It's nothing like sleep, but it feels like it should be. One moment someone is telling you to "hop" from your hospital bed to the metal table, and the next moment you're somewhere else and despite the quiet atmosphere and the dim lighting you feel full of chaos. I'm a pretty flexible person. I can change a lesson plan in five seconds if I have to, I can think of another way to get somewhere in about five minutes, and when I make a mistake during a conversation I don't waste time pretending it didn't happen. I go with the flow--it's the most efficient way to do things.
But I felt incapable of going with the flow. There was no flow.
I woke up feeling extremely irritated that I was sleeping on my back. I hate sleeping my back. Actually. to be more accurate, I can't sleep on my back. I wake up. Like every two minutes. But I was in this stupid hospital bed with a stupid mask on my face and it didn't fit right so every time I breathed a puff of air went into my eyes.
I thought, "Maybe I can roll over." I kept looking down at my arms, realized I didn't have my glasses or contacts, noticed there were giant pillows under each arm, and fell back asleep. There was a nurse to my right, and I could hear her say they couldn't find my husband.
This news caused my achy, sore body to be filled with rage. Where had Joey gone? Didn't he know I was in surgery? He was actually there in the waiting room, but had his headphones in and didn't notice anyone calling his name. But I didn't know that. I didn't know anything. I was just busy trying to find the flow so I could go with it, but it couldn't be found. So I just stayed mad, and remembered I was still trying to sleep on my back, and got even more mad.
It felt like I was laying there forever, and I wanted to talk, but I couldn't. So I groaned, like a grumpy old man. I would wiggle my feet around and hated that they were touching the curtain at the edge of the room. There was a guy in the bed next to me, and if I turned my head I could see that he wasn't wearing an oxygen mask, and that pissed me off even more. So I just kept wiggling around and groaning and trying to wake myself up enough to get that stupid mask off my face, and kept angrily glancing at the man in the bed next to me until he seemed to stare right back with just as much venom.
When the nurse removed the oxygen mask my rage and fury subsided. A male nurse with beautiful brown skin suddenly appeared at my side, wheeled me down to the recovery room and then disappeared just as quickly. I felt fuzzy and sore all over, kind of happy, and kind of confused.
Another nurse helped me out of the bed and into a fancy chair, all the while saying, "Oh, your hair is so pretty!" and I wanted to tell her I dyed it, but couldn't remember the words. I felt dizzy, and as I scooched from the bed to the chair I realized once again that I was wearing a gown and everyone could see my bum--except now they could also see the weird post-surgery underwear that had someone gotten onto my body. I ignored how terrifying and humiliating that was and sat in the chair where I immediately curled my legs up in front of me and asked for some water.
At some point, Joey appeared, carrying my purse and coat and my bag of "comfortable clothes." He gave me my glasses and a kiss and fluffed the pillow behind my head, and informed me that he'd called my parents to let them know I was okay. My first sip of water was next--it felt like acid. My throat was so sore from the breathing tube, but it was my first food or water in 17 hours and I was parched.
I remember talking, but don't remember the words. I remember my nurse asking me over and over again if I wanted any food or juice. Another nurse hooked me up to some fluid because, "Yes, doctor wants her to empty her bladder before she goes home."
My apple juice smelled like bananas, and also felt like acid. Why was everything refrigerated? Why can't I have room temperature juice? Nurse #1 kept pestering me about food. "We have pretzels, and cookies. Chocolate chip? We have Lorna Doone cookies!"
I said "okay" because I felt a little like I'd found the flow. The flow is being forced to drink apple-banana juice (kind of like onion banana juice, eh, ATLA friends?) and eat Lorna Doone cookies. My only problem was that I had no recollection of Lorna Doone but some part of my brain hoped whoever she was made cookies that were similar to ice cream, or maybe french fries.
I remember talking, but don't remember the words. I remember my nurse asking me over and over again if I wanted any food or juice. Another nurse hooked me up to some fluid because, "Yes, doctor wants her to empty her bladder before she goes home."
