4 December 2013, my 49th birthday! As usual, lights came on at about 5h30 - and I really, really quietly sang happy birthday to myself - rather pathetic. I was starting to feel rather nervous. All the usual readings were done - BP, temperature and glucose. I was given a small bottle of liquid to wash myself with - and promptly spent ages in the shower as I was not sure how soon again I'd get to enjoy this luxury!
Time to get my mental attitude right. I am a laughter facilitator and a Care Clown. Research has shown that children who laugh prior to surgery handle the trauma of surgery and recuperation better than their peers. Laughter also relieves stress. Time to be uber-cheerful! I smiled and joked with the nursing staff and fellow patients, laughed with them when they remarked on my birthday gift and giggled that at least I would be getting a morphine trip as an added bonus. I laughed all the way into surgery and shared my "laughing children less trauma" story with all - everyone was commanded to be cheerful. "Happy Birthday" says my doctor all geared up in scrubs. TV screens everywhere. The anaesthetist walks in, we greet, time to drift off.
I don't recall much about the rest of day one except that it was really, really, really sore! From the outset: it is flippin' sore ... but so so so worth it a few weeks down the line. People I'd spoken to had tried to "protect" me and said it was rather uncomfortable. Wrong. It is mega sore - I've never had kids but one woman said it was worse than natural labour. However, the pain does ease over time and the rewards are great (not something everyone claims about kids!).
OK, now that you're traumatised by the reality check: after the op all I recall I was constantly sucking on ice chips and had something on my feet - sock-like and pulsing, one kept on falling off. Thank heavens for the morphine drip and the occasional injection. Unfortunately the drip was faulty and stopped working during the night - the next morning I was a super diva! The feet things were some form of compression sock - one still kept on falling off. Day 2 was also a bit of a daze - especially the morning.
That afternoon the physio came by. This is absolutely the worst moment ever. Nobody warns you about this so take note - even sensitive viewers. This tiny, slim woman's goal was to get me sitting up with my legs over the bed. This is hell. It felt like every stitch was being ripped loose. I was in total fear mode so I froze - not conducive to a good physio session. My logical mind eventually realised that she would never do anything to jeapordise the surgery and wounds. My emotional mind felt very differently. I do believe they should warn you beforehand what you may feel. By the time I was finally sitting I was crying, it was sore and the drains were bleeding. A good time to sort out drain-dressings. I sat for a few minutes - and then she wanted me to lie down and put my legs back up on the bed. Was she mad?!!!
But yes, even that you conquer. Day 2 passed in a haze of pain and medication. The amazing thing about pain is that it is so internal. From outside you saw a large person lying on a bed with some tubes and occasionally groaning and moaning. Inside my head it was hell - really painful, hazy with medication, lingering fear - outside calm, cool and collected, inside - a roiling mass of emotion and feelings.
It was tiring and I was so grateful for the drugs. Tonight I sleep, tomorrow I'm expected to stand.
Charmaine
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