The Saga of the Three Surgeries, Part Two
Many are the wonders of an epidural. Many are its dangers. Needless to say, I got a little of both - the needle went to deep initially, causing my leg to do some really freaky things before they corrected it a millisecond later. However, as a result of this mistake; the painkiller-properties apparently worked even better and faster for me then most.
Which made all the attempts to explain the upcoming C-section to me all the more futile.
Robin, however, got quite the education. Save for one instance in which my mother had sat by my side while he got a change or three of clothes and a shower at home, he was ever at my side. Husbands of the world take note: his is an example to follow. Just sitting there and holding my hand through everything made every conceivable difference. Even if he got royally freaked out by what the doctors were patiently trying to explain to me.
You see, mine was an especially strange case of HELLP Syndrome. I had all of the awful pain and danger: but my platelet count had managed to stay normal. Normal enough to where the C-section would be performed as soon as the operating theater was free. Of course, I was still in too bad o'shape to risk removing the gall bladder at the same time (which Robin and I both thought would be expedient), but se la vie.
Oh, I should note that I adopted a lazies-faire attitude for most of this experience as a way of surviving the whole thing without going completely insane. There really wasn't anything I could do, so I guess it worked out.
Anyway, after a remarkably short period of time (probably a much longer period of time...I think my viewpoint was compressed through fear of major surgery) I was wheeled into prep in the surgical theater du jur. They gave me more drugs - Nubain, epidural-delivered anesthetic, inducement drugs, and antibiotics for those of you keeping score at home - and ran through checks like “Is this the right patient,” “do we have all the tools we need,” “is all the equipment working correctly,” and finally “are all the necessary staff members here?”
Yes to everything but the last. They were missing both doctors.
I'm not sure how long it took to find them, but Robin seemed extra-worried when he came in until he saw that I was still basically how he left me. He was given one rather simple instruction - “Don't touch anything blue.” For whatever reason, anything sterile (or anything that started off sterile) in the room that wasn't made of steel or plastic was blue, from the doctor's scrubs to the sheet they hung in front of my face to prevent me from seeing what was going on. Neat expedient, I have to say.
The surgery began cheerfully enough. I was drugged past the point of feeling about three quarters of my body (the lower bit), the nurses were bustlely, and the doctors were chatting about various medical programs throughout the Midwest. The heart monitor beeped in its medical-drama way, and I could feel Robin's hand enveloping my own.
Then, the doctor's chatter went from cheerful to muted and serious.
Then, the pain started.
Then, I complained about the pain like a good little wimpy patient should. The anesthesiologist called a pause to the proceedings, and the doctors paused to let the drugs have their effect.
The following is a patients-brain-view of what happened.
Is.
Is I?
Is.
Green.
I?
What I?
Green.
I think.
I think, therefore I am.
I?
(throwing up) Green
Throwing up means...?
[talking]
[me answering]
I think, therefore I am
human
I am a person.
[baby cries]
[more talking]Green
[me answering......]”My son.”
I am the nexus of thought around which I am.
Wait, I was here to give birth.
That baby crying is mine.
I am.
Wait, that sheet is blue, not green. And....there's blood on the other side...
And....fin.
For those of you not into modern free-verse, let me explain a little more cognitively.
The surgery had indeed taken a serious turn. Roland was face-up inside of me, and I was bleeding a lot. Further complicating things was the flood of amniotic fluid which had completely failed to evacuate me at any earlier point - rendering much of the theater a bit on the damp side. The pain I felt was them rooting about my internal organs to get him out as quickly as they could without causing any damage, and then to get out all the things I shouldn't have in me (like the placenta) so they could sew me up again. This was enough to overcome the epidural magic, and so the anesthesiologist delivered a new, shinier drug to keep me from feeling anything.
Like, a sense of self.
