Profound Experiences

In February, I underwent a hysterectomy. Never been in the hospital before, never been under the knife. I told everyone this was my first and last experience when it comes to surgery. All things considered, it wasn't bad. In fact, the whole sickness-illness-recovery cycle has been a pround experience.

My mother underwent the same surgery some years ago, for the same reason. The cause of my illness tends to run in families. I have a younger sister (hi, sis) and hope the dark line peters out before it crosses her path. When my husband and I got married four years ago, we decided not to have children. We had our reasons and, providentially, they were good ones. It's unlikely I would have been able to carry a child to term, given my condition. Funny thing is I decided a long time ago I did not want to have children of my own. How disappointed I would have been otherwise. To find the love of my life at age 36 and lose my uterus at 40. God has a way of doing the arithmetic.

Once the diagnosis was made, a surgery date was set up. I had a week to prepare, to get used to the idea, to calm my fears, to get all the pre-surgery drugs. The night before we stayed at a motel in the city where my surgery was going to take place. I was on my period, my last period, that insisted on coming, drugs be damned. I had to swill colon cleanser. I was up all night for one reason or another. My husband had fried chicken and I feasted on the fumes. I told myself I was going to be pure for the next day. That made me feel lighter, calmer, like I was going somewhere and even though it was a strange place, I was prepared. I'd done my homework.

The next morning my husband drove me to the hospital. He prayed with me in the car. First time he's ever prayed aloud for me. That kind of thing can break your heart, make you feel all loved and sad at the same time. We went in and I was whisked away to be prepared. I got naked and put on one of those split up the back gowns, a pair of fuzzy blue socks. I was grateful that the kind nurses didn't make me go barefoot. I don't like my feet and I don't like to go barefoot in public. The anesthesiologist came in, a practical woman in midlife with a warm voice. She hooked me up. My husband came in to hold my hand. I cried a bit. Nerves. Then the Demerol hit and I was gone. Just like that. Maybe there's a cupboard in heaven where they store parts of your life you don't remember. There's my surgery, neatly labeled: February 9, 2005; Melinda slept like a baby while her uterus was removed. The anesthesiologist later told me I had a perfect figure for the "corset." I don't know what that is, but assume I wore it at one time or another. Nice to know that I've got the right shape for something. Thongs aren't it.

I have a friend who wrote me a kind letter after the surgery and suggested that I go through a mourning period, thinking about what I had lost, suggesting that I was no longer complete. So, what did they do with that swollen organ? I imagine it went to a medical incinerator somewhere. I did feel loss, but mostly I wondered if my other body parts would miss my uterus. Silly. I haven't quite gotten into the loss thing. I will tell you that my jeans fit better.

I woke up as I was being transferred to the bed, my new home, in a small private room. I remember being rolled around like a sack of taters; the nurses were good, but I'm no svelte package. Then, my husband was there with a vase of nylon roses. We visited and I adjusted to my new surroundings. I had a catheter. I had one IV with potassium chloride so I wouldn't dry out, another with the epidural drip that made sure my recovery was painless or nearly so. Women who have babies have epidurals. A morphine drip lubricates the spine. It works. I would highly recommend it. My doctor said he did not believe in pain. God bless that man. While I was in the hospital, I heard stories from other women who went through a hysterectomy with nothing but Demerol. They aren't pretty stories. And I think about my maternal grandmother who broke her hip and refused to go to the doctor because someone other than her husband would see her naked. We've come a long way, baby. As the young man, one of my CNAs, said to me the next day, "We see naked bodies all the time around here. It's like a handshake." He said the patients who walked down the hall flashing flesh were "doing the Mardi Gras." Humor in the hospital is very important.

I settled into my bed. What a nice bed! Like one of those adjustable beds they advertise on late night TV infomercials, you could make it move up and down every whichaway. I had a little color TV mounted to one of my bed rails. Very convenient. I could adjust it, too, and it had a gazillion more channels than our basic cable at home. I had an HGTV marathon right there. I had a window looking out on a courtyard filled with big fat rhododendrons. There was a bird feeder just outside the window. Someone had taken on the charitable mission of keeping these feeders filled. Like Adopt A Highway. I lay there and was impressed at the genuine goodness of people who would show up with birdseed so that sick people could watch the birds and heal. The bed was good, great. I could only sleep on my back, but that was okay. Sleep I could do. Lots of sleep. If you're not in pain, the hospital is a very restful place.

