26 July 2009

Recovery sucks

Well, that was surgery.

We went in at 6:30 Thursday morning to check into surgery and I was finally released at 6 pm, approximately 6 hours after they thought I would be.

For the most part, I loved my entire medical team. The nurses were great, my surgeon is amazing, and people (with the exception of a couple of raised eyebrows) didn't say a damn thing about Willow being my medical decision-maker. Sure, it shouldn't be a surprise, but it was still good to know.

The anesthesiologist left a lot to be desired - he was abrupt, dismissive, and insisted on giving me a spinal block (like an epidural some women choose when giving birth) that nobody else seemed to think I needed. It was the spinal block wearing off that kept us in the hospital for longer than we'd thought we would be.

Apparently, I am very susceptible to anesthesia, something I suppose I wouldn't really know since I've had three surgeries in my life - two were before the age of six and all before now were before 18. The spinal block didn't even work properly (a bad batch of medicine, they think), but it laid me up for nine hours. The nerve block on my leg lasted for more than 32 hours - in the end, a good thing, since I was able to get a good night's sleep and wasn't aware of some of the worst of the recovery pain from the surgery.

So now, I'm just dealing with being laid up. I am, incidentally, not a very good sick person. I hate asking for help, I hate being limited, I hate not being able to control my own life. I can't even go up the stairs to where our bedrooms are to get a pair of underwear.

I'm getting more mobile every day, though. Today, I took a shower on my own, I took out some garbage and did some laundry (it's not folded, I can't carry anywhere to fold it). These seem like small things, but they're a start.

So I'm at the cranky, feeling overlimited part of recovery. The little bit that I've done today has exhausted me, leaves me sitting on the couch, staring into space, wondering if I'd fall down if I tried to do anything else. But it'll get better. Tomorrow, I return to work in the office, thank god. That'll get me out of these 2.5 rooms, away from the futon that may be developing a permanent butt imprint.

And, maybe, at some point, I'll be able to get my own damn underwear.

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