Friday, August 28, 2009
Okay. After a week of being mother-henned to the brink of insanity by Cheyenne (my 9-year-old daughter), I think I'm somewhat ready to dive right back into this blogging thing. I decided to warm up with the account of my experience on Monday. If that bores you, go read the frickin' HuffPo or DailyKos. If you truly love me, you'll continue reading. :-D
I was scheduled to have endometrial ablation done for excessive monthly bleeding, and was told to be at the outpatient surgical unit of the local hospital at 8:30 a.m. So far, so good. None of that having to be there at an ungodly hour crap. Of course, as with all surgery, I was to have nothing to eat or drink after midnight the night before (What am I? A gremlin?). This was the one morning my inconsiderate bastard of a husband decided to stop at McDonald's for breakfast for himself. Gee...thanks for eating your sausage egg McMuffin in front of me, asswipe. Anyway, I decided to make a restroom stop.
I did what I needed to do before heading out to the car and continuing what was going to be a long day. While washing my hands, a mom with two young kids decided she needed to go and left her spawn right outside her stall door. Well, the kids decided playing with the hand dryer was the activity of the moment. She yells out, "What did we discuss about wasting energy? It's bad for the earth!" Oh goody. Trapped with an environmental wacko in a McDonald's bathroom. Not a great start to the day. I should've seen it as an omen of things to come.
We get to the hospital and get registered. Not long after, I get called back into the pre-op holding area. The endless paperwork passed some time, but I was just anxious to get this over with. All I could keep thinking was "Hurry up! I don't want anymore periods!" They call the hubby back to wait until they took me up to the surgical floor. Had all of us who hadn't had anything since midnight been able to get up and beat him, we would've. He's walking over to my gurney sucking down a bladder-buster sized Diet Coke. Prick.
About 1 p.m., they call for me to be taken up to surgical. Yippee!!! One step closer to relief from a monthly hell. More paperwork and questions from the anesthesiologist. Then...it was time.
All I remember was seeing my doctor scrubbing in and making idle chatter before the lights went out. It was the sleep of the dead.
I awoke in post-op anesthesia feeling pretty groggy, but that was what I expected. I also expected some cramping, but never did I foresee what I got. The throes of childbirth were nothing compared to this pain, and I made sure every nurse in post-op knew it. The mad scramble for pain relief began.
An older nurse came over with two Vicodin and some ginger ale. Down the hatch. Five minutes later, she's asking me to rate my pain on a scale from 1 to 10. "Eight! It's fucking eight!" On to the next medication.
Into my IV went a dose of fentanyl. For those of you not familiar with this wonderful gift from God, it is an opiod 80 times more potent than morphine. Sweet relief came in seconds....and lasted for what seemed like 10 minutes. The pain started again. Pain rating? Still an 8. Dose #2 of fentanyl coming right up. This time, the nurse asks me to rate my pain shortly after giving me the second dose. Of course, at that time, I said "Five. Solid five." Then it wore off again. Back to writhing in pain until a third dose could be put in. Third time's a charm, right? WRONG! Stoned and in pain, I started to cry.
They decided to move me back down to the short stay unit (basically outpatient surgery) being that I was probably getting pretty hard to handle by the nurses in post-op. Excruciating pain tends to make me bitchy. The nurses in short stay decided to call in the big guns: Motrin. HAH!! With expletives still flying, they decide to get my doctor on the phone.
By this time, I'm dry heaving because there's nothing to throw up and the pain is unbearable. My husband, trying to do what he thought was going to be helpful, decided to stand next to my gurney and tell me to relax. "It can't be that bad." I did the only thing I knew to do at the time for such a stupid statement. I reached over, grabbed him by the twins, and squeezed as hard as I could while I gave them a slight twist. At least he understood the pain level I was at and knew not to open his piehole again.
The nurse came over and asked my pain level once again. "TEN," I replied. From that point on, I was in and out of consciousness from the pain. When I started passing out, that's when my doctor decided to keep me overnight for pain management. THANK GOD!!! At least someone was taking me seriously and cared enough to really do something about the pain. I will insist that my first grandchild be named after that man even if I get a granddaughter.
Up in my room, the wonderful world of pharmaceuticals awaited. I was given a cocktail of morphine and toradol, an amped up version of Motrin. This time, the relief stayed, and I slept as much as the vital checks and medication sessions allowed. The next morning, all was right with the world.
Thanks to everyone who kept me in their thoughts and prayers. I hope yinz realize that when we women are in agony, just please shut up! Ask my hubby; I really think he'd agree with that advice.