Loving Sterility Pt. 1
So, I'm trying to adequately describe to you the ordeal that was my tubal. I'm going to have to break it up into parts because it is just so fucking long and... complicated.
So in case you missed it, I was scheduled for a laparoscopic tubal ligation last Wednesday. Normally this is day surgery. And I had every expectation that it would in fact be thus.
So, I guess it really began on Monday night. This was the night of my Last Meal. I was to “clean my bowels” you see, so Tuesday I was allowed to have clear fluids only. This was kind of sucky because my work group went out for a nice lunch on Tuesday and there I was, just drinking gingerale. Also not-awesome about Tuesday was the actual poop-inducing medicine. Let me tell you that stuff tasted gods-awful. Then there was the pooping every half hour or so.
Anyway! Wednesday came; I’d been told by the hospital scheduling people to come in at 11:00, but then I got there and was told that my procedure wasn’t until 1:45. So I sat in the waiting room - in a stupid hospital gown - for a couple of hours. The waiting room was really cold and I was practically freaking naked. (At least they were human and give two gowns to wear so that your butt doesn’t hang out for the whole world to see). I think I got called out of the room around 1:00. Maybe a little after.
From the waiting room I was lead to some hallway where they had gurneys lined up against the wall. There were little signs indicating which doctor the patients (on the gurneys) belonged to. I had to take off the second gown, put on a hair net and lie on the gurney. I think the anestisiologist (oh god, my dictionary is not even recognizing that word) came by first. He introduced himself, asked me if I’d ever gone under before, blah blah. Then a nurse came by and said some stuff.
Then my doctor stopped by to chat for a bit. She went over what would be going on again, and asked me if I had “cleaned my bowels” like I was supposed to. Now, I gotta say right here that I love my lady-parts doctor. So I tell her that yes I took it, but holy gods did it ever taste awful. “Well Holly,” she says “I got to choose between you taking that… or you having to shove something similar up your butt. I’m only looking out for your best interests here.” What a funny lady. Anyway, next she asks me for a number to call when everything was done. Now, I thought she was referring to having someone pick me up, but then she told me it was so she could let them know that everything went well, yadda yadda. I said “nah. I’ll just let them know when it is all over. :D” See that smile? That, my friends, is foreshadowing.
So, I was wheeled into the OR, I scooched onto the operating table, put out my arm and lights out.
I woke up in the post-op room-thing probably around 5:30. I was bawling and completely disoriented. Not because of anything in particular, mind you, I seem to always come out of anaesthesia crying and full of gibberish. Maybe you do not have this problem. I envy you. Anyway, all of a sudden the drug doctor is in my face talking to me. Seriously, all I remember him saying is “you won’t remember this but… hole in stomach”. Then a nurse is calling my ride like every two minutes because the room they are going to stick me in keeps changing. Then I pass out.
When I wake up, it is sometime in the evening. I’m in a hospital room. I have an IV in my left arm and a fucking tube up my nose. Actually, I would realize later that it was two tubes. In any event, I’m in fucking pain. My mouth is dry, my throat is really sore, I’m still in the hospital, and worst of all, I have no idea why. I could remember the bit about “hole in stomach”, but it didn’t really compute. Oh yeah, I’m also all alone still. Did I mention in pain? I was in a lot of pain. I asked the nurse nearby for some ice or water, but she just said “you’re not allowed” and then sort of rushed off.
Then my ride (the MB, by the way), shows up. My pain is getting worse, both in my tummy and in my mouth and throat. I start begging anyone who comes in to please give me some ice. All anyone will tell me is that I can’t because I’m “NPO”. I still don’t know what that means. ALSO I’m begging for some sort of pain killers, but I’m told that I was given some sort of dose coming out of surgery so I can’t have any for x amount of hours. Even the MB was petitioning on my behalf (frankly, I was too out of it half the time to really beg. I just sort of waved my one non-IV arm pathetically and sort of pointed at my mouth. Also I cried some more).
All of a sudden visiting hours are over and I’m all alone in the dark and I’ve never been in so much physical pain in my life. Finally this wonderful, wonderful nurse comes in and gives me a shot of something. Not only that, but she also gave me these swab-things for my mouth. Later, I read the package and found out they are lemon-flavoured glycerine swabs for coma patients. Just before the drugs really kicked in, this nurse, who I should have proposed to, clipped the call button to my front and told me where it was.
I bet she regretted that little move.
