Home.
What a sweet word, and an even better place.
I was gone eleven days. An unexpected journey, to be sure.
The past six months have been layers of the unexpected; heartbreaking, devastating at times, and exhilarating, joyful, magnificent at others.
Nothing can prepare you for the process.
Sunday, October 19. I'm struggling with anxiety and fear. The hazy thing in the future called "surgery" is only a day away. I go to church, and am overwhelmed by peace, which grows throughout the day, ending in a sweet, blissful, joy filled time with my Gospel Community Group.
Monday, October 20, 5:15 am. I'm dressed, ready with my hospital bag. The sky is still dark, and the air is crisp as I walk to the car. Ha, walk. Inside my head a list of "this is the last time" plays. The last time I'll walk on my real foot. The next time I'll put weight on it, I'll have battle scars. Peace accompanies me as I walk into Admitting. Mom and I wait, and I make her laugh. The minutes tick by, and at 6:30 my name is called. I'm given a bracelet with my information on it, and directions for where to go next.
Pre-Op. A small curtained room. I change into a hospital gown, and crack more jokes. More waiting; a nurse comes and has me verify what the surgery is. My surgeon (Dr. H) comes in and draws on my leg and foot. It's funny seeing him in regular clothes; I've only ever seen him in scrubs.
He delivers the first morsel of good news.
"We've decided to take the full graft from your thigh. We won't have to touch your shoulder."
He leaves, and mom and I exchanged relived smiles. One less scar to heal. I had been nervous about the shoulder being the one of donor sites.
Time slips away, mom and I say goodbye, the nurse leads me past the point of no return.
It's time for the IV. I'm cold, making my veins small, and hard to find. The nurse tries three times, and finally finds one.
It's time. The hands on the clock have moved to 7:30. I'm wheeled into the OR.
A host of doctors and nurses greet me, verify my identity, and why I'm there. I'm transferred to the operating table, the anesthesiologist places a mask over my face and tells me to breathe.
I slip into nothingness.
4:30, Post Op Recovery room.
Two nurses are talking to me. My mind is cloudy. Hysteria sets in. I'm crying, not understanding why, not able to control my emotions or my trembling body. I'm told to take deep breaths, but it's the last thing I want to do. I don't know how, but I finally calm down. I'm given morphine for pain.
Flap checks are every 20 minutes. They press the graft to make sure it's taking, and listen with a Doppler (similar to an ultrasound) to make sure the venous and arterial veins are functioning properly.
Second flap check. Something in the nurse's face changes.
"We need someone from plastics to come." She tells her colleague.
"Is something wrong?" I ask. She doesn't answer.
Ten minutes go by. Pain blooms in my foot, and I know something is wrong. I'm given more morphine, which doesn't help.
The plastics intern walks in. He checks the flap, and listens.
"We've lost the venous." The pain is throbbing now. My foot feels tight and heavy.
"What does that mean?"
"The venous takes blood back to the heart. It looks like a vein has burst, which is causing swelling."
That would explain why it feels like my foot is going to explode.
He turns to my nurse. "We need to get her back to the OR."
"How soon?"
"Not longer than 30 minutes."
He leaves, and I watch the clock. Pain is rising, and panic bubbling up as well. Ten agonizing minutes crawl by. More morphine. No relief. All I want is to get back to the OR and be put to sleep. Anything to escape. I question the nurse about how much longer.
"Soon," she assures me. I'm trying not to scream, but moan instead.
I don't know how I get through the next fifteen minutes, but at last, at 5:30, I'm wheeled to the OR. There are no jokes this time. It takes longer for the anesthetic to work, because of my anxiety. For the second time, the world goes dark. There is no more pain.
7:30. I feel heavy, sluggish, dull. I don't want to wake up. Slowly, the tendrils of fog in my brain begin clearing. I hold my breath during the first flap check. The nurse smiles at me. All good.
20 minutes later, another successful check. They let my family in. After the third check, I'm declared stable, and ready to be moved to a room.
The hospital bed is rolled down corridors, and through a set of heavy doors into GH5; my home for the next week.
That's the second piece of good news: The surgery went so well, that they've cut my initial two week stay down to seven days.
I'm too groggy to care. My voice is low and scratchy, my throat sore from having breathing tubes in for ten hours.
I'm not allowed water yet, and I discover the wonder of ice chips melting on my tongue.
Thinking is as hard as walking waist deep through molasses. R brings flowers, and jokes that I sound like a bass. My family assures me the surgery was a success.
Flap checks are every hour, and continue to be positive. I can't stay awake anymore.
Tuesday, the 21st. Rough night, after being woken up every hour. The doctors make their rounds between 6 and 6:30 am, and I am a special case, so everyone comes to examine me. (the most I had at one time was ten)
My body is full of morphine and anesthetic. All I want to do is sleep. I'm aware of visitors throughout the day, but it takes all I have to keep my eyes open. When I do, I see more flowers, brightening up the stark room. I have no appetite.