My apple juice smelled like bananas, and also felt like acid. Why was everything refrigerated? Why can't I have room temperature juice? Nurse #1 kept pestering me about food. "We have pretzels, and cookies. Chocolate chip? We have Lorna Doone cookies!"
I said "okay" because I felt a little like I'd found the flow. The flow is being forced to drink apple-banana juice (kind of like onion banana juice, eh, ATLA friends?) and eat Lorna Doone cookies. My only problem was that I had no recollection of Lorna Doone but some part of my brain hoped whoever she was made cookies that were similar to ice cream, or maybe french fries.
They were shortbread cookies. They tasted fine but they felt like wood chips.
And then, as if a heater had just clicked on overhead, my entire body flooded with warmth and I needed to pee--now. Thus began the adventure of the supervised bathroom trip. That morning when I'd first gotten to the pre-op area I'd noticed there was a curtain in the bathroom, and I thought--well, must be nice, for the elderly or people who just had foot surgery or something. There was a sign on the door explaining our safety was more important than our privacy.
Nurse #2 showed me some compassion and put a secondary gown on my back so that the world did not see my bum, and allowed me to take her arm as I hobbled to the bathroom and she held my IV bag. Once in the bathroom she hung it up on the wall hook, pulled the curtain, and left me there with the toilet containing two plastic measuring receptacles.
I will not tell you anything more about the bathroom, except this: As we hobbled back to my fancy chair Nurse #2 called out to Nurse #1, "She did it! Almost 300 milligrams!"
I passed the pee test, and there was much rejoicing.
It became clear to me that whatever I thought was normal, whatever I thought "going with the flow" was, it didn't exist for post-surgery Katie. Post-surgery Katie would have walked down the hallway by herself and shown her bum to the world, if they had let her. Post-surgery Katie (who was called Katherine all day, just for the record) didn't care about the curtain in the bathroom or glaring at the man in the other bed.
As we left the hospital I couldn't help but feel absolutely fearless. I couldn't help but be impatient, to make my follow-up appointment, to find out the results, to see what the next step would be, to turn into something greater. I couldn't help but feel like I was a brand new person. I had left that other woman on the metal table. Her chaos had followed me into waking but I left that behind too.
New day. New person. Time to find a new flow.
And then, as if a heater had just clicked on overhead, my entire body flooded with warmth and I needed to pee--now. Thus began the adventure of the supervised bathroom trip. That morning when I'd first gotten to the pre-op area I'd noticed there was a curtain in the bathroom, and I thought--well, must be nice, for the elderly or people who just had foot surgery or something. There was a sign on the door explaining our safety was more important than our privacy.
Nurse #2 showed me some compassion and put a secondary gown on my back so that the world did not see my bum, and allowed me to take her arm as I hobbled to the bathroom and she held my IV bag. Once in the bathroom she hung it up on the wall hook, pulled the curtain, and left me there with the toilet containing two plastic measuring receptacles.
I will not tell you anything more about the bathroom, except this: As we hobbled back to my fancy chair Nurse #2 called out to Nurse #1, "She did it! Almost 300 milligrams!"
I passed the pee test, and there was much rejoicing.
It became clear to me that whatever I thought was normal, whatever I thought "going with the flow" was, it didn't exist for post-surgery Katie. Post-surgery Katie would have walked down the hallway by herself and shown her bum to the world, if they had let her. Post-surgery Katie (who was called Katherine all day, just for the record) didn't care about the curtain in the bathroom or glaring at the man in the other bed.
As we left the hospital I couldn't help but feel absolutely fearless. I couldn't help but be impatient, to make my follow-up appointment, to find out the results, to see what the next step would be, to turn into something greater. I couldn't help but feel like I was a brand new person. I had left that other woman on the metal table. Her chaos had followed me into waking but I left that behind too.
New day. New person. Time to find a new flow.
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