I woke up every four hours that night and the first thing I did was press that little red button. The second thing I did was ask for pain killers. So she would come back in with this godsend of a needle, have me turn on my side and shoot me up. Then she would ask if I had to pee. After the third time she actually brought in a little scope-thing and scanned my bladder to see how much was in it (201 mL). The last shot of the night, she and a helper came in with the needle and told me to turn over, and I literally sobbed “I can’t”. I cannot stress how much pain I was in. We sort of compromised with me shifting a little, although I’m pretty sure the helper part rolled me.
Next time I woke up it was light out. I was hurting a lot again, so I got a new shot. Then I was asked if I had to pee again. I said no, so the bladder-scanner was brought out again. 625 mL this time. “You must have to pee” I’m told. Ok, I’ll play along. I’ll pee. This is when I really find out a few interesting things. The first is that I actually have two tubes in my nose. One is no big deal; one of those little both-nostril oxygen things that hook behind your ears. The other is a bigger job that actually went up my nose, down my throat into my stomach. It was hooked up to a jar above my head. That little fucker was sucking the stuff out of my stomach and spitting it into the jar. (By the way, my stomach-stuff is emerald green). The big tube had to be unhooked and then plugged whenever I had to get up. I can tell you that walking around with a foot and a half of green-filled tubing hanging out of your face is not the self-image booster it may seem.
It gets better by the way.
I also found out that I had a skinny little tube with a grenade-shaped thing sticking out of my abdomen. This, I was told, was collecting the fluid that was seeping around inside me. (Remember at this point I still don’t really know why I’m even in the hospital.) So, I’m helped over to the bathroom. Me, my tubes and my fucking IV. We all go in together, I pee, then we all head back to the bed and pass out again.
Now, I don’t know for sure if it was at this point when I gave some serious (well, as serious as I could be while pumped full of drugs) consideration to why I was actually where I was. I kept going back to that hole in the stomach thing. Did they nick my insides somewhere? Did they find some sort of existing hole? Maybe they peeked inside and found that instead of internal organs I just had some sort of liquefied mess (solanum…you have to say it ominously). Yes, I considered briefly the fact that I might have been moments away from being a full-fledged zombie. Which was followed immediately by OMG WHAT ABOUT CANCER?
Look, I’m just telling you how it went.
So, it’s still fucking dark, and some woman is cheerfully waking me up telling me “it’s time for blood work!” Which wouldn’t have been bad if she could have just drained my blood and left. No. Apparently I’m still fucking dehydrated, so my veins are like tiny, withered worms that didn’t make it back into the ground after the rainstorm. She poked me in the arm. Then she turned the need - still in me! - a little to the right. Then a little to the left. Then to the right again. No fucking blood. Then she brings out the little butterfly-thing for your hand. Now I’ve never had one of those, and I’m told they hurt a lot, but that needle was a lot skinnier than the goddamn garden hose she’d been shoving in my arm so it was looking pretty good to me.
It only took a poke and one twist to get me to bleed out of my hand.
Sweet. I just happen to know that this is supposed to happen every. damn. morning. (I should mention that it is now a full five days later and I still have a bruise.)
Next thing I know, my doctor is waking me up. Right off she gives me the good news. The tubal went well, I’m sterile now, awesomesauce. Then the bad. She explains to me that apparently because of my height, I have slightly larger and (this is just priceless) lower-hanging organs than most other peoples. Apparently mine is the only spleen she has ever seen while doing the (mentioned soon) camera-check. Go me and my spleen. I also have great abs, which means that the flesh she had to poke through was tougher than she expected. So, in trying to inflate me like a beach ball, my surgeon accidentally punctured my stomach with the inflate-y needle. (She found this after she had finished the tubal part. I guess the poke around your insides with a little camera to make sure that they didn’t do something exactly like they did to me).
Well that sucks.
She explained that when she found the hole, another surgeon was called in. This guy poked another hole right beside it, then pinched the two together to close the whole enchilada. Then he took some of my inside fat (I’m not really sure from where, exactly) and used that to make a little patch to put over the pinched-together holes. So the reason I’m in this hospital bed is so that they can make sure the patch is going to stay on like it should. The tube down my nose is to keep my stomach empty, which minimizes leaking around the patch.
Oh yeah and you’ll be here until at least Sunday.
Then I learned that the drug I’ve been getting is Demerol. Sweet, sweet Demerol. Nectar of the gods you are. And don’t let anyone tell you differently.
Anyway. The plan was I’m not allowed any food or water for at least three days. Then if I’m not spewing fluid out of my abdomen like a maniac, I’ll be allowed to eat some hospital food. (joy!) So with that happy news out of the way, my doctor was off to do whatever else she had to do that didn’t involve me.
