Rainbow Girl

Rainbow Girl:
You can call me that for the next couple months, maybe. I will be exhibiting a spectrum of colors starting with black and blue, ranging through burgundy, green, yellow.... In other words, I sport an abundance of hematomas. Bruises. Rainbow Girl.

A Good Friend:
With Steve on meds which keep him away from behind the wheel, and me not being allowed to drive myself home from the hospital,  (and theoretically another two days ... ahem...) I took up a friend's offer of a round trip lift. She happens to be the president of the jewelry club I go to. We've gotten closer over the last couple years over the day-to-day of fellow officers.  I'm not special in regard to this offer as she's given lots of us assists with medical transportation and visits.

Timing:
I'd gotten three different phone calls from medical personnel about what I needed to do and when. After I'd confirmed a ride to drop me at the hospital for check-in Tuesday at 1:00 (yes, that's PM, a long time to fast) for 3:00 surgery, another employee called back and stated surgery time was now 3:30 and I should be there at 1:30 or so. I got there before 1:00 anyway, not willing to mess with my ride's schedule for her day, prepared for however long a wait.

As I was finishing signing all the forms they give you at the admitting window, my cell rang. Though impolite to do so, the fact that the number was an unidentified local one might mean it was medical, and should be answered. It could also be a roofer or some scammer, but I was taking no chances. It was indeed medical, from my next stop of the day, the place where I was to be prepped for surgery. It turned out they had a cancellation and might I be able to leave home and come in a bit early? I told her she was too late, I was already in position to be at her door in the basement in about 5 minutes. She sounded like I just made her day. Or maybe just saved her from having to make more phone calls. No matter, happy to help.

My Usual Jinx At Work:
Those who know me well are aware that machines tend to glitch up when I'm near them if it's going to happen at all. It's like the cash register at the grocery store, for example. This tendency covers more than just machines. I think the pre-op room was accustomed to prepping us in a fairly short time. Well, there was some inaccurate information about what meds I was taking, though they had just been entered into the system upstairs. The chat with the anesthesiologist -or maybe anesthetist? - took a while as I made sure he knew what he needed to about my experiences. He had a tendency to parrot back things I hadn't said, or not wait for a full list of answers to his questions. Once in the gown.... OK, well, gown is a very loose and misleading term, especially any hint that it may actually cover around more than 3/4 of my body or bear the remotest resemblance to fashion. Anyway, once in it, an earlier suggestion which I ignored at the time that I might need to use the bathroom started working its magic on my bladder, turning my denial into a lie. By this time, the team is paranoid that, even though reasonably healthy, sane, able-bodied and undrugged, I might overcome the gripping ability of their precious little yellow rubber-ribbed booties and take a tumble, so I had to be escorted. One wonders what they might know about the gripping capacity of those booties....

Once back to my cubicle, I realized my cell phone, being of little battery capacity in its old age, hadn't been turned off for the however-many hours until I was in shape to actually use it again. I really needed it at the end of  my stay to coordinate my ride home, it being my only record of the necessary cell phone number. My oversight was helpfully taken care of for me by the first (!) in the crew attempting to hit a vein for an IV. I was really dehydrated by then, no food or liquids since about 8:30 the previous evening, so I can't really fault his two tries, the next person's two tries, or the third one's. Each try leaves a bruise and a spot that can't be tried again due to contamination. It they hadn't finally found a somewhat viable vein in my hand, they were going to borrow the ultrasound that the guy waiting his turn in the needle que to put in the A-line needed to make sure he tapped an artery so they could take the freshest blood samples throughout the procedure to know... well, hell, by this time I didn't give a hoot what this was needed for. Besides, the lidocaine they put in that spot didn't really kill the pain of whatever else was going in.

Next came the EKG. Or would have, but it turned out the screen on that machine showed only static. A search was conducted and interview held trying to find out what I possibly would have on / in / near  me to cause the static. Twenty  minutes later a couple of those patches they snap the leads into were replaced. The new ones worked perfectly. Squiggles were produced.

I was ready to go. Well, oops, not so fast. Blood needed to be drawn for tests, STAT, now that I'd been successfully tapped. Just as they started wheeling the gurney, somebody realized (me, of course, who else?) that the shaving needed in the groin area so they could get a sterile tap on the femoral artery hadn't yet happened. Whoa pony!

Going Under:
Once wheeled into the O.R., there was the issue of positioning me on the table. It WAS an issue. The woman on my left insisted I was way too far over in her direction. My hands on either side of me said I was smack dab in the middle, equal space on both sides. Moving while flat is such fun anyway, and after doing more wiggling than actual moving several times, she finally declared me in position. I felt no difference.


