The day started off at 7:30 am with a dozy hug from Dad and a request to "give them hell, kid!"
Then a warm shower, a brush of teeth, pull the hair back into a tail. Getting dressed: clean underwear, check, clean bra, check, clean jeans, check, clean shirt, check, clean socks with flowers on that matches the shirt, coincidence, but check.
A remaking of the bed: clean sheets, clean blankets, clean comforter. All set for when I return home.
Then the meds: Digoxin and Carvidilol only this morning, last sip of water to swallow the pills down. The last drink I will have for the day.
Final check of the overnight bag. Done. Ready to go. Try not to think about being nervous.
Out the door, into the car, and off to McDonald's so Mom can have a breakfast sandwich. Very slow fast food this morning, worrying I'm going to be late. Then to Dunkin' Donuts for Mom's coffee. The smell of my favorite morning beverage driving me mad on the short trip to the hospital.
Running late; arrive at offices at 9:15, appointment was for 9:00, to check in. Sit down and wait. Sign papers to charge my insurance company, sit and wait. Sit in waiting room and try to pay attention to Mom's conversation, wait. People around me gabbing and drinking coffee and eating greasy smelling food. Wait. Hungry, so hungry, but I cannot eat.
I wait.
Finally moved to short stay ward. Stripped naked, put on a johnnie. 2 IV's in left arm. Now 11:30... I wait.
Meet Doctor, nice guy. "We'll be ready for you soon." Not long now. I wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Near tears with worry and frustration. I want this to be over.
I wait.
I try to make casual conversation with Mom, but am too nervous to fully focus on what she is saying.
I wait.
Food cart is pushed by; the smell makes my stomach growl.
I wait.
2pm. Kris, the anesthesiologist, urges me to use bathroom one last time. I go. I get a ride into the operating room. Everyone in the hall turns to watch me go by. I feel like a Thanksgiving float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.
Operating room: cold, sterile, large computer screens, bright lights. Four women including Kris bustle around me preparing. Two help me shimmy onto the operating table and cage me in so that I don't roll off. The table is narrow and hard, only two inches of foam and plastic separate me from the hard metal underneath.
Time for prep. Blood oxygen monitior won't work over green nail polish chosen specifically for the day. "We can use your toe." "I'm wearing my cheerful socks," I say as they uncover my feet and remove the pink and green striped socks and the flowered ones underneath; the ladies see them and laugh. They are trying so hard to keep me calm. I feel calm, like a sky before a big storm, its not going to last, I'm begining to crack. Blood monitor on my left big toe works well. "I knew your blood ox was better than 70%," one says.
Cold wetness on my left shoulder and upper chest. Large sticky pads on back and lower left abdomen, "We will use these for defribulation if anything goes wrong." IV's attached to fluid bags. Oxygen mask on nose- breathe in, smell the plastic. Blood pressure cuff wrapped around right arm- starts up. "It will go off every five minutes so we can watch your blood pressure," one voice says. I start counting.
Nerves attack, eyes water, I begin to hyperventalate. "Stefanie, just take deep breaths. We'll take good care of you. The doctor is almost ready, I'm going to give you a sedative now," says Kris. Calmer, eyes a bit heavy.
Layers of blue paper draped over me, like a child's tent. "We'll leave you a place to see." Blood pressure cuff starts again, third time, fifteen minutes. Then:
"Ok, Steff, the doctor is ready. He is going to numb the area. We will give you pain medications through the IV. If you feel pain let us know."
Sharp prick of a needle surprises me, small gasp. Eyelids weigh 20 pounds, I close my eyes and fade away.
Come to. Legs and lower back ache, stomach hurts. I shift my legs around to try to alleviate the discomfort. "Stefanie, whats wrong?" I mumble something about my stomach. I hear, "She says her stomach hurts." I fade for a moment and someone beyond the blue says, "Stefanie, we are going to put in a catheter." I feel hands between my legs and a sharp sudden pain in my urethra. I don't fade, I dissapear.
Come to. Feel pressure of something being shoved into my chest. Big push, I grunt. Not painful, just odd, and uncomfortable and peculiar. I fade again.
Come to. I'm back in short stay ward. Mom is near me. "I have to pee," I say. "You have a catheter," I hear in response. "I've got to go to the bathroom," I say again. "You have a catheter, so just go." The voice seems aggravated now. I let go.
I float.
I hear, "Stefanie we have a sandwich for you, what kind would you like? Turkey, egg or tuna?" "Turkey," I mumble. "What do you want to drink?" "Water. My mouth is dry." Water is produced. My Mom holds the squat bottle up so I can take a sip from the straw. And another.
I float again. I become more alert and ask for my iPod. My Mom produces it for me. Ear buds in ears, spin the wheel to find U2, turn volume down so that it is just background noise. Float away on the first chords of "Zoo Station" (Achtung Baby).
