Whew...it's been a long time. 3 months almost. This year has gone by incredibly fast. Ironically, the reason I haven't been posting is related to my health, but that's another story completely.
So here goes...
I woke up, back in the ICU, only this time a different room, smaller.
The first three things I did with my new life were: feel the extreme urge to piss, feel extreme anger at the surgeon for lying to me about the anesthesia, and feel thirstier than a deserted traveler in the desert after 4 weeks of walking and maybe this person ate a bit of sand, too. Also, dirt, and cactus barbs for good measure.
I don't remember feeling any pain. I wasn't breathing on my own, and what a peculiar feeling it is to have your chest moving up and down with the expansion of your lungs, and to not be doing it yourself. The machine made breathing noises, even.
I couldn't see very well those first few hours after I woke up. I slipped in and out of consciousness, and it's like a dream even now. The sound of suction as my family slurped the saliva I wasn't able to swallow out of my face with a spit vacuum like they use in dentists offices.
My mom's face above me, my dad and amy and my sister, nurses, doctors, everyone looking down on me as if I weren't quite part of their world yet, but definitely not part of the world I'd known before.
There was a small ball in my hand, with a button, and the ball was secured to my hand with tape and fasteners. Michelle, my nurse explained to me during one of my bouts of alertness, that if I felt pain I only had to press the button, and a dose of pain medicine would be delivered to me. I did it before she stopped talking, and a satisfying beeping noise was predecessor to my passing out.
I pressed that button a shit ton those first 24 hours. It was only later that I learned it only delivered pain medicine in controlled doses over several hours, and that the button was shown to increase recovery time by empowering the patient.
Interesting.
What must have been, I would guess, about the 23rd hour out of surgery, it was time to take out the breathing tube. "This isn't going to feel very good, but it's a positive step forward in your recovery. We are going to count to three and on three you have to cough as hard as you can, and we'll pull out the tube. You'll feel a lot of pressure, but it's okay."
everyone knows that "lot of pressure" means pain.
And it was painful.
On three, I coughed as hard as I could, which was more akin to a mouse whisper than a "cough". They tugged the tube out hard and fast, ripping the sides of my esophagus. I could taste the blood in my throat, and I screamed my newborn scream, loud, long, satisfyingly intense and horrifyingly real. The only thing missing, really, was the doctor slapping my ass and handing me to my mommy.
But, I could breathe. On my own, laying down, no puking involved. Without the loud noises the machine made while breathing for me, I was able to hear the slow, steady beating of my new heart. The healthy and strong way it moved my body while it beat, ready to go, ready to support my youthful endeavors. It got a second chance, too, you know. It got scared shitless when it thought it might die in that girl, and now here it was, being alive, eager to prove it's worthiness and dedication.
"I want to talk to the surgeon"...those were my first words.
The more I woke up, the less pain medicine they allowed me, the more real my experience became. I was so fucking thirsty. Worse than I could ever possibly explain. It had been over 48 hours since my last drink, with the immunosuppressants the night of my surgery admission. I was hydrated from IV drips, but my mouth was desperate and my lips were chapped and cracking.
I begged, cried, squealed for water. "Please, give me water" but all that was allowed were these tiny little sponges, flavored like cotton candy and bubblegum. I think there was a nasty cherry flavored one, too. They were only as big as a nickel,
and held about 6 drips from a faucet of water. It was worse than just being thirsty. It was torturous.
I convinced my Grandma (rest her soul), in my raspy broken voice, to break the rules when no one else was around. To refill the sponge over and over, and after several refills, it resembled something like a drink of liquid.
It was time to sit up now. Maybe halfway through the second day in ICU. The bed was slowly raised to allow me to sit up. Excruciatingly painful, it felt as if my insides would burst through my chest.
But I was sitting up, and after a bit more pain medicine, I was ready to see Dr. Behrendt, my surgeon.
Here he is:
And while we're at it...my transplant doctor who took care of me before and after my transplant until 2004, Dr. Edens:
Dr. Behrendt walked into the room with a swarm of busy bumble bee students. He was very jolly acting, excited to see my remarkable progress. He just thought I wanted to thank him. His face was very...irritated, when I accused him. I said in these words, or close to them "I want to tell you something. You lied to me. I'm very upset with you, you told me you would let me know when you were putting me to sleep, and I don't remember that happening. I remember them telling me they were putting oxygen on my face, and then I woke up here. I could have died, and the last words I ever would have heard, would have been a lie."
He was completely dumbfounded. He apologized, and I was silent as he awkwardly backed out of the room, with a look mixed with annoyance, shame, and frustration. Mostly annoyance though...because he probably thought I was an ungrateful little bitch.
Which I realize now, I kind of was. My heart didn't magically insert itself into my chest, this man, this stranger had taken 7-8 hours of his time to calmly, patiently, and lovingly (seriously, look at the amazing job he did on my scar, or lack thereof) make my life better. I didn't even say thank you.
I also realize now that I could have fallen asleep on my own from the pre-sedative, or I could just not remember them telling me, or might not have heard the words clearly through all my anxiety and crying. I feel kind of bad. Maybe I should write him a letter.
Anyway. I was sitting up. Next hurdle: learning to walk. Next time, on day's of my life.
<3
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