I am home and recovering from my hip surgery. In a nutshell it went well, but out of the nutshell there were lots of details that made the experience harder than it needed to be.
Carl and I left for the hospital at 4:45am Wednesday morning, and Sonia came to our house to take care of getting the kids to school. I insisted on walking from the car to the surgical check-in even though it felt like a long and awkward trek. I knew it would be the last time I did such perambulation so relatively easily for a while. I was quickly taken on my own to a freezing-cold changing room with a small shared bathroom attached. The bathroom was the most awkwardly and oddly shaped room, with locks for each door that were not at all clear or intuitive about how to successfully lock them. I think they were different for each door. The support bar to hold if you needed it encroached on your sitting space. The toilet paper was up above and behind my head, because that is totally what makes sense for a bathroom being used by someone about to undergo surgery for who knows what physical limitations. I managed, but wondered how others would if they were shorter or had more limited movement than I did.
The nurse and her trainee came in to get me prepped for surgery. Noting how I was wrapped in a sheet on top of my gown she kept saying she would bring me a nice warm blanket. That did eventually happen, but I think it took 45 minutes. She also gave me deluxe mesh panties and a pad because – timing!- my period had just started. At least that meant they didn’t need to do a pregnancy test. But it did mean navigating that awkward bathroom again. A new person came to do some bloodwork and he was excellent. I didn’t feel any pain with the needle-stick. Then the original nurse tried to insert my IV port in my hand, noting that my veins were small but they needed a certain needle size to make the IV work. Her first attempt hurt but failed. She said she usually got it on the first try so if she didn’t then she wanted someone else to do the second attempt. I waited. The second person came in and tried a different vein, painfully but successfully. Still promises of a warm blanket to come but no actual blanket.
Next were injections in between my psoas and quadratus lumborum (deep core muscles) to help me not feel anything in my upper thigh for a couple of days. Think of it like novocaine shots prior to dental work, except the target is much deeper. Those injections were not pleasant, but at least when they were done Carl was able to join me and I finally got the warm blanket. Then the surgeon came by to sign his initials on my right hip. The last thing prior to my being taken away was deciding what to do with my glasses. Carl was keeping most of my stuff, but my bag of clothing was going to a locker and it was suggested that my glasses stay with my clothing, as if maybe I could get them sooner that way. I really can’t see without my glasses. Not that I needed to, but having everything be blurry added to the surreal out-of-control feeling.
I normally think that whatever life throws my way I could overcome with sheer force of will if I needed to. Surgery is always a humbling reminder that such a belief is a lie. I have no memory of the ride to the operating room. I vaguely remember the huge light fixtures. That’s it. The next thing I knew I was in the recovery room being told to stop moving my legs. Evidently my trying to move my legs so much was a sign that I was in a lot of pain.
Meanwhile, Carl was waiting in the surgical waiting area with the pager they had given him so he could be reached when I was out of surgery. Evidently they tried paging him three times and then called his cell phone so the doctor could talk to him. The pager had died. I don’t understand why they didn’t just use their voice to call his name, but perhaps that is an old-fashioned mode of communicating. Anyway, the surgeon told Carl that the surgery was a bit more involved than usual because of the angle of my femur neck (more vertical than usual) and that I had lost a lot of blood. They had a way of collecting what blood I lost and putting it back into me so I didn’t need a transfusion. However, note to self for if I have to have the left hip done in the future, I will donate my own blood for my own use if needed. I’m O negative which means I’m the universal donor, but it means I can only receive other O negative blood.
I was in the large, blurry recovery room for maybe 4 hours without Carl. I was in and out of sleep. I still had no glasses. They were waiting for a bed to open up of me to go to a hospital room to continue my recovery. They brought me some food, which was so bad I wondered how hard they worked to make it that bad. Clearly I have been spoiled by all of our trips to the Children’s Hospital which has food so good I would consider getting it as take-out. Bad food was still food though, so that was appreciated. The PT came to help me switch to a hospital bed. Since I felt lightheaded standing momentarily it was determined that I should stay the night at the hospital. That was disappointing even if it really was the right answer. Carl was eventually brought to me in the large recovery room, but had not been given my clothing and glasses as we had expected. Since it was finally time to move to a room we decided to wait for him to go find my stuff.
From my hospital room, Carl went to ask about my bag of clothing and glasses. While he was doing that, someone arrived with the bag. I felt stressed about how Carl would be fruitlessly searching and I had no way to reach him because he had my phone. Luckily all was sorted out and he returned in short order. And I could finally see! Just in time for the nurse on duty to check my incisions, which were glued from the inside and thus not covered, aside from a drainage port. As soon as I saw the incisions I burst into tears. If this was minimally invasive I hate to imagine what maximally invasive scars would look like. The nurse commented, “Oh, you’re crying… like a baby.” As Carl noted, that was when Jenny Bear emerged. I vouched for myself loud and clear that crying was a good thing and that I had just been through surgery. I mean!!! Her tone hadn’t been unkind, and she regrouped and brought me tissues and took good care of me overall, but it was not the greatest way to begin our nurse-patient relationship.
