“Brenna. Brenna? How are you feeling?”
I’m moving. Why am I moving? I open my eyes and the ceiling rolls by. I blink. Everything is fuzzy. Why can’t I see?
“Brenna, you doing okay? Brenna?”
Ugh. I don’t like this. Let me sleep.
“You’re doing great. How ya feelin’?”
Sheesh! I don’t know who is talking to me but they won’t shut up. Apparently I need to answer them. I do a quick scan of myself to see how I’m doing. Oh boy. I don’t feel so good.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Let’s get her a bowl.”
A few seconds later my stomach churns and I vomit into a small, pink, jellybean shaped bowl. My vision is fuzzy but I can discern that what comes out of me is gray and foamy liquid. Yuck.
Someone wipes my mouth and gives me a small sip of water. Who are these people? Why can’t I see anyone?
“I need my glasses. Where are they?”
“Oh, I’m surprised you noticed. They’re in the OR. We’ll send someone down to get them.”
Too right you will, I can’t see! Who are you anyway? Why are you so annoying? Stop talking to me. I close my eyes. Voices swirl around me. It’s dark and my stomach is really queasy. I’m not in any pain but I’m exhausted. More tired than I can ever remember feeling. I don’t sleep, but I shut my eyes. I don’t know how much time passes, but soon L. and my mother-in-law are there. I’m so glad he’s here. I hated being alone. I open my mouth to tell him this,
“What time is it? Did I win my fantasy football game?”
Oops. So much for love conquering all. I have my priorities. L. laughs and strokes my head.
“It’s about 12:30 and yes, you won.”
Phew! Next up, love for my husband. I missed him so much,
“Where are my glasses?”
Damn. Sorry, honey. Just a few more things to get settled here.
My glasses are finally placed on my head and I open my eyes to look around. I am in a recovery room and it is very dark. I can’t see much, only a desk farther away. I try to look around but from what I can tell, there don’t seem to be any other patients in the room. I guess it really is late.
For the next several hours I nod on and off, waking to the sounds and sensations of various doctors and nurses examining me. Around 4:00 I am told my room is available and I am to be moved. Once again I am rolled down the hall and into the elevator. The floor is very quiet and I am put into a private room because of the high amount of care and monitoring I will need. At this point, L. goes home to sleep and my mother-in-law stays with me overnight.
I sleep, but not well, as I am woken every 45-60 minutes for monitoring. As my awareness continues to grow, I realize I’m attached to an alarming number of machines: I have oxygen in my nose, blood pressure cuff on my arm, oxygen and heart rate monitor on my finger, three separate IV’s, ultrasound wires in my breasts, seven surgical drains, a urinary catheter, and compression pumps on my legs. Additionally I also have a surgical bra on my chest, a compression wrap on my stomach, a hospital gown, and a gigantic pile of blankets.
The blankets. They are the worst! I am so hot. I keep asking the nurses not to cover me, but they simply move the blankets down slightly to below my waist. My legs are so warm, I beg the nurse to turn down the thermostat. After repeated requests they finally take away all the blankets. I’m still hot, but at least it’s tolerable. I look over at my mother-in-law. She’s shivering, wrapped in a turtleneck, sweater, and blanket. I tell her we can put the thermostat back up but she waves me away, insisting (through chattering teeth) that she’s fine. Hmmm…
Morning rolls around and it’s breakfast time! Thanks to the massive amount of anesthesia I had, I am not hungry in the slightest. Despite that, a fully bevy of delicious clear liquids are brought to me: juice, broth, a slushy, water, and tea. Oh boy. I don’t want any of it but am told I really should try to have something. I sip a bit of the broth and have a few mouthfuls of juice before giving up.
Morning rounds are beginning and the nurses and doctors start to visit in droves. First, my morning nurse comes in and I am relieved of the IV in my right arm. As she removes it, I give a little jerk of surprise as I look at my arms for the first time. Both of them are so swollen that they are perfectly smooth. No ridges at my knuckles, creases in my palms, or visible veins. They are huge! I flex my fingers experimentally and find it is impossible to make a fist. The nurse also begins to empty my drains. The drains are long tubes inserted into the incision areas and used to drain excess fluid that builds up. Each tube is attached to small plastic bulb, about the size of a tennis ball, that has a spout for emptying the liquid. I don’t look, as it makes me a bit queasy, but I can hear an alarming about of fluid splashing into each cup as she empties them.
