Nine Hours in the OR
Back to Tuesday, May 2nd.
I don’t remember much of my pre-op experience. The anesthesiologist told me he was going to give me something to help me relax before they put me to sleep. I hadn’t stopped crying since I said ‘goodbye’ to my husband and I’m sure they needed me to knock that off.
The meds were was effective, so they said. I personally don’t recall much. Did you know they also give you something via IV that makes you forget those pre-surgical moments?
Seriously … I remember getting on the table, hearing the anesthesiologist explain he was going to give me something to relax … then the next thing I remember is coming out of this dream, begging them not to wake me up, telling them I wasn’t ready, then feeling this horrible scraping in my throat, like they were pulling my guts up through my esophagus. I wanted to wretch but was not yet able to move. I realized after two other surgeries that I’d been intubated and they had to pull that tube out. I also realized it would be a while before the messages I heard in my brain were actually communicated to the rest of my body.
Things happen very quickly post-op. While still in a fog I was wheeled to a recovery area. I still couldn’t move, I thought at first that was medication related. I didn’t realize it was also self-preservation; even the slightest movement would cause such tremendous pain that my brain wouldn’t allow it.
I could barely open my eyes. They were dried out after being closed for so long. I needed Visine. My own was on my bedside table, had been ever since the Tamoxifen started causing my eyes to dry out each night. Now I just had to explain that to someone and that was challenging.
My husband was by my side almost immediately. I later found out my sense of time was way off (yours would be too if you were operated on for so many hours) and I’d actually been in and out of sleep post-op for quite a while before he was allowed to see me.
He scrambled to try to get me Visine but it wasn’t easy without leaving my side. My best friend had some in her purse, but she wasn’t allowed in to see me, and he was hesitant to leave me.
I was doing “as expected” according to the medical staff, but my husband says I was in horrible shape. Of course, he was emotionally wrought after such a long day in the waiting room. And I … I kept saying I seriously felt as if I’d been hit by a train. (I know, it’s cliche — it was all I could muster up under the circumstances. Now, all the times I’d said that exact phrase seemed ridiculously over exaggerated. This was the real deal. I felt as though I was hit by an Amtrak Acela that didn’t slow down for a minute before smashing my unexpecting body into bits.)
I’d later hear from my surgeon that if train wreck victims could be so lucky they’d come out like me. But I was thinking the ones that died? They got the better end of the deal. They didn’t have to experience this type of excruciating pain any longer.
Breast Cancer, Surgery, Mastectomy
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