Robin was a bit concerned at my new, hyper-Zen state despite warnings that I would be a bit unresponsive. He was slightly more concerned at how long it took Roland to breathe once removed from the belly of the me. However, when the first baby cries filled the air he began to relax, and then felt far better when I started making intelligent replies to what he and the others in the theater were saying. Granted, the amount of liquidous material was still a point of concern (as was the glazed look in my eyes and my apparent calm in the face of stuff that would normally freak me out to no end) - but we were both alive and conscious, which is no small thing.
Time and date of delivery: 12:24 pm, February 9, 2012.
Our entire little family was shown into the post-op room. The pain started to creep back almost right away, but they held off long enough to do some extra checking on me. When the morphine finally arrived, Roland was already showing green boards on everything and well on his way to his first bath.
Point of interest: morphine makes me vomit. And after not eating for quite some time, this meant that I got to dry-heave for several minutes with a freshly stitched incision on my belly. Not fun.
The painkiller effects of the morphine kicked in just in time for me to cuddle with a freshly-washed newborn baby boy. This flew in the face of all logic and reason by actually being worth all of the pain and misery of the past few hours. If this doesn't make sense to you - don't worry, I'm pretty sure it's just a mom thing.
When everyone was satisfied that I wasn't going to explode or go into de-fib, they wheeled me into a tiny, tiny room just outside the surgical wing of the floor. There, Dr. Keng came in to explain what she was planning. The blood loss had her concerned, and so at her request I signed a consent for a blood transfusion (just in case it was necessary). Then we discussed the next chapter in my HELLP Syndrome saga: the danger of seizures.
At this point I realized how helpful it would have been if I had actually studied up on pregnancy and delivery stuff for the past nine months, instead of just the past three weeks.
Anyhow, the seizure danger was ugly and serious: but happily could be treated easily. All they had to do was keep magnesium salts running through my system at fairly high levels for twenty-four hours, and I should be fine. So, with husband at my side and little, tiniest baby in the world by my bed...I got another bag added to the array already entering my system. The effects were more or less immediate, rendering my brain a gooey sort of concoction only mildly aware of things that were not 'pain' or 'need for sleep.'
That's when I fist noticed the faces.
Thanks for tuning in again, and stay put for the next chapter - in which we learn whether or not our heroine needs to be committed to a psych ward again!
Which made all the attempts to explain the upcoming C-section to me all the more futile.
Robin, however, got quite the education. Save for one instance in which my mother had sat by my side while he got a change or three of clothes and a shower at home, he was ever at my side. Husbands of the world take note: his is an example to follow. Just sitting there and holding my hand through everything made every conceivable difference. Even if he got royally freaked out by what the doctors were patiently trying to explain to me.
You see, mine was an especially strange case of HELLP Syndrome. I had all of the awful pain and danger: but my platelet count had managed to stay normal. Normal enough to where the C-section would be performed as soon as the operating theater was free. Of course, I was still in too bad o'shape to risk removing the gall bladder at the same time (which Robin and I both thought would be expedient), but se la vie.
Oh, I should note that I adopted a lazies-faire attitude for most of this experience as a way of surviving the whole thing without going completely insane. There really wasn't anything I could do, so I guess it worked out.
Anyway, after a remarkably short period of time (probably a much longer period of time...I think my viewpoint was compressed through fear of major surgery) I was wheeled into prep in the surgical theater du jur. They gave me more drugs - Nubain, epidural-delivered anesthetic, inducement drugs, and antibiotics for those of you keeping score at home - and ran through checks like “Is this the right patient,” “do we have all the tools we need,” “is all the equipment working correctly,” and finally “are all the necessary staff members here?”
Yes to everything but the last. They were missing both doctors.
I'm not sure how long it took to find them, but Robin seemed extra-worried when he came in until he saw that I was still basically how he left me. He was given one rather simple instruction - “Don't touch anything blue.” For whatever reason, anything sterile (or anything that started off sterile) in the room that wasn't made of steel or plastic was blue, from the doctor's scrubs to the sheet they hung in front of my face to prevent me from seeing what was going on. Neat expedient, I have to say.