"What time is it?" "Around 4:30, you were in there a long time." "Have you called my friends?" I ask Mom. "No, I left the numbers at home." "They are in my phone," I say. As I listen to my music, my Mom calls my friends. I hear: "Steff's out of surgery. She is doing fine. Asked for her iPod. Listening to U2."
I float. I drink more water.
A nurse come and takes out the catheter. They get ready to move me upstairs into my own room. I hear Dad's voice. Change of the guard, Mom goes, Dad stays.
New room, one bed. I have to pee again. Helped to toilet, sit down. Go. Stomach grumbles. I vomit. I try to reach for trash can in front of me. I can't reach. Head spinning. I vomit again. I call out, "I need help. I just threw up." A nurse comes in and helps me stand up. She helps me into a new, clean johnnie. Brings a wet cloth, I wipe my face. Helps me back into bed, hands me my iPod. Dad comes in.
We chat until I float away. I drink more water. He gets ready to go. Takes the sandwich out of the paper bag. With it is apple sauce. Checks to make sure I have way to call nurse. Call button is missing. He goes out and comes back with a nurse who replaces missing call button. He leaves, he says something, but I don't remember.
I float. I sleep. I wake to hear the strains of "Grace" (All That You Can't Leave Behind). I decide to try the apple sauce. I eat the cup full and sit and listen to more music. I decide that I am tired and tilt the bed back a fair bit. I lean back and try to get comfortable, moments later, I vomit up the water and apple sauce all over my lap. With each spasm, pressure is put on my bladder. I urinate all over myself. I press the call button, ashamed and dismayed. Nurse comes in. Helps me clean up in bathroom. New johnnie, wet towel to wash up. Clean sheets. I apologize. She says, "Its the anesthetic, it can make people sick. Don't worry. We just couldn't understand how you wet yourself at the same time." She is young and has pretty eyes and dark hair. "The diaphram pushing when I got sick, I think," I say. She helps me back into bed.
I float. I sleep. I don't dream. Until the pain wakes me.
Morphine. Dreamless sleep.
Morning. 8:00. French toast. I don't eat it. Drink water and eat the fruit.
Doctor visits.
Cheryl, the nurse in charge of the study, visits. Tells me that everything went well and she will see me again in a month.
Technician comes in. Places a sensor over the incision in my chest. presses buttons on his little machine. I can feel my heart speed up and slow down.
Nurse comes in. "You will be discharged soon," she says. I ask her if she could comb my hair for me. I sigh with gratitude and pleasure.
I get dressed, and Mom brings me home. Now the proud owner of a Defribulator, Pacemaker, ICD, CRT. I'm now part cyborg.
Then a warm shower, a brush of teeth, pull the hair back into a tail. Getting dressed: clean underwear, check, clean bra, check, clean jeans, check, clean shirt, check, clean socks with flowers on that matches the shirt, coincidence, but check.
A remaking of the bed: clean sheets, clean blankets, clean comforter. All set for when I return home.
Then the meds: Digoxin and Carvidilol only this morning, last sip of water to swallow the pills down. The last drink I will have for the day.
Final check of the overnight bag. Done. Ready to go. Try not to think about being nervous.
Out the door, into the car, and off to McDonald's so Mom can have a breakfast sandwich. Very slow fast food this morning, worrying I'm going to be late. Then to Dunkin' Donuts for Mom's coffee. The smell of my favorite morning beverage driving me mad on the short trip to the hospital.
Running late; arrive at offices at 9:15, appointment was for 9:00, to check in. Sit down and wait. Sign papers to charge my insurance company, sit and wait. Sit in waiting room and try to pay attention to Mom's conversation, wait. People around me gabbing and drinking coffee and eating greasy smelling food. Wait. Hungry, so hungry, but I cannot eat.
I wait.
Finally moved to short stay ward. Stripped naked, put on a johnnie. 2 IV's in left arm. Now 11:30... I wait.
Meet Doctor, nice guy. "We'll be ready for you soon." Not long now. I wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Near tears with worry and frustration. I want this to be over.
I wait.
I try to make casual conversation with Mom, but am too nervous to fully focus on what she is saying.
I wait.
Food cart is pushed by; the smell makes my stomach growl.
I wait.
2pm. Kris, the anesthesiologist, urges me to use bathroom one last time. I go. I get a ride into the operating room. Everyone in the hall turns to watch me go by. I feel like a Thanksgiving float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.
Operating room: cold, sterile, large computer screens, bright lights. Four women including Kris bustle around me preparing. Two help me shimmy onto the operating table and cage me in so that I don't roll off. The table is narrow and hard, only two inches of foam and plastic separate me from the hard metal underneath.
Time for prep. Blood oxygen monitior won't work over green nail polish chosen specifically for the day. "We can use your toe." "I'm wearing my cheerful socks," I say as they uncover my feet and remove the pink and green striped socks and the flowered ones underneath; the ladies see them and laugh. They are trying so hard to keep me calm. I feel calm, like a sky before a big storm, its not going to last, I'm begining to crack. Blood monitor on my left big toe works well. "I knew your blood ox was better than 70%," one says.