When I asked the nurse how it would work when I had to pee, she said I would just get up and do so. Ummm.. ??? I felt like I couldn’t move at all. Eventually this was put to the test and the nurse brought a commode next to my bed. An aide was brought in to assist me. A young male aide. Oh good. I know it shouldn’t matter, but that felt like an added challenge to any shreds of my modesty that might have remained. After helping me move he did leave the room, but the regular nurse was still there and then the surgeon’s nurse came in and was talking to me while I was peeing! While I was feeling increasingly lightheaded and nauseous as if I was going to pass out. I have no idea what she said. Why couldn’t she have waited five minutes?! She left. I was helped back into bed, each step of which was excruciatingly painful and impossible. Then the surgeon came in and talked to me while I was nearly falling asleep. Luckily Carl was there to actually listen because I have no idea what was said.
We made arrangements for Sonia to take over childcare from Anna, who had covered the afternoon and early evening. Carl brought dinner from Five Guys for us and then went home to be with the kids, who were quite disappointed that I wasn’t coming home as expected. He came back to the hospital as soon as the kids were on their way to school on Thursday. Wednesday night I was mostly miserable and so glad to be in the hospital. Every time I had to pee was excruciating and so hard. Imagine those dreams where you are trying to move and your body doesn’t respond to your commands. The aide or nurse would always step out to give me privacy. While, yes, I had wanted that from the surgeon’s nurse, in this case it was frustrating. They would tell me to press the button to summon them when I was done. I only needed a minute! Then I ended up waiting bare-butted and freezing while it seemed an eternity until they returned. I gradually learned that my shivering was due to muscle exertion more than cold, but that didn’t make it less shiverful.
At one point I was in so much pain I couldn’t sleep but I was scared to ask for oxycodine. I had the nurse come in. This was my nighttime nurse and was different from the first one. She didn’t bat an eye about my crying and just helped me by reassuring me that it was ok to take pain medication so soon after surgery. I slept a bit more, until it was time to check my vitals and my IV beeped. It was 4:30. My nurse said that at 5:30 she would be transferring me to a chair, so I opted to just stay awake. Luckily, after that first time when I thought I would pass out, the other times were slightly better each time. So moving to the chair was ok. Then a super-confident-radiating-mansplaining- energy cardiologist came in to tell me that I was prone to vasovagal responses. That means that when I get scared or upset to enough of a degree I can nearly or fully pass out. Yes. I don’t need a fancy name to tell me that. Nor do I need a label to make it seem more dire or serious than I think it is. For goodness sake! It was just after surgery!! Meeting that person did reaffirm how little I have to deal with that kind of toxic overconfidence in my usual life.
The surgeon and his nurse came to check on me at 6:30, probably before he went into surgery with other people. I’m glad they checked on me, but wish the timing could have been later so Carl would have been back.
I know this probably sounds like a lot of negative details. It was hard. Super hard. But overall everyone was kind and helpful, and I am safely at home now. Sonia, my mom, and Carl have been taking care of things around the house while helping me move to and from the bathroom with a walker. I can now even get in and out of bed or the sofa by myself. I have to have help to do PT three times a day because there are some moves that my muscles just can’t do, even though they strain and burn at the attempt. My leg is slowly going back to it’s normal size. The kids help bring my walker or other requested items, and Sarah once tried to help push my walker along.
Yesterday Sarah witnessed my PT attempts and tears at how hard all of this feels sometimes. She then got quite upset and sad for a couple of hours. I will try to shield the kids more from my upsets with this because I think it is hard enough to have me so unavailable to help them like normal and so helpless on my own. Later in the day Sarah did my PT with me and both of us were in better emotional shape. She likes to give me chin presses and kisses while I am on the sofa, which is very sweet.
Each day I get a bit more capable. Yesterday I even managed a shower. But everything is hard and a trip to the bathroom or up or down the stairs is exhausting. Nighttimes are harder than daytimes, perhaps because I’m expecting myself to sleep peacefully but am more aware of aches and pains. So while I know each day is monumentally better than the previous one, this still feels daunting and like I have a long road ahead of me.
I’m no longer needing the oxycodine and will dispose of it responsibly once I’m really sure I’m done with it. I’m still taking Tylenol and baby aspirin and using an ice pack.
I hear my heartbeat in my right ear often, but usually after some effort. I hope that sensation will go away.
Friday was my shared birthday with Amy. She had a great day. I did not. But Carl collected wonderful input from people about their memories of me or reasons why they love me. That was a really wonderful present that he gave me the night I was in the hospital. I kept not being able to see the words as they blurred with my tears of feeling so seen and appreciated. So a huge thank you to any of you who contributed.
Last night we watched Turning Red, which is a wonderful Disney cartoon movie about becoming a teenager and how parents and teens have their relationships change. We all loved it. Sarah likes to pretend she is turning into a giant red panda. Amy likes to pretend she turns into a fluffy black kitten.
Thank you all for your well-wishes, prayers, and support during this time. It all means a lot and really does help.
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