The surgery began cheerfully enough. I was drugged past the point of feeling about three quarters of my body (the lower bit), the nurses were bustlely, and the doctors were chatting about various medical programs throughout the Midwest. The heart monitor beeped in its medical-drama way, and I could feel Robin's hand enveloping my own.
Then, the doctor's chatter went from cheerful to muted and serious.
Then, the pain started.
Then, I complained about the pain like a good little wimpy patient should. The anesthesiologist called a pause to the proceedings, and the doctors paused to let the drugs have their effect.
The following is a patients-brain-view of what happened.
Is.
Is I?
Is.
Green.
I?
What I?
Green.
I think.
I think, therefore I am.
I?
(throwing up) Green
Throwing up means...?
[talking]
[me answering]
I think, therefore I am
human
I am a person.
[baby cries]
[more talking]Green
[me answering......]”My son.”
I am the nexus of thought around which I am.
Wait, I was here to give birth.
That baby crying is mine.
I am.
Wait, that sheet is blue, not green. And....there's blood on the other side...
And....fin.
For those of you not into modern free-verse, let me explain a little more cognitively.
The surgery had indeed taken a serious turn. Roland was face-up inside of me, and I was bleeding a lot. Further complicating things was the flood of amniotic fluid which had completely failed to evacuate me at any earlier point - rendering much of the theater a bit on the damp side. The pain I felt was them rooting about my internal organs to get him out as quickly as they could without causing any damage, and then to get out all the things I shouldn't have in me (like the placenta) so they could sew me up again. This was enough to overcome the epidural magic, and so the anesthesiologist delivered a new, shinier drug to keep me from feeling anything.
Like, a sense of self.
Robin was a bit concerned at my new, hyper-Zen state despite warnings that I would be a bit unresponsive. He was slightly more concerned at how long it took Roland to breathe once removed from the belly of the me. However, when the first baby cries filled the air he began to relax, and then felt far better when I started making intelligent replies to what he and the others in the theater were saying. Granted, the amount of liquidous material was still a point of concern (as was the glazed look in my eyes and my apparent calm in the face of stuff that would normally freak me out to no end) - but we were both alive and conscious, which is no small thing.
Time and date of delivery: 12:24 pm, February 9, 2012.
Our entire little family was shown into the post-op room. The pain started to creep back almost right away, but they held off long enough to do some extra checking on me. When the morphine finally arrived, Roland was already showing green boards on everything and well on his way to his first bath.
Point of interest: morphine makes me vomit. And after not eating for quite some time, this meant that I got to dry-heave for several minutes with a freshly stitched incision on my belly. Not fun.
The painkiller effects of the morphine kicked in just in time for me to cuddle with a freshly-washed newborn baby boy. This flew in the face of all logic and reason by actually being worth all of the pain and misery of the past few hours. If this doesn't make sense to you - don't worry, I'm pretty sure it's just a mom thing.
When everyone was satisfied that I wasn't going to explode or go into de-fib, they wheeled me into a tiny, tiny room just outside the surgical wing of the floor. There, Dr. Keng came in to explain what she was planning. The blood loss had her concerned, and so at her request I signed a consent for a blood transfusion (just in case it was necessary). Then we discussed the next chapter in my HELLP Syndrome saga: the danger of seizures.
At this point I realized how helpful it would have been if I had actually studied up on pregnancy and delivery stuff for the past nine months, instead of just the past three weeks.
Anyhow, the seizure danger was ugly and serious: but happily could be treated easily. All they had to do was keep magnesium salts running through my system at fairly high levels for twenty-four hours, and I should be fine. So, with husband at my side and little, tiniest baby in the world by my bed...I got another bag added to the array already entering my system. The effects were more or less immediate, rendering my brain a gooey sort of concoction only mildly aware of things that were not 'pain' or 'need for sleep.'
That's when I fist noticed the faces.
Thanks for tuning in again, and stay put for the next chapter - in which we learn whether or not our heroine needs to be committed to a psych ward again!