It's been exactly a year since my operation. Despite how fast time has flown by, the ordeal seemed like such a long while ago. Eventful. That's how the year has felt like.
I took 2 months to get back on my feet. Miraculously, I saw past my own disappointment to remain with him. September was spent in Shanghai, Suzhou and Hangzhou. How I made it in those 8 days is a mystery on hindsight. I was foolhardy to have made the trip. I know.
December was spent in Japan skiing and being whipped by the Siberian winds atop Mount Zao. I think I was really trying to enjoy life as much as I could, because my health was so precious and hard to come by. That was while I was battling bronchitis and/or asthma. To this day, I'm not quite certain which one I actually have. I'm told that it'll be there with me for life. I really hope not.
The new year ushered a new job promising more fun and a better pay. Since then, it's been a whirlwind of activities. Sydney in April for training, Jogjakarta in May for holidays, Florida in May for an internal business conference, Yunnan in June for holidays.
Now that I am reflecting back on the year, suddenly I realized I had allowed life to sweep me away. What were the goals I was trying to achieve at the start of this year? Where were my voice and sense of purpose? What did I really want in my life?
I need to regain my center. Leave time for myself. Exercise. Sleep well. Take care of myself first and foremost. Most importantly, health and happiness have to take priority.
Showing posts with label op. Show all posts
Showing posts with label op. Show all posts
July 3, 2010
January 17, 2010
Update on Resolutions
I forgot about this in my earlier entry. I have another aim, also concerning personal well-being, but of a different nature.
When I was recovering from the myomectomy last year, I heard a radio talk show with a Chinese physician, who gave advice on fibroids. One question posed by a listener was the cause of such growths.
Now, it is generally accepted that fibroid development is linked to an imbalance of estrogen and progesterone. This can be brought about by a reduced level of progesterone to act as a counterweight for estrogen production, or by elevated levels of estrogen per se, encouraging fibroids to develop.
However, the TCM physician goes further to cite factors that bring about the disharmony of female hormones - stress, large emotional variances and mood swings, as well as diet among them.
Despite many mysteries of the human body still remaining veiled to modern medicine, I believe the powerful effects of our actions and minds on our health. Placebo is an example. Unhappy mothers giving birth to more difficult babies is another. Hence the coming year is one where I'm trying for psychological health:
When I was recovering from the myomectomy last year, I heard a radio talk show with a Chinese physician, who gave advice on fibroids. One question posed by a listener was the cause of such growths.
Now, it is generally accepted that fibroid development is linked to an imbalance of estrogen and progesterone. This can be brought about by a reduced level of progesterone to act as a counterweight for estrogen production, or by elevated levels of estrogen per se, encouraging fibroids to develop.
However, the TCM physician goes further to cite factors that bring about the disharmony of female hormones - stress, large emotional variances and mood swings, as well as diet among them.
Despite many mysteries of the human body still remaining veiled to modern medicine, I believe the powerful effects of our actions and minds on our health. Placebo is an example. Unhappy mothers giving birth to more difficult babies is another. Hence the coming year is one where I'm trying for psychological health:
- Learning to let go
- Not allowing ill feelings to fester for too long within me
- Gaining greater mental strength needed for pursuing a happy state. Or even just being contented will suffice
September 13, 2009
Carthasis Versus Tolerance
So the dam finally broke yesterday. I ended up saying everything that was hurtful but nonetheless heartfelt. I don't take back what I said, because I meant them.
Today, I was confronted for making her upset. What about me and how I felt