I am totally tubular. An oxygen line to my nose, two IV lines, two drains coming out of my leg, a catheter. This isn't me. I barely feel human. I surrender to sleep.
Third blessing: I am alone. Having a room to yourself is rare, and I enjoy the semi-peace.
Wednesday, the 22nd. I'm off morphine, but the haze, everything is a haze. It's hard to form thoughts. The doctors are getting worried that I still haven't eaten anything.
My first big shock comes today; they change my thigh bandage for the first time. The nurse starts at my hip, and slowly peels the bandage off. The stitches keep going, and going, and going, ending at my knee. That would explain why it feels so tight and sore. It's going to be a beast of a battle scar.
S and L visit, bringing more flowers. No more oxygen tube.
Thursday, the 23rd. Breakthrough. It's amazing how having your hair washed can make you feel human. It's the first time I've felt human since the surgery, and glimmers of myself are appearing.
I am able to consume some rice. Small victories.
Friday, 24th. Zombie land again. I guess being human has worn me out. I sleep, and am pleased to discover I have minimal pain.
Saturday, the 25th. Eventful day. The morning nurse greets me with the news I'm changing rooms. I feel lucid, and eat breakfast! The IV and catheter are taken out. Today I feel like Esther. I'm moved to a wheelchair for the first time. M visits, and we watch a movie. L and S come again. It's nice to joke with them, and things are returning to normal.
Sunday, the 26th. New room. Now I have a roommate. I'm sensing a pattern; after the events of yesterday I am exhausted. B comes in the morning, C comes in the afternoon, and A comes in the evening. She catches me just as I'm about to have a good cry, and makes me laugh instead. Friends are wonderful.
Monday, the 27th. I'm excited. I get to go home today! I didn't sleep well, and am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, and eating real food. I still don't have much of an appetite, and am existing on fruit juice and rice. Dr H and his team come to take down the foot dressing.
I was warned, all week, that my foot wouldn't look like a foot.
The dressing comes off without problem, and I see flap for the first time. The graft site is a tear drop shape, outlined with stiches and staples. The round part of the teardrop is where my arch used to be, tapering up the side of my ankle. Now I understand why the donor site is so big; the graft is two pieces of skin sewn together. It looks like someone took an air pump and inflated the right side of the foot. I feel like Frankenstien, with a Frankenfoot. It's a shock.
Nothing can prepare me for the next half hour; the equivalent of hell breaking loose.
I still have two drains, one for the donor site, and for the graft. Dr H removes the flap drain, and I scream. Pain tingles up my leg. The drain site has become infected.
I don't clearly remember what happens next. A team assembles, and I'm told to breathe. I haven't needed painkillers all week, so I'm unprepared for the procedure. In order to clean out the infection, they have to open the flap in two places, and three staples have to come out. Mom is at my side, breathing with me. My ipod is playing, I try to focus on the distraction, but I have to scream again. I feel tears fighting to be free. I'm scared that if I start crying, I'll lose control. They're irrigating the infected area with saline. I can't hold back any longer, I start sobbing. The pain is too intense to handle silently. I'm past caring what anyone thinks, and start praying in tongues. I couldn't tell you how long it goes on.
Finally, they are done. I'm still crying, from pain, shock, relief that the ordeal is over.
Every time I think I'm done, I start again. Mid afternoon I am able to rest. I'm emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted, so when supper comes I eat without nausea.
Four people from GCG walk in as I'm finishing up. B, L, D, and S (you know who you are :)
I've missed them, missed GCG, and the community. It's the refreshing I need. We laugh, talk, and they pray for me. Inklings of peace begin to stir up in me.
After they leave, my new roommate are I chat a bit. We've both faced cancer, so we share parts of our stories. I have a bandage change, which drives me to tears again. I've never experienced so much pain in one day.
Tuesday, the 28th. Slow day. A soon as the doctors walk in to change the dressing, I start crying, dreading the pain ahead. I'm lucid today, and manage to eat all three meals. M has brought me books, so I dive into one. R comes to visit that night, filling me in on details about how rehearsals are going for Fiddler on the Roof, the musical I'm performing in at the end of November.
Wednesday, the 29th. L and S visit, bringing me Boon Burger ice cream. They take me for a small outing down to the lobby. It's nice to get out, and I can't wait to go home tomorrow.
Thursday, the 30th. The infection is gone! But the dressing changes still drive me to tears. Because they opened the flap, they have to pack the open sites with a special gauze. After a few false starts, I'm home. Sleep overwhelms me for a few hours. I have visitors throughout the day.
There truly is no place like home.
