If you are preparing for abdominal surgery and are facing a prolonged recovery period, both in the hospital and at home, let me offer a few survival hints if I may:
In reference to the hospital:
- Nothing painful will be done on time or quickly. Things like the utilization of giant needles, tubing and catheters are announced with great resolve. “We will now puncture you with potential for excruciating pain and the spurting of fluids! Huzzah!” All the equipment is wheeled in with which to accomplish the anxious-making procedure, you grit your teeth and steel yourself for the onslaught and, holy batshit, a delay! Somebody next door codes, or the kid down the hall is wailing, or there is a shift change. And time just slows to a snail’s pace allowing one to really marinate in one’s own flop sweat and in the contemplation of what’s to come.
- Nothing about the patient’s personal hygiene can’t be “put off” until next shift. This is how I slipped through the cracks and was not offered the application of even a simple washcloth to my dopey face, never mind my armpits or other parts, for 4 days. Like pain relief, I had to ask, once I couldn’t even stand myself anymore drugged or not, if I could give myself a sponge bath and wash my hair which was now sticky and matted and very Edward Scissorhands-ish. Honestly, I volunteered to be discharged much too early, necessitating a return trip by ER, just because I wanted to wash my hair. To be fair, apologies were forthcoming and the shift change conundrum was mentioned as the problem. Hint: Ask your visitors to sniff and make sounds like “whew” when the nurse is there so they get the hint.
Interlude : Nurses say the dandiest things -
• “Boy when they found that tumor, I bet everyone thought you were dead girl walking! Good thing it was benign!”
• “Nice that you didn’t end up with a (colostomy) bag. My friend had a tumor like that and it wrecked her colon. And it keeps coming back!”
• “So how long have you had the Parkinson’s? I just lost my best golfing buddy to Parkinson’s. (welling up and sniffling). Wow.”
• “When you poop, just relax and whatever you do, don’t bear down! You’ll just pop!”
No lie. True quotes. I am kind of glad I peed twice/puked once on the floor there. I may have been on the morphine, but there may have been a botched enema as well. Hmmm. Enema revenge is a new concept.
Maybe the peace sign there should've been another salute of note.
In reference to going home:
As intrusive and institutionalized as the hospital may have seemed, home was 180 degrees the opposite. My loved ones did not know what to do with this stinking, stapled up, babbling, hallucinating, puking, barely ambulatory hot mess with Edward Scissorhands hair and puncture wounds all over, but they tried so hard it makes me well up just thinking about it. A few things to pre-request before going home:
- A SATIN BLANKET. My worst issue was tangling up in the bedclothes, pinning myself down like King Tut in his sarcophagus. A freak out provoker for sure! And I did! I freaked and it hurt! The slick jewel-toned pink and purple slippery satin blanket (my new cherished “woobie”) allows me to levitate and spin with no friction gumming up the works. Moving about in bed after abdominal surgery is its own circle of hell and my woobie was the key to sanity. And it is pretty.
- MOMMY. (Or someone like your Mom) If you’ve read anything I’ve written so far on this serial topic, you know why.
- REMOTE CONTROL. Self-explanatory.
- FROZEN LEMONADE. Nectar of the gods, and helps you not feel sorry for yourself when nothing else edible tastes, feels or looks good.
- YOGA PANTS and BIG T-SHIRTS. Bamboo fabric no elastic drawstring pants to gently cover your lower parts where they cut you. Big T’s to camouflage the notion of never wearing a fucking bra ever again! Your sutures will thank you.
- CLEAN EVERYTHING. Do not go home to a mess. Have your loved ones shovel all their steaming piles of mess into their respective lairs, and never look in there. Request that your recovery space is clean, swept and smelling nice. Although it was perhaps the last thing on my loved ones minds, my mortality and transformative pain was kind of distracting I reckon, it would have been lovely to collapse in my HEALING POD knowing that some Martha Stewart obsessive-compulsive scrubbing had been done.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free.