And that is right about when I asked the nice nurses to un-tether me so I could pee and would you please give me some pain killers?
So in case you missed it, I was scheduled for a laparoscopic tubal ligation last Wednesday. Normally this is day surgery. And I had every expectation that it would in fact be thus.
So, I guess it really began on Monday night. This was the night of my Last Meal. I was to “clean my bowels” you see, so Tuesday I was allowed to have clear fluids only. This was kind of sucky because my work group went out for a nice lunch on Tuesday and there I was, just drinking gingerale. Also not-awesome about Tuesday was the actual poop-inducing medicine. Let me tell you that stuff tasted gods-awful. Then there was the pooping every half hour or so.
Anyway! Wednesday came; I’d been told by the hospital scheduling people to come in at 11:00, but then I got there and was told that my procedure wasn’t until 1:45. So I sat in the waiting room - in a stupid hospital gown - for a couple of hours. The waiting room was really cold and I was practically freaking naked. (At least they were human and give two gowns to wear so that your butt doesn’t hang out for the whole world to see). I think I got called out of the room around 1:00. Maybe a little after.
From the waiting room I was lead to some hallway where they had gurneys lined up against the wall. There were little signs indicating which doctor the patients (on the gurneys) belonged to. I had to take off the second gown, put on a hair net and lie on the gurney. I think the anestisiologist (oh god, my dictionary is not even recognizing that word) came by first. He introduced himself, asked me if I’d ever gone under before, blah blah. Then a nurse came by and said some stuff.
Then my doctor stopped by to chat for a bit. She went over what would be going on again, and asked me if I had “cleaned my bowels” like I was supposed to. Now, I gotta say right here that I love my lady-parts doctor. So I tell her that yes I took it, but holy gods did it ever taste awful. “Well Holly,” she says “I got to choose between you taking that… or you having to shove something similar up your butt. I’m only looking out for your best interests here.” What a funny lady. Anyway, next she asks me for a number to call when everything was done. Now, I thought she was referring to having someone pick me up, but then she told me it was so she could let them know that everything went well, yadda yadda. I said “nah. I’ll just let them know when it is all over. :D” See that smile? That, my friends, is foreshadowing.
So, I was wheeled into the OR, I scooched onto the operating table, put out my arm and lights out.
I woke up in the post-op room-thing probably around 5:30. I was bawling and completely disoriented. Not because of anything in particular, mind you, I seem to always come out of anaesthesia crying and full of gibberish. Maybe you do not have this problem. I envy you. Anyway, all of a sudden the drug doctor is in my face talking to me. Seriously, all I remember him saying is “you won’t remember this but… hole in stomach”. Then a nurse is calling my ride like every two minutes because the room they are going to stick me in keeps changing. Then I pass out.
When I wake up, it is sometime in the evening. I’m in a hospital room. I have an IV in my left arm and a fucking tube up my nose. Actually, I would realize later that it was two tubes. In any event, I’m in fucking pain. My mouth is dry, my throat is really sore, I’m still in the hospital, and worst of all, I have no idea why. I could remember the bit about “hole in stomach”, but it didn’t really compute. Oh yeah, I’m also all alone still. Did I mention in pain? I was in a lot of pain. I asked the nurse nearby for some ice or water, but she just said “you’re not allowed” and then sort of rushed off.
Then my ride (the MB, by the way), shows up. My pain is getting worse, both in my tummy and in my mouth and throat. I start begging anyone who comes in to please give me some ice. All anyone will tell me is that I can’t because I’m “NPO”. I still don’t know what that means. ALSO I’m begging for some sort of pain killers, but I’m told that I was given some sort of dose coming out of surgery so I can’t have any for x amount of hours. Even the MB was petitioning on my behalf (frankly, I was too out of it half the time to really beg. I just sort of waved my one non-IV arm pathetically and sort of pointed at my mouth. Also I cried some more).
All of a sudden visiting hours are over and I’m all alone in the dark and I’ve never been in so much physical pain in my life. Finally this wonderful, wonderful nurse comes in and gives me a shot of something. Not only that, but she also gave me these swab-things for my mouth. Later, I read the package and found out they are lemon-flavoured glycerine swabs for coma patients. Just before the drugs really kicked in, this nurse, who I should have proposed to, clipped the call button to my front and told me where it was.
I bet she regretted that little move.