Next up are the residents. Hospital care is never relegated to just your primary doctor. Oh no. Each and every one of his residents comes to see you. I hear a cheery greeting and open my eyes to see…a living and breathing Ken doll. Honestly. The man could not be more stunning. It’s the kind of beauty that really shouldn’t be allowed all for one person.
“Good morning Brenna! I’m here to check up on you and see how you’re doing.”
Holy cow. You are so beautiful. Are you real?
“Hi (Ken doll)! I’m doing pretty well, thanks. A little pain but they’re managing it well.”
“Excellent. Well I’m going to open your gown and take a look at everything, okay?”
NO it’s not okay! Why does Ken doll get to look at my chopped up breasts? How is this fair? Why aren’t you old and ugly?
“Sure, no problem!”
Dr. Ken gives me a full exam, says I’m doing great, and heads out. 45 minutes later, can you guess who walks in? Yup. Dr. Barbie.
“Hi Brenna! I’m Dr. Barbie, one of Dr. D’s residents. I’m here to check up on you.”
Of course you are. You and your perky breasts.
“Good morning, nice to meet you.”
“Okay if I take a look?”
Sure. Admire the Franken-Brenna. Don’t take too long, though. I think Dr. Ken is waiting outside in your pink convertible.
“Sure, no problem!”
In and out the doctors flow. All day. All the time. There is never a moment to deeply rest so I manage it in small snatches of time for 20-30 minutes. Late morning arrives and Dr. D. comes to visit. He explains more about the ultrasound wires that are in my breasts. The wires are very thin and are attached to two boxes that can register sound and stations. Each wire has been inserted into a blood vessel inside my breast. When the box is turned on, the sound of the vessel’s blood flow is projected through the speaker. The doctor listens to make sure the blood is pumping strongly and consistently, which tells him the vessels are healthy and surviving the transplant (these are the vessels that were harvested from my abdomen and thighs). There are 4 wires in total and each must be checked every 60 minutes for the first two days. So far, thankfully, everything seems to be going according to plan.
Later that afternoon a familiar voice reappears.
“Brenna! How ya’ feelin?”
It’s my annoying mystery voice from the recovery room. Apparently it belonged to Dr. R. who assisted Dr. D. during surgery.
“You look like you’re doing well! We’re going to get you out of bed today in a bit.”
Like hell you are.
“Excuse me?”
“The biggest concern after major surgery is blood clots. That’s why you have those pumps on your legs. The best thing that can be done, however, is getting up and walking around. That will really fix the majority of the risk. So we’ll get you up for a walk in a bit and see how you do!”
I really don’t like this man. He’s definitely on my hit list. Get out of bed?! I can barely move and am attached to 75 pieces of equipment. Not to mention I’ve been cut open and sewn up in four different places. Despite this, however, it seems that I truly must get up. The nurse detaches most of the equipment, pins my drain tubes to my gown, and raises the back of the hospital bed so I am almost upright. I am told I will get out of bed and go for a short walk down the hall and back.
Okay. I can do this. I start to scoot my legs to the left side of the bed. The moment they move, I feel excruciating, agonizing, pulling in my thigh sutures. Oh. My. God. I try again and it’s worse. I don’t stop, though, for fear of giving up. My right arm is useless, but I brace myself up with my left arm and edge further towards the side of the bed. It is so hard to move I’m starting to shake and my stitches scream in protest with each movement. I feel as if I am ripping myself in two. Breathe. One more scoot. I’m up! Well, sort of. My feet are on the ground but my abdomen sutures are so tight I cannot stand upright. I am hunched over at a 45 degree angle and that is the best I can hope for.
I begin the perilous walk to the door, approximately 8 feet away. The nurse cautions me to slow down but I’ll be damned if I listen to any of these sadists. The sooner I finish this walk the sooner I can lay back down. I make it to the door and take a left outside. This is so hard. I stop because I am dizzy and notice the top of my head is wet. Puzzled, I look to the floor and see several wet spots. I realize I have broken out in a complete head to toe sweat. I am sweating so profusely it is dripping onto the floor. I don’t think I’ll be running any marathons just now.