My hands were just flopping down off this narrow table, pulling on my shoulders. I dreaded the thought of how the shoulders would feel after surgery. After all, I figured I'd have issues with one leg and would need both arms to assist with mobility. Those already give me enough pain after multiple rotator cuff tears. The staff had a plan for this though. A pair of velcroed wide straps on either side of the table were fastened around my wrists, and another problem solved.

My machine jinx was still functional. The same woman who'd been fussing with my position needed to have a certain software window up on her screen, the one that showed the heart area and exactly where their “zapper” (technical term) was during the procedure. First, though, it was needed to show the location of some magnet under me. Finally somebody arrived who set it up properly and huge sticky patches were slapped on me front and back. COLD!!! Anesthesia central (yeah, so I still can't tell you if he was an anesthetist or anesthesiologist. OK?) arrived, informed me here comes the happy juice, and my last thought was I agreed.

Coming Out Of It:
Instantly my next thought was being aware of feeling like shit, unfocused, slightly dizzy, slightly nauseated, and incurable cold. I had to tell them that, even though I couldn’t quite, not yet. Once I was able to speak, recovering some of my bodily control, and licking my mouth enough to mitigate dry-mouth if not the raspy throat left from the breathing tube, two words were managed: “Cold. Shivering.”

Indeed I was, both. It still didn’t stop after they piled on what they described as 20 heated blankets. The shivering was so intense I wondered that they didn’t seem to either notice it or care, and how on earth they could distinguish it from a seizure. My hands were, no exaggeration, moving about 6” in every direction from the shivering. So was the rest of me, though my legs were locked rigidly in place. Strangely appropriate, considering there was an incision we strongly needed to protect. It finally quit about an hour and a half later, though I still didn’t really feel warm yet. The energetic shaking was later explained to me as a very common reaction to the drugs used in the procedure. I wondered whether, if someone did in fact have seizures after the procedure, would anybody notice? I am still amazed that after all that unaccustomed exercise, I don't feel like the morning after that first day in the gym.

At least most of the rest of my symptoms went away a few minutes after waking. Hey guys, next time let me sleep that final five minutes? Really. I could skip the blecchhh and the queasy. All that lingered was dry mouth and a scratchy throat, much like I was already used to from this extreme pollen allergy season, particularly since they didn’t bother giving me my allergy meds until I requested them next morning. By the way, with all the sneezing and nose running I was also doing, I was now upstairs "just" in an observation room and there was no $25 box of Kleenex to be found. Paper hand towels from the restroom dispenser get scratchy after a while. Very short. The napkins sent on the food trays aren't much better.

Spanish Only:
A roommate arrived shortly after I was somewhat settled in. The room was extra busy for a while. She was elderly, weak and frail, and accompanied by a younger female relative. Both of them only spoke Spanish, though the younger had tried to gain a few words. I still have enough left from school to recognize a few words, but in a “conversation” with her attendant, we both recognized we were better with the other’s language if we had time to organize what were were going to try to say, and lousy at understanding whatever the answer was. Needless to say, most of the time it was a very quiet room.

There was one glaring exception. Every time the medical staff needed to converse with this patient, they tried English first, despite arriving knowing she didn’t speak it. Apparently it took a few seconds for it to sink in that “Spanish only” didn’t mean “slightly conversant in English”. Luckily, there’s an app for that.

The staff connected to a translation service. After giving a patient file number, and getting back a translator ID number after a short wait for somebody with the right language skills, communication of a sort commenced. There were drawbacks. Like any typical cell communication, interruptions were abundant, one not understanding when the other was finished. This was exacerbated by it being a three-way communication. There was too little comprehension that questions needed to be answered and then, hey guys,  PASSED ON  before the next issue was tackled. The reason I know this is it seems everybody seemed to try to compensate for communication issues by upping the volume significantly, like that works. “Spanish Only” does NOT translate to “deaf”! Who needs HIPA laws when everybody yells?



Sleeping:
Not.  It's more than all the staff visits, the need for vitals taken, pills given, food trays in and out, yet another source for tissue substitutes found, and the yelling from behind the privacy curtain. The bed: too hard, wrong angles. Pillow: too flat, won't stay under the head, keeps slipping down under the shoulders, neck stiff. TV: wrong angle, always off to the side so neck gets too stiff to be comfortable in any position so the pillow problems are exacerbated. At least I was becoming less dehydrated slowly so not too many disruptions for middle of the night potty breaks. Don't usually think of slow rehydration as a plus.

