the journey towards Cronehood - macfawkes

the journey towards Cronehood

I've always believed in being well informed when it comes to making decisions about my own body and my future.
So when the Doc recommended I have a hysterectomy I asked for some time to consider my options. Yes, I knew I was sick of being in pain for between 2 and 3 weeks out of every 29-day cycle. I was also thoroughly sick of the mood swings, the extreme depression and the severe diarhorea at the tine of my period. Yes, I was fed up of the constant dragging feeling in my abdomen which meant I needed to pee rather frequently. Yes, I knew that with 2 grandmothers, a mother and a sister having had ovarian cancer my chances of avoiding it were limited. But it was still a big step to make.
I also knew that it was going to HURT. But I also knew that I'd get a couple of months at least off work to recover. On full salary. I looked at my bulging bookshelves crammed full of interesting reading material and tried not to let them sway my decision.
I chatted to a few friends who'd been through it. Some of them were nurses so I got the low-down from both sides. I chatted to neighbours and friends, rallying the troops for practical help around the house. I got onto the internet, Googled 'hysterectomy' and spent a couple of evenings reviewing the information. A slip of the finger and I uncovered photographs of the actual procedure. I moved on rather rapidly.
I gave the go-ahead and sat back to wait for the 'date' to come through.
For four months.
By the time the date came through nerves were sinking in. Cute Boss offered to take me to the hospital en route to a meeting in Glasgow and I can't help shake the suspicion that he wanted to make sure I'd go to the hospital and not the nearby airport instead. He dropped me off at reception, told me to let him know if I needed anything, waved, and drove off.
"Hmm", I thought, "a drink would help."
No such luck. I consoled myself with a large bar of chocolate from the hospital shop instead and made for the ward.
I had only been in hospital for an overnight stay once before and that was 20 years ago for a tonsillectomy. (Yes, I know they don't do this to adults very often as it's a more involved procedure. I was the exception. I can vouch for it being unpleasant as I spent an hour throwing up after the op and burst most of my stitches.) I was allocated to a reasonably pleasant room with six beds in it.
Bed 1 contained someone who was out for the count and who moaned with pain continuously. Bed 2 was occupied by someone who looked healthy enough but who was constantly connected to a drip. Bed 3 was a quiet old lady who did crosswords constantly. Bed 4 was empty. Bed 5 contained a lady who, like myself, had just been admitted for a hysterectomy.
I sussed her out within about 10 minutes. A moaner. She complained about everything for all the 5 days she was in.
Forms were filled in, the consultants came round on their rounds. The Moaner turned to me and said "They're keeping me waiting until 10 o'clock tomorrow morning!"As they had already told me my operation was at 3pm I was decidedly unsympathetic,
The morning came. The Moaner was wheeled away. I turned my attention to daytime TV in the hope of some distraction from what lay ahead. First up: a hospital drama. Followed by Robert Winston talking about 'female problems'. Finally an article about medical negligence. I tried to doze and cursed the outwardly calm exterior which had meant that I hadn't been prescribed any 'pre-med'.
I also cursed the 'nil by mouth' sign hanging over my bed. Oread had bought me a box of Thornton's chocolates the night before and they were lying tantalizingly on my locker.
My time came. Wheeled into the antechamber I chatted with the operating staff. The surgeon came through.
"OK?" he asked.
"No," was my reply "I'm dreading this."
"Oh, you'll be OK," he said "I'm not nervous about this at all."
Hmm. It wasn't his stomach that was going to be filleted.
I was 'out of it' a second or two later. I briefly woke up in the recovery room, was vaguely aware of being wheeled back to the ward, I gradually came to on the ward surrounded by tubes and wires. The one I was most interested in was the magic push-button that delivered the morphine.
I was in a drug-induced haze when New Man came in to hold my hand. He produced a carrier bag with a flourish.
"Food!" he exclaimed. "I've got you a smoothie in case you can't eat, but I've got fruit, chocolate, yoghurts, strawberry tarts..."
The lad had raided the food department of Marks and Sparks. I'm surprised there was anything left after his visit. He was most disappointed to find I wasn't going to be allowed anything apart from small sips of water until the following morning.
So was I. The 'Thorntons' were still in view.
He busied himself with hovering around my bed, mopping my fevered brow, holding my hand, fetching and carrying glasses of water. The nurse came in to remove the oxygen mask over my mouth and replaced it with a tube.
That was a good move. Extensive and lingering lip contact was made, An officious staff nurse came in and caught us and tutted disapprovingly.
The first night was more comfortable than I'd expected. The morphine pump did its stuff and I spent the night on a 'high' that was unfortunately dissipated the following morning when this was removed and I was left to my own devices and lesser painkillers which didn't do theirs. The pits came later that afternoon when the Officious Staff Nurse came in and announced that she was going to remove my catheter. I pointed out that without pain meds I couldn't get out of bed, if I wasn't able to move then I'd be lying in a puddle before very long and that would make me even grouchier that I was at present. She got the message. Macfawkes 1, OSN 0.
Once the pain meds had been sorted my recovery was swift. I was out of bed and able to take a shower the following morning, was walking around the ward in the afternoon. I spent much of the day asleep but I could feel my strength returning daily.
On Day 3 I was up and about for most of the day and chatting to my fellow inmates. The bed opposite me changed occupants. The new occupant tearfully consulted her surgeon.
"I'm scared," she said, "I'm having a hysterectomy tomorrow and I just know I'm not going to be able to move or do anything for weeks."
The consultant jerked a thumb in my direction. I was wandering around the ward, handing out chocolates.
"She's 3 days post op," he said. "Still think you'll be bedridden for long?"
We spent much of the evening chatting about her fears. She was wheeled down first thing the following morning and was back on the ward by lunchtime. She raised her head enough to give me a weary 'thumbs up' on her way in.
I finally escaped 5 days after surgery. New Man took a day off and drove me home, where Trolleydolly was waiting. Her original plan was to stay for ten days to look after me. After four we knew I was coping so well that she was able to go home.
I can't believe how easy it has all been. 18 days post op I am able to cook for myself, able to walk the half mile down to the village shop to buy a loaf of bread or the mile to the doc's to pick up prescriptions. The pain levels are so low that I'm dispensing with pain relief altogether apart from first thing in the morning. I'm taking things steady and not doing anything foolish (I have help with bringing in wood for the fire and for doing heavy shopping) but with care I'm self-sufficient.
And I have another six weeks off to enjoy. Now, what book am I going to read next?!

18.2.08 16:59

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