A nurse outside takes one look at my white, sweaty face and says, “Uh, okay that’s enough for you today! Back to bed now!” Her brow creases with worry and I hobble to my bed. Getting into bed is just as bad as getting out and by the time I am laying down again my muscles are spasming involuntarily throughout my body. My stomach twitches and contracts violently and I cannot get my legs to stop kicking. Eventually a compassionate nurse gives me Valium, but the spasms pick right back up each time I have to move.
Lunch is delivered at this point and, once again, I haven’t the slightest desire to eat. I grudgingly sip down more juice and broth, but it’s an increasing inconvenience. Part of the problem is, between the IV fluids and liquid meals, I have to pee every 15-20 minutes. The catheter was taken out this morning so now I’m tasked with going on my own. I never really thought about how all of that worked, except after my walk the nurses and I agree that getting out of bed every 15 minutes to urinate is not going to be practical or healthy for me. The solution? A bed pan.
I knew nothing of bed pans before this hospital stay. I thought they were for old people and not used very often. Unfortunately I am now a bed pan expert. I learn how to roll on my side, have it slid under me, how to raise the bed to the right angle, how to pee slowly to avoid spilling, and how to wipe without missing anything (this is harder than normal because my thighs are completely numb). My bladder muscles are confused and each time I have to go it takes me 5-10 minutes to activate the muscles properly. It is frustrating because I can feel that I have to go, but cannot make myself. I have to go so often that L., bless his heart, learns how to help and begins changing my bed pans. As I roll to the side for the 40th time and he pulls the bed pan out, I think back to our first date when I spent hours getting ready, wanting so badly to be pretty for him. How things have changed!
Here, L. does an excellent reenactment of me with a bed pan:
Over the next four days I am moved to two different rooms, both of which I must share with another female. I am lucky each time as I’m by the window, which I appreciate. My roommates are quiet and courteous. We say hello in passing but mostly keep to ourselves. L. is able to stay with me all the nights but one. The third night of my stay there are no recliners for him and we both realize he is miserable sitting in a hard-backed chair. I promise him I am okay and tell him to go home to rest.
One of my favorite shows, Survivor, is on at 8:00 and I am determined to watch it. By 7:15 I’m fighting sleep but force myself to hang in there. I make it through the show but when it ends I cry because I realize I was too tired to understand what happened. It is the first time I have become upset about anything here and I find it funny that it’s over a reality TV show. I wonder if perhaps it’s because I am not ready to deal with anything more serious.
I wake later that night in the dark, with the green light from my heart machine softly lighting the room. It’s as quiet as a hospital room can be and I find a sense of contentment in the peacefulness of the moment. My pain medicine has kicked in and I feel fuzzy, warm, and comfortable. It is the first time I am awake and alone since the surgery. I look down at myself and wonder how I got here. Why I am in this place. All the things that led me here. I wonder what day of my life was the first day my cells divided too quickly. I wonder what I would have told myself if I knew what was coming. I struggle with the very real feeling that all of this is not real and somehow I have been misdiagnosed and over treated. I still can’t quite believe this is happening to me.
I pick up my phone and struggle to turn it on with my fat, swollen fingers. I scroll through the website dedicated to insomniacs: Facebook. Oh. Another friend has announced her pregnancy. I feel an acute pang of joy and deep pain as I read this. In the past year, 37 of my friends (yes, I counted) have either had a baby or are expecting one. I thought L. and I would be among the ranks but here I lie instead, alone in a hospital bed. Having children now or even in the near future is as impractical as moving to the moon. It hurts my heart. I know someday we will, but that “someday” is so far in the future and so abstract that it’s not remotely real to me.
I drift to sleep on this thought. In the morning I wake, wondering if I will still feel sad. I am pleased that I do not. As always tends to happen with the sun, things seem much brighter. L. is back, full of kisses, reports on the pets, and foot massages. I have visitors on the way, I haven’t seen Dr. Ken or Dr. Barbie in hours (they’re probably in their dream house), and I’m up for a walk! No one can stop me now. Screw you, cancer. I’m gonna get this:
sweaterbunnies 