Cold wetness on my left shoulder and upper chest. Large sticky pads on back and lower left abdomen, "We will use these for defribulation if anything goes wrong." IV's attached to fluid bags. Oxygen mask on nose- breathe in, smell the plastic. Blood pressure cuff wrapped around right arm- starts up. "It will go off every five minutes so we can watch your blood pressure," one voice says. I start counting.
Nerves attack, eyes water, I begin to hyperventalate. "Stefanie, just take deep breaths. We'll take good care of you. The doctor is almost ready, I'm going to give you a sedative now," says Kris. Calmer, eyes a bit heavy.
Layers of blue paper draped over me, like a child's tent. "We'll leave you a place to see." Blood pressure cuff starts again, third time, fifteen minutes. Then:
"Ok, Steff, the doctor is ready. He is going to numb the area. We will give you pain medications through the IV. If you feel pain let us know."
Sharp prick of a needle surprises me, small gasp. Eyelids weigh 20 pounds, I close my eyes and fade away.
Come to. Legs and lower back ache, stomach hurts. I shift my legs around to try to alleviate the discomfort. "Stefanie, whats wrong?" I mumble something about my stomach. I hear, "She says her stomach hurts." I fade for a moment and someone beyond the blue says, "Stefanie, we are going to put in a catheter." I feel hands between my legs and a sharp sudden pain in my urethra. I don't fade, I dissapear.
Come to. Feel pressure of something being shoved into my chest. Big push, I grunt. Not painful, just odd, and uncomfortable and peculiar. I fade again.
Come to. I'm back in short stay ward. Mom is near me. "I have to pee," I say. "You have a catheter," I hear in response. "I've got to go to the bathroom," I say again. "You have a catheter, so just go." The voice seems aggravated now. I let go.
I float.
I hear, "Stefanie we have a sandwich for you, what kind would you like? Turkey, egg or tuna?" "Turkey," I mumble. "What do you want to drink?" "Water. My mouth is dry." Water is produced. My Mom holds the squat bottle up so I can take a sip from the straw. And another.
I float again. I become more alert and ask for my iPod. My Mom produces it for me. Ear buds in ears, spin the wheel to find U2, turn volume down so that it is just background noise. Float away on the first chords of "Zoo Station" (Achtung Baby).
"What time is it?" "Around 4:30, you were in there a long time." "Have you called my friends?" I ask Mom. "No, I left the numbers at home." "They are in my phone," I say. As I listen to my music, my Mom calls my friends. I hear: "Steff's out of surgery. She is doing fine. Asked for her iPod. Listening to U2."
I float. I drink more water.
A nurse come and takes out the catheter. They get ready to move me upstairs into my own room. I hear Dad's voice. Change of the guard, Mom goes, Dad stays.
New room, one bed. I have to pee again. Helped to toilet, sit down. Go. Stomach grumbles. I vomit. I try to reach for trash can in front of me. I can't reach. Head spinning. I vomit again. I call out, "I need help. I just threw up." A nurse comes in and helps me stand up. She helps me into a new, clean johnnie. Brings a wet cloth, I wipe my face. Helps me back into bed, hands me my iPod. Dad comes in.
We chat until I float away. I drink more water. He gets ready to go. Takes the sandwich out of the paper bag. With it is apple sauce. Checks to make sure I have way to call nurse. Call button is missing. He goes out and comes back with a nurse who replaces missing call button. He leaves, he says something, but I don't remember.
I float. I sleep. I wake to hear the strains of "Grace" (All That You Can't Leave Behind). I decide to try the apple sauce. I eat the cup full and sit and listen to more music. I decide that I am tired and tilt the bed back a fair bit. I lean back and try to get comfortable, moments later, I vomit up the water and apple sauce all over my lap. With each spasm, pressure is put on my bladder. I urinate all over myself. I press the call button, ashamed and dismayed. Nurse comes in. Helps me clean up in bathroom. New johnnie, wet towel to wash up. Clean sheets. I apologize. She says, "Its the anesthetic, it can make people sick. Don't worry. We just couldn't understand how you wet yourself at the same time." She is young and has pretty eyes and dark hair. "The diaphram pushing when I got sick, I think," I say. She helps me back into bed.
I float. I sleep. I don't dream. Until the pain wakes me.
Morphine. Dreamless sleep.
Morning. 8:00. French toast. I don't eat it. Drink water and eat the fruit.
Doctor visits.
Cheryl, the nurse in charge of the study, visits. Tells me that everything went well and she will see me again in a month.
Technician comes in. Places a sensor over the incision in my chest. presses buttons on his little machine. I can feel my heart speed up and slow down.
Nurse comes in. "You will be discharged soon," she says. I ask her if she could comb my hair for me. I sigh with gratitude and pleasure.
I get dressed, and Mom brings me home. Now the proud owner of a Defribulator, Pacemaker, ICD, CRT. I'm now part cyborg.
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