To the Edge and Back Again

A long, long time ago...
I can still remember...How that music used to make me smile. ~ Don McLean

Around the end of 1992, I started having pains in my lower stomach. After a few weeks of self-diagnosis, and numerous over-the-counter medicines, I decided to go to a doctor.
It started out rather simple. A few pokes and prods, blood and urine tests. Then it moved to Ultrasounds, full-body MRIs, a Hysterosalpingogram (look it up)  and CT scans.
They found a tumor the size of a grapefruit on my left ovary.

My first thought shouldn't come as a surprise - my God I have cancer I'm going to die soon. I was expecting the doctors to tell me I needed immediate surgery, and that they would then ask me if I wanted chemo or to go the holistic route. Instead, they gave me some drugs and told me to go home and wait. Wait?!! For what? Til it got bigger? Went beyond hope of recovery?

Turns out, the drugs were to 'dry out' the tumor. Shrink it.
They worked. The day they asked me if I wanted to have it removed (no doc, let's leave it there and see if it blooms), it was down to the size of a large apple. Surgery was scheduled for 2 days later.

In early January, I was admitted for (what was suppose to be) surgery and a 3 day hospital stay. The night before I had burned diaries, called friends and family, and written letters to various people - just in case. My mom and husband were there. I wanted to say so much to them before I went in, but could see on their faces that any negative comment would bring out tears (they felt my fear). I told my mom to have fried green tomatoes and pinto beans ready for me when I came out. I told my husband he needed to make sure the dogs were fed for the day. They gave me a 'happy shot', and within a few minutes I had 'fallen in love' and made dinner plans with my anesthesiologist (a very handsome man) and was encouraging the nurses to sing Rocky Top with me.

When I woke up in the recovery room, there was a young girl sitting next to my bed crying. I tried to ask her if she were OK, and realized when I tried to speak nothing was coming out but guttural sounds. My throat felt like I had swallowed battery acid. I reached over and tapped her on the leg and pointed to a glass sitting on the table beside the bed and then my mouth. She poured me some water, and after drinking a few sips, I tried to speak again. Still nothing but grunts...and pain. The young girl, now blowing her nose and wiping tears off her face, said "Don't try to talk, it's just going to hurt." What? I didn't have surgery on my throat! They said it might be a little sore for a few hours, but...
I just started shaking my head back and forth and grunted some more. Thus it began...

Apparently, during intubation my throat was scratched. Enough so, that it was going to be more than the simple sore throat I expected. As I become more aware of everything, I started to notice a weird feeling in my left hand. It was like there was a tennis ball under my skin that was trying to move on it's own. I lifted the sheets and saw that my hand was swelling like a balloon! I 'grunted' out "my hand" and lifted it for the girl to see. "Oh my," was the response. Saline was leaking under my skin and my body couldn't absorb it fast enough. Ugh.

The early half of day one went well (ignoring the recovery room discoveries). No one had yet bothered to tell me if the tumor were benign, and at the time I didn't care. By afternoon I was in a private room, and was on a morphine drip and taking antibiotics orally (pills) and through  IV. Right after lunch I noticed a rash on my chest. Figured maybe something had been stuck on my chest during surgery for monitoring heart rate or something, so I ignored it. Awhile later, in between 'dozing' and wondering where I was on 'waking', I started to feel sick to my stomach and had a funny taste in my mouth. I buzzed a nurse and began to scribble to her (they gave me pad and pencil because...well) my issues. As I was writing, she had leaned over and pulled the sheets down from my chest and lowered the neck of my gown. Before I could even hand her my note, she turned and left the room. In a few minutes, 3 nurses came back into the room: "Check her chart." "Penicillin" "Medical gibberish allergy" Yay!!

That night, around 7ish (I'm guessing here) a nurse came in and said "we" needed to try to stand up. It took all I had in me just to raise myself up onto my elbows. The nurse was holding my arm and we eventually managed to get me sitting up and my legs off the side of the bed. The pain was so bad I felt I was going to pass out. I looked at her and grunted "Please, don't make me do this." The response was simple. "We have to." It was horrible. By the time I was standing, my entire body was shaking. I felt like I was standing in a freezer and was wanting to scream out loud. I finally had enough and told the nurse "This isn't right," and sat back down on the bed. She looked very unhappy.

The next morning, right after breakfast, they came in and removed the catheter. They gave me a small cup of weird looking, seed-like things and told me this would help my bowels to move. It seems after surgery, farting and a bowel movement are a big deal. I was told I couldn't go home until I had a bm.
They came in again right before lunch and removed my morphine drip. I almost begged them not to take it away from me. Tylenol 3 was going to be it's replacement. That wasn't gonna cut it. I was still in a lot of pain. They checked the site, charted oozing and swelling, and left.

Just before dinner it hit. I needed to go to the bathroom. I buzzed the nurse. I have no idea how long it actually took for me to get to the bathroom - maybe 10 minutes - but it felt like forever to me. Every step was like a knife being stuck in my stomach. I was sweating and shaking. Biting my lip to keep from yelling out. But...success.

During dinner, which I had no desire to even look at, the doc came in. The tumor was benign. I breathed a sigh of relief. No cancer. He looked at the site, mumbled a few words, and left. I slept fairly well through the night. Waking only a few times looking for the button to feed me my now absent morphine.

Early the next morning, the doc came in, looked at my chart and said "Are you ready to go home?" I asked if he meant today, and he smiled and asked if I wasn't happy about that. What? I didn't get it. I can barely walk, the pain is excruciating, this oozing won't go away and they're sending me home? I ask about the oozing. He tells me they may be able to do something about that. Oh really? Well isn't that nice. Would you like to tell me what's causing it?! At this point I decide it may be best if I do get out of here. A nurse comes in and gives me papers to sign for the check-out process. Another comes in and tells me they will be coming in soon to place a small tube in the site that will make it more convenient to take care of the oozing. Hmm, no one ever mentioned any of this being needed before I had surgery.

After lunch, a couple of nurses came in and put a small tube into the site, a painful and very odd-feeling adventure. I was given instructions as to what I was to look for - color changes, any additional pain (oh lawd, no, please) etc. Mom and the hubby showed up, and we started the waiting process.

I was home by 11 PM. I was exhausted. The moving from hospital bed, to wheelchair, to car, from car, to house, to bed...a journey through Hell. They had given me a prescription for a stronger pain pill, the name which escapes me at the moment, but only enough for 3 days as it is highly addictive. For the next 2-3 days I was flying high. In and out of sleep and into a fog when awake. No sense of time, but aware of my Mom bringing me food and drink. Walks through fire to go to the bathroom and wondering when it would start to get better.

The 5th day home, I was to go to my doctor and have the site checked. The pain still had not eased up, and the swelling was so bad the staples weren't even visible. While checking the site, the doc found a boil, then another, and another. In all there were 6 boils spread over my lower stomach and groin area - lucky me, staph. More pills, more pain. They removed the tube, gave me instructions on caring for the boils, and said to return in another 6 days.

Eventually I was able to walk without help. The swelling went down. The pain eased. The boils did what healing boils do. I left Mom's and went home.

I had the staples removed 6 days later. Another harrowing experience, as some had become so embedded in my skin as to require cutting them out. It would have been nice if I had been given some type of topical to ease the pain, but I had become so eager to have the ordeal over with, I didn't complain...much.

All in all, it was a nightmare. One that to this day makes me cringe to remember, and take hours to write about. But with all that happened, I would do it all again if the need arose. I have never asked what may have happened to me had I not had the tumor removed. I can only imagine it would have been a worse fate than what I was given.