The first night I tried to have a little dinner. I discovered I was on "clears." My Yellow Supper consisted of apple juice, chicken broth and lemon Jello. I told the nurse that the food at this "spa" sucked. She chuckled. Really, if I hadn't been hooked up to the IVs and wearing a flimsy gown, it could have been a spa. I was getting some ibuprophen along with the morphine, so I felt okay. Every time the shifts changed, the nurse and new CNA would come in and introduce themselves. They wrote their names on a white board so I knew who to call using the button by the bed. They woke me up in the middle of the night to take my blood pressure, temperature, etc. What do they call that? Vitals. One brave woman hauled me out of bed the second day to sit on a chair and be weighed. I was disappointed that the weight loss wasn't more dramatic. I mean, ten pounds would have been a nice touch for actually going through the surgery. Then I remembered this wasn't Extreme Makeover.

I only had one bad incident in the hospital. Eerily, it mirrored an experience my mother had after her surgery. I don't know if it was taking 800 mg of ibuprophen on an empty stomach or if it was a reaction to something else, but after a blood draw the morning after my surgery I felt the room begin to spin. My mouth filled up. I didn't know if I was going to puke or pass out and I panicked. I don't like that feeling, that sense of loss of control, like you're going under and there's nothing, no-thing, you can do about it. I moaned and the nurses held me, tried to get me to puke in the little kidney shaped plastic vessel. "Help me, Jesus!" Yes, that was me, praying like a snake-handling Evangelical in a tent meeting. "Help me, Jesus!" Seems a good prayer to pray when you're not sure what's happening, you just want God to throw you a rope. Then, it was "Thank you, Lord!" as the nausea passed and the room came back into focus. I remember seeing my mother go through the same thing. I think her incident was caused by a bad drug reaction. It's frightening to see your mom thrash around, cry out, flash a naked thigh at you. I left her room in tears. I was so scared. Probably more frightened than she was. I held onto the nurses who helped me through my own crisis. No one walked out on me.

I had some good nurses. The RNs did all the drugs; the CNAs did all the grunt work. They worked well together and I showed my thankfulness. It's not an easy job to take care of a total stranger, even if it is a job. I was a good patient. I figured I had it much better than some of the others on the ward. Like the poor guy in the next room who was in desperate pain and yet couldn't stomache any medications. He was so violently ill, for hours at a time, it sounded like outtakes from The Exorcist. Or the poor fellow down the hall who kept calling out for his nurse, not sure where he was or why he was there. Here is a great truth I will tell you that will serve you well the rest of your life, if you'll remember it: There is always someone worse off than you. An old guy in a wheelchair at the Moose Lodge told me that a few weeks before I went into the hospital. What timing.

The day after surgery my catheter was removed at 5:30 a.m. Shortly afterwards, I was up on my feet and, with the help of the CNA, took a stroll around the building in my fuzzy blue socks. The young man who loaned me his arm was surprised; he said I was a "strong woman" to be up and around so soon. I smiled. That sounded good. I figured my job was to get well enough to go home and recover. The nursing staff had enough sick people to take care. My "sickness" had been removed. Now it was just a matter of taking it easy until I healed and the 17 staples across my lower abdomen could be removed. My husband visited me that evening and I had a real meal. I was off "clears" and the food was pretty good. Much better than airline food. Or what you used to get on a plane; now you don't get anything, maybe a cookie or bag of pretzels. Anyway, I ate and it was good. My husband's worry lines began to fade. We made plans for my homecoming.

Friday morning, after the surgery on Wednesday, the doctor came in and we talked about taking the epidural out. If I did okay, he would release me to go home that evening. So the nurse unplugged me and I showered on my own, unencumbered. I sat up in a chair most of the day or walked around the hospital. When my husband came to pick me up, I was wearing the bright mango colored jog suit I had bought to wear to the hospital. What a good investment. If you ever have to go to the hospital, bring something bright and cheery -- preferably new -- to wear home. You deserve it and it will make you feel better.

Recovery at home took five weeks. A week after surgery I was exercising in moderation again. Went for a check up and doctor said everything looked good. I had my husband look at my wound for me. I couldn't do it. I'm really not into gross stuff like that, even/especially when it happens to me. To think at one time as a kid I wanted to be a doctor! What a joke. I went back in to have my staples removed and that was so painless I didn't realized the doctor had taken them out until he was all done and I asked the nurse for confirmation. I received many, many cards from friends and family, small gifts, phone calls, flowers. If you ever have to go through something like this, I hope you've got the support network I've had.

Before I start getting all sentimental and before I shut up, I guess I need to tell you what made this a profound experience for me. Just this: I felt I was in God's presence the entire time and I was buoyed up by the love and prayers of so many. For me, this was a faith building experience. If I could trust God to bring me through the unknown, I figured I could trust him with anything. One day soon, I'll forget most of what happened. Already details are lost; I can't tell you the names of my nurses or what movies I watched while in recovery at home. This is one way of remembering. I know down the road I'll need to remember when it comes time to invest a little of that faith and trust again.