What I learned from my long illness
A lot of people asked me if, perhaps, my experiences this year at least could be used to enrich my writing. At the time I usually said, "No. I've learned nothing. It's just pain." Time brings perspective, and I did learn some things.
When you are trapped in a single place, you treasure tasks and stretch them out. Brushing my teeth, combing my hair, making my bed -- all were taken as slowly and carefully as possible to fill as much empty time as they could.
I wondered if prisoners felt this way. Sure, prisoners have MUCH worse accomodations, and no TV. (I only turned on my hospital TV three times - twice to watch movies with Brian, and once to watch the Browns. Still not sure if it was the game or the lack of adequate pain meds that made that Sunday so miserable.) But I imagine they feel the same helplessness to fill the hours. I was desperate for visitors.
Bring an eye mask to the hospital. It's never totally dark in the hospital.
Bring a teddy bear. Combination support-for-surgery-site, light block, pillow. Seriously. A good-sized bear has 100 uses.
Sarongs. Something you can tie around yourself without interfering with the IV will protect you from the ever-present danger of 'gown peek' and also make you feel 'dressed' so you can 'undress' and add a real sense of day and night which is lacking when you get meds every three hours.
Pain shuts your brain down. You can't do anything else. Well, you can - I certainly tried - but it's like climbing a rocky cliff using only your eyelids. What really sucked was not being able to sleep. Sleep would have eaten up some of that awful time.
Brian said that he was always relieved to find me asleep. I took naps after pain med doses, when I could. I cried to him that I had no hope, and he said, "That's because you don't get to see yourself asleep."
You develop routines. Up at six am to brush teeth, make bed, be ready for the rounds. After rounds, take walk down hallway. Pace room three times. Lie down. Try to read. Pace room again, in opposite direction. Lie down, try to read - Brian arrives! Life begins.
My husband came to the hospital every day, usually arriving between 9 or 10 am and staying until 10 or 11 pm. He says he is still recovering from the exhaustion of that. He would bring games to try to distract me or sit quietly working on his laptop while I read or slept. I kind of hated to sleep with him there because I was missing Brian-time but he would encourage me to.
Sometimes I would walk him to the elevators when he left, but more often he would tuck me into my bed before he left, handing me my teddybear and kissing me good-night.
I learned that my husband loves me very, very much. More so than I had realized.
When you are trapped in a single place, you treasure tasks and stretch them out. Brushing my teeth, combing my hair, making my bed -- all were taken as slowly and carefully as possible to fill as much empty time as they could.
I wondered if prisoners felt this way. Sure, prisoners have MUCH worse accomodations, and no TV. (I only turned on my hospital TV three times - twice to watch movies with Brian, and once to watch the Browns. Still not sure if it was the game or the lack of adequate pain meds that made that Sunday so miserable.) But I imagine they feel the same helplessness to fill the hours. I was desperate for visitors.
Bring an eye mask to the hospital. It's never totally dark in the hospital.
Bring a teddy bear. Combination support-for-surgery-site, light block, pillow. Seriously. A good-sized bear has 100 uses.
Sarongs. Something you can tie around yourself without interfering with the IV will protect you from the ever-present danger of 'gown peek' and also make you feel 'dressed' so you can 'undress' and add a real sense of day and night which is lacking when you get meds every three hours.
Pain shuts your brain down. You can't do anything else. Well, you can - I certainly tried - but it's like climbing a rocky cliff using only your eyelids. What really sucked was not being able to sleep. Sleep would have eaten up some of that awful time.
Brian said that he was always relieved to find me asleep. I took naps after pain med doses, when I could. I cried to him that I had no hope, and he said, "That's because you don't get to see yourself asleep."
You develop routines. Up at six am to brush teeth, make bed, be ready for the rounds. After rounds, take walk down hallway. Pace room three times. Lie down. Try to read. Pace room again, in opposite direction. Lie down, try to read - Brian arrives! Life begins.
My husband came to the hospital every day, usually arriving between 9 or 10 am and staying until 10 or 11 pm. He says he is still recovering from the exhaustion of that. He would bring games to try to distract me or sit quietly working on his laptop while I read or slept. I kind of hated to sleep with him there because I was missing Brian-time but he would encourage me to.
Sometimes I would walk him to the elevators when he left, but more often he would tuck me into my bed before he left, handing me my teddybear and kissing me good-night.
I learned that my husband loves me very, very much. More so than I had realized.