Restrictions:
 First, of course, I'm restricted from driving. Theoretically. I had of course forgotten Steve's medical appointment early Thursday morning. 'Nuff said. There's also no immersion, no tub, pool, or whatever for however long they said. The sheet's right across the room so I'll check. Later. Need to take it really easy. This part, no sweat, any puns intended. That humongous bruise in the "groin area" - they're so polite in their terminology - really hurt that first time up for a potty break. In fact the whole leg did, but the next break surprised me by how close to normal the leg felt. It felt so normal that the next time walking I was surprised all over again, this time by how much the leg hurt. Anyway, I have this constant reminder, so am doing just the truly necessary stuff. Right now those weeds in the lawn don't look so urgently in need of spraying like they did before surgery, even fast as they're growing and flowering, particularly with my restrictions including no lifting over 10 pounds and no bending over.

Wait. What?  No bending over? How the heck am I supposed to put my feet in my socks? I mean, I can slide my heels backwards on the rug and work socks off, but it doesn't work the other way. For the projected 100 degrees the next two days, barefoot might not be so bad an idea, but that won't work for driving. Wait, pretend you didn't just read that. Since my current home jewelry projects involve bending over a chair, I'm choosing to be on the side of caution and forgoing them a while.

There's also admonishment about no heavy-duty pooping. Uhhh, okay....

Meds “Management”:
There are two sheets of "new" instructions of medications. I'm already making two changes without further consulting him. First, he thinks I'll be taking amiodarone again. Ri-i-i-i-ight. That pig ain't flying again. It kept my heart rhythms perfectly for nearly three years, keeping me from even needing this surgery. But toxicity is toxicity. Line in the sand.

Second, he arbitrarily switched me from Warfarin to Eliquis for a blood thinner. I have already had that discussion with my regular cardiologist, and chose to manage the warfarin for any needed dosage changes. I called my pharmacy since this doc sent in a prescription before discharging me, to inquire about the price. With my insurance coverage, my co-pay for Eliquis would be $400! Warfarin costs me 1% of that. Don't know about the rest of you, but I don't have a loose $400 to throw around on a regular basis when there is a perfectly acceptable - to me - alternative. I told the pharmacy to cancel that prescription. An occasional INR test is no biggie.

Evaluation:
I've already gotten my first request for feedback on my experience. I think I'll send them here. After all, minimal exertion, right? The one really really big thing not addressed yet is that the staff, without exception, was unfailingly helpful, friendly, and informative. Give them all raises ... so long as my bills don't go up.

There was one thing, though. The doc who was in charge of discharging patients at the time needed to take a last look to see if the femoral hematoma still hadn't spread. Seems a wise idea. He had me lie back in the bed and told me to "cover up". Since I'd been wearing my undies since early morning, and nothing he needed to see was blocked but everything else was, I didn't jump to follow that instruction. He repeated it and then before I could move to do it, reached for my blankets and covered me to the waist, then pushed them over from the side to view my leg. Now modesty tends to fly out the door in hospital settings, by necessity. Three babies, pelvic exams and PAP smears, mammograms and EKGs all trump over any need to hide skin. I had to wonder what his issue was. Is this guy really in the right profession?

Mirror Test:
This was my fun first chance, now  home, to see my self other than my face since leaving for the hospital. There were a couple of the stickers for the EKG still clinging to the hope of usefulness, one per shoulder, and another pair, nevermind where. Removed, adhesive residue rubbed off. No skin blistering. Then came the peek - should I write that pEEK! ?) at that groin bruise. Holy Moley! Holey Moley! Black, big, ugly. They said there was a magic marker ring drawn around the outer edge of the bruise as I left surgery so they could check for size changes. I don't see any line.  Covered with plastic, though I was told I could remove it any time now. I still haven't. I'm debating whether it should be removed since that thing is so ugly. Will removing it tear open the hole or is it healed enough? It left on, might it prevent a reopening from some activity? Or prevent anyone from recognizing something had torn and blood was coming out of the vessel but hidden under tissue and skin? Which might be worse, if either is even possible? A surface bleed would warn me that 911 needed to be called immediately. Really, immediately. So, I'm still pondering it. At least with the area shaved, once I start pulling, it won't be bringing hairs with it.

Ahhhh, Home!:
Twelve hours uninterrupted sleep overnight. Wunderbar. Bad bed-head. Curable this weekend with a nice shower. My kind of food again. Amazing that everything they brought me in the hospital on their cardiac diet was so filled with carbs that I didn't eat much of anything at all so as not to violate my pre-diabetic diet. Supper tonight: greek yogurt and freshly thawed blueberriees. And I am making room before bed for one of those Klondike bars in the freezer!