Holiday Adventure
Because my body is ever so generous, it decided that what I absolutely must have for Christmas this year is an appendicitis.
I spent most of Sunday before Christmas sick and disoriented. I woke up with pain in my stomach, but I was hungry, so I figured it was gas and grabbed a couple of crackers before laying back down. It quickly became apparent that it was not gas, as I promptly threw up. I spent the next four hours alternating between vomiting and whimpering, curled up in a little ball on my bed. My mother called me about dinner time and suggested that it might be a good idea to head to the ER.
This ended up being one of the best visits to the ER I've ever had. They were attentive and quick. The only things I waited for were the results from my blood tests and CAT scan. Once they had those, they had me talking to a surgeon and getting prepped for surgery right away. Then, a trauma got flown in via helicopter, so I couldn't get into surgery until eleven, but that's ok. Dying people take precedence.
The biggest hitch was, oddly enough, my piercings. All metal in my body had to come out, including my new nipple piercings. I was a bit put out with this, because I was well short of the nine months it takes for those things to finish healing. They were kind enough to explain that the cauterizing equipment would cause an electrical arc to any metal on my body, thus frying said body part. I'm very attached to my nipples, so the rings came out. As luck would have it, I managed to get them back in post-op, although that should not have been possible.Before I knew it, I was waking up in recovery.
The hospital food was phenomenal. Hamot runs a short-order kitchen and I had no dietary restrictions, so I feasted on milkshakes, pizza, and turkey with mashed potatoes and gravy. Was it gourmet? No. Was it much better than most institutional food I've had, including college food? Yes. I'd have to say, meal times were my favorite part of the whole ordeal.
Recovery was quick. I'd had laparoscopic surgery, as opposed to the traditional variety. The morphine was "fun," in that I was given a button to press which would dispense it and then reset every eight minutes. At first, I had no interest in pressing the button. I'm wary of pain meds, so I figured minimal is better. Then I tried to get up to hit the restroom. I could barely move. When I called in the nurse, she insisted that pressing the button every eight minutes wasn't really optional. This was all well and good, until I was watching the Redskins get anihilated by the Giants.*
I started to nod off, as I'd been doing whenever I was tired. Suddenly, I was in the middle of the Redskins/Giants game and everything was spinning. I felt slightly queasy. After an undetermined amount of time trying to get my bearings, I woke up. It was so real. I was a little freaked out, but sometimes I have dreams in the space between waking and sleeping, so I didn't really think much of it. I went back to watching the game and cat napping. It happened again. Upon waking this time, I resolved to hold off on the sleep for awhile. Unfortunately, I was too tired. I couldn't stay awake, but I couldn't handle the sleep. I frantically pressed the nurse's call button. She came in and asked me what I needed. I told her about my problem. She laughed and said that was pretty much the result of a day and a half of morphine and I'm fine. I stopped pressing the button for awhile. Morphine was most unpleasant. I don't understand how anyone could handle an addiction to it, but I guess they do. I'm just glad it's not me.
I got to go home on the second day. After that, it was a pretty swift recovery. I was able to go to Christmas Eve service with my parents and the post-party with a family of parishioners. I was quite mobile by Christmas day and mostly up to full speed the day after.
In an amusing twist, one of my scars crosses one of the ones from my gal bladder surgery. I now have a cross just below my belly button. MY BELLY BUTTON HAS BEEN BLESSED BY THE JESUS! I AM THE CHOSEN ONE! Chosen to... eat waffles and ice cream sandwiches?
*The horrifying fact that the football team of our nation's capital is named after a racial slur makes me very pleased when they are pathetic.
I spent most of Sunday before Christmas sick and disoriented. I woke up with pain in my stomach, but I was hungry, so I figured it was gas and grabbed a couple of crackers before laying back down. It quickly became apparent that it was not gas, as I promptly threw up. I spent the next four hours alternating between vomiting and whimpering, curled up in a little ball on my bed. My mother called me about dinner time and suggested that it might be a good idea to head to the ER.
This ended up being one of the best visits to the ER I've ever had. They were attentive and quick. The only things I waited for were the results from my blood tests and CAT scan. Once they had those, they had me talking to a surgeon and getting prepped for surgery right away. Then, a trauma got flown in via helicopter, so I couldn't get into surgery until eleven, but that's ok. Dying people take precedence.
The biggest hitch was, oddly enough, my piercings. All metal in my body had to come out, including my new nipple piercings. I was a bit put out with this, because I was well short of the nine months it takes for those things to finish healing. They were kind enough to explain that the cauterizing equipment would cause an electrical arc to any metal on my body, thus frying said body part. I'm very attached to my nipples, so the rings came out. As luck would have it, I managed to get them back in post-op, although that should not have been possible.Before I knew it, I was waking up in recovery.
The hospital food was phenomenal. Hamot runs a short-order kitchen and I had no dietary restrictions, so I feasted on milkshakes, pizza, and turkey with mashed potatoes and gravy. Was it gourmet? No. Was it much better than most institutional food I've had, including college food? Yes. I'd have to say, meal times were my favorite part of the whole ordeal.
Recovery was quick. I'd had laparoscopic surgery, as opposed to the traditional variety. The morphine was "fun," in that I was given a button to press which would dispense it and then reset every eight minutes. At first, I had no interest in pressing the button. I'm wary of pain meds, so I figured minimal is better. Then I tried to get up to hit the restroom. I could barely move. When I called in the nurse, she insisted that pressing the button every eight minutes wasn't really optional. This was all well and good, until I was watching the Redskins get anihilated by the Giants.*
I started to nod off, as I'd been doing whenever I was tired. Suddenly, I was in the middle of the Redskins/Giants game and everything was spinning. I felt slightly queasy. After an undetermined amount of time trying to get my bearings, I woke up. It was so real. I was a little freaked out, but sometimes I have dreams in the space between waking and sleeping, so I didn't really think much of it. I went back to watching the game and cat napping. It happened again. Upon waking this time, I resolved to hold off on the sleep for awhile. Unfortunately, I was too tired. I couldn't stay awake, but I couldn't handle the sleep. I frantically pressed the nurse's call button. She came in and asked me what I needed. I told her about my problem. She laughed and said that was pretty much the result of a day and a half of morphine and I'm fine. I stopped pressing the button for awhile. Morphine was most unpleasant. I don't understand how anyone could handle an addiction to it, but I guess they do. I'm just glad it's not me.
I got to go home on the second day. After that, it was a pretty swift recovery. I was able to go to Christmas Eve service with my parents and the post-party with a family of parishioners. I was quite mobile by Christmas day and mostly up to full speed the day after.
In an amusing twist, one of my scars crosses one of the ones from my gal bladder surgery. I now have a cross just below my belly button. MY BELLY BUTTON HAS BEEN BLESSED BY THE JESUS! I AM THE CHOSEN ONE! Chosen to... eat waffles and ice cream sandwiches?
*The horrifying fact that the football team of our nation's capital is named after a racial slur makes me very pleased when they are pathetic.