A few weeks ago, I was sure I was going to die. Aside from the events that put me there, the reason I was so sure is that I couldn’t get to a place where there was another option. I could not get to hope. My brain could get to the logic of hope, but my soul could not get the light of hope. Never before had this happened to me. There in that dark place, I could think only of the desperation of not being ready to leave all behind. I could see the beauty and preciousness of what I wanted to hold on to. I wanted to be near the people I love and I didn‘t understand how I had come to be at this place or why.
10/1/03
I fought another wave of nausea. The presence of the small kidney bean cardboard dish press ed against my cheek provided an odd comfort and assurance. The small simple reality of that dish gave me something to hang on to as I came in and out of the fog and fought against the sickness. I could hear people around me and wanted nothing more than to sink back into oblivion. I knew I was in recovery. I knew my husband, Rob, and my mother were there. I knew the nurse heard me each of the several times I told her “sick, still sick, sick” and that she was giving me several somethings to help make the sick feeling going away. I knew Rob was rubbing my hand and that as much I wanted to touch him, I couldn’t stand the sensation of the repetitive stroking motion. I waved my hand to shoo his touch away and hoped first that he’d notice the feeble motion and that second he’d understand.
I heard voices around me, not caring enough to focus on the words. I thought I heard the doctor say if I could sleep that was good. I was glad to hear that because it freed me from what I thought my responsibility was in recovery - trying to wake up and be alert and come out from under the anesthesia. I was relieved that it was ok for me to hide back in unconsciousness. If only these waves of sickness would stop. And eternal thanks from my foggy awareness for the people who took that cardboard dish away, wiped my face gently and placed a clean dish on my pillow. Just concentrate on getting better I said. And that meant sleep. Then I heard someone say it was nine o’clock. Nine o’clock - that’s too late for me to be in recovery. That’s - I can’t think. Don’t think, sleep - too many hours. Something went wrong. Too long. Don’t ask...sleep. Get better first, time to ask later. My next awareness is that my Mom is leaving. She gives me a kiss, tells me she loves me and I hear her say goodnight to Rob. “ Bye Mom, I love you too” I think at her but I can’t talk. I know she is exhausted because she is leaving before I am settled in my room.
It must be even later now, but I have no concept of time. I become briefly aware that I am being moved through the hallways. I close my eyes against the vision of the movement as it makes me feel sick again. During one swim to consciousness I sense Rob near me and I say to him - “It’s bad isn’t it?” “No.” He says. “They don’t know. They are running more tests.” I think “More tests, why more tests?” He tells me they did a hysterectomy” “Oh my God” I think. “This is bad … focus on getting better…” “They took your appendix out too” “this is really bad .. Just get better… Sleep” And I sleep again.
Next I know, I am in my room and Rob and my doctor are sitting side by side in 2 straight back hospital chairs against the wall at the foot of my bed. They are watching me as if waiting for something, but I’m not sure what. I am feeling better and more clear, but I not yet ready to give up the comfort of that dish. The doctor comes to my bedside. She tells me the tumor was spread throughout my abdominal cavity and on my organs there. She tells me the testing could not determine what the tumor was. She tells me they called in the specialist and the decision was made for a total hysterectomy She asks me if I have any questions. I think how I want to know if I am going to be ok, but I know she doesn’t know yet, so I ask some questions about the hysterectomy. She tells me they removed everything - this means my uterus, cervix, ovaries and tubes were removed. “ I run out of practical questions and no one can give me the answers I really want, so I learn how to work the morphine drip and ask for a glass of ice. My throat is very sore and I remember I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in over 24 hours. It’s 11:30pm now. Rob must be exhausted, but he brings me a glass of ice and patiently spoons small wonderfully cold and refreshing slivers of ice into my mouth for me. This is the best thing. He sits awhile longer at the foot of my bed as I try to sleep. He asks if I want him to get the nurse and ask about additional pain medication because I am pressing the morphine drip a lot more than it is programmed to work. I say no, but when the nurse comes in shortly after we talk about pain medication. I decide to continue to try with just the drip.
As selfish as I feel, I ask Rob to stay just a little longer. I know how tired he is and there really is nothing more he can do for me, but I still feel sick and I don’t want to be alone yet. Finally around 12:30, I am dropping in and out of sleep and he kisses me goodnight and heads home.
I keep waking up, sensing that some time had passed only to see by the large clock prominently displayed on the wall facing my bed, that 5 minutes had passed, or 10 minutes, or 2 minutes. I looked at that darn clock so many times during my hospital stay that I can still see it in vivid display without even closing my eyes. In addition to the pain, the air boots they have on my legs kept inflating every couple of minutes and the unnaturalness of that sensation wakes me up repeatedly. About 1:15 I give up and call the nurse. I ask for some more pain medicine and tell her I cannot sleep. She brings me something else for pain and also something to help me sleep. Both worked quite well. I still woke up quite a lot during the night, but I did get some sleep.
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