d been spoiled.
The night passed slowly, with regular wake-ups from the busy nurses, and when the day dawned, I was a little cranky and not well rested. I was then doubly disappointed when the first of the surgical team came to check on my progress then left after determining I needed more progress with digestive activity. “Your homework for the day”, she said “is to pass some gas”. So I got up and started walking the corridors. If I weren’t still a bit sore, I’d have jumped up and down to try to get things moving. Unfortunately, and to my intense frustration, the little gas I was producing took the northbound route.
Breakfast came and went and I was hooked up to my first of two antibiotic IV doses, each one of which took an hour to drip into me. Sigh. Then the angel of mercy appeared on my side of the curtain. The surgeon. “OK, things look good. You can go home.” “Great. How long do you think it will be before I’m processed out?” “You’ll be out of here in the next half hour. You can let your ride know. I’ll see you in the outpatient clinic in two weeks.” And Poof! She was gone. Well, it didn’t happen quite that quickly. There were the two antibiotic drips to finish, and the nurses had to wait for the orders to be input into their systems. But soon enough, I was in the car, on the same potholed roads that Diana had driven on the way to the hospital. But no pain. No discomfort. A feeling of gratitude for all the good people who were involved in my care, directly or indirectly. The pandemic is still with us, and they are the people who daily put themselves into harm’s way to help those in need. While I’m rapidly recovering, it’s once again time to turn ourselves to the task of getting the hell on the road and enjoying some of the beauty that other parts of Canada have to offer.
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