I woke up every four hours that night and the first thing I did was press that little red button. The second thing I did was ask for pain killers. So she would come back in with this godsend of a needle, have me turn on my side and shoot me up. Then she would ask if I had to pee. After the third time she actually brought in a little scope-thing and scanned my bladder to see how much was in it (201 mL). The last shot of the night, she and a helper came in with the needle and told me to turn over, and I literally sobbed “I can’t”. I cannot stress how much pain I was in. We sort of compromised with me shifting a little, although I’m pretty sure the helper part rolled me.
Next time I woke up it was light out. I was hurting a lot again, so I got a new shot. Then I was asked if I had to pee again. I said no, so the bladder-scanner was brought out again. 625 mL this time. “You must have to pee” I’m told. Ok, I’ll play along. I’ll pee. This is when I really find out a few interesting things. The first is that I actually have two tubes in my nose. One is no big deal; one of those little both-nostril oxygen things that hook behind your ears. The other is a bigger job that actually went up my nose, down my throat into my stomach. It was hooked up to a jar above my head. That little fucker was sucking the stuff out of my stomach and spitting it into the jar. (By the way, my stomach-stuff is emerald green). The big tube had to be unhooked and then plugged whenever I had to get up. I can tell you that walking around with a foot and a half of green-filled tubing hanging out of your face is not the self-image booster it may seem.
It gets better by the way.
I also found out that I had a skinny little tube with a grenade-shaped thing sticking out of my abdomen. This, I was told, was collecting the fluid that was seeping around inside me. (Remember at this point I still don’t really know why I’m even in the hospital.) So, I’m helped over to the bathroom. Me, my tubes and my fucking IV. We all go in together, I pee, then we all head back to the bed and pass out again.
Now, I don’t know for sure if it was at this point when I gave some serious (well, as serious as I could be while pumped full of drugs) consideration to why I was actually where I was. I kept going back to that hole in the stomach thing. Did they nick my insides somewhere? Did they find some sort of existing hole? Maybe they peeked inside and found that instead of internal organs I just had some sort of liquefied mess (solanum…you have to say it ominously). Yes, I considered briefly the fact that I might have been moments away from being a full-fledged zombie. Which was followed immediately by OMG WHAT ABOUT CANCER?
Look, I’m just telling you how it went.
So, it’s still fucking dark, and some woman is cheerfully waking me up telling me “it’s time for blood work!” Which wouldn’t have been bad if she could have just drained my blood and left. No. Apparently I’m still fucking dehydrated, so my veins are like tiny, withered worms that didn’t make it back into the ground after the rainstorm. She poked me in the arm. Then she turned the need - still in me! - a little to the right. Then a little to the left. Then to the right again. No fucking blood. Then she brings out the little butterfly-thing for your hand. Now I’ve never had one of those, and I’m told they hurt a lot, but that needle was a lot skinnier than the goddamn garden hose she’d been shoving in my arm so it was looking pretty good to me.
It only took a poke and one twist to get me to bleed out of my hand.
Sweet. I just happen to know that this is supposed to happen every. damn. morning. (I should mention that it is now a full five days later and I still have a bruise.)
Next thing I know, my doctor is waking me up. Right off she gives me the good news. The tubal went well, I’m sterile now, awesomesauce. Then the bad. She explains to me that apparently because of my height, I have slightly larger and (this is just priceless) lower-hanging organs than most other peoples. Apparently mine is the only spleen she has ever seen while doing the (mentioned soon) camera-check. Go me and my spleen. I also have great abs, which means that the flesh she had to poke through was tougher than she expected. So, in trying to inflate me like a beach ball, my surgeon accidentally punctured my stomach with the inflate-y needle. (She found this after she had finished the tubal part. I guess the poke around your insides with a little camera to make sure that they didn’t do something exactly like they did to me).
Well that sucks.
She explained that when she found the hole, another surgeon was called in. This guy poked another hole right beside it, then pinched the two together to close the whole enchilada. Then he took some of my inside fat (I’m not really sure from where, exactly) and used that to make a little patch to put over the pinched-together holes. So the reason I’m in this hospital bed is so that they can make sure the patch is going to stay on like it should. The tube down my nose is to keep my stomach empty, which minimizes leaking around the patch.
Oh yeah and you’ll be here until at least Sunday.
Then I learned that the drug I’ve been getting is Demerol. Sweet, sweet Demerol. Nectar of the gods you are. And don’t let anyone tell you differently.
Anyway. The plan was I’m not allowed any food or water for at least three days. Then if I’m not spewing fluid out of my abdomen like a maniac, I’ll be allowed to eat some hospital food. (joy!) So with that happy news out of the way, my doctor was off to do whatever else she had to do that didn’t involve me.
And that is right about when I asked the nice nurses to un-tether me so I could pee and would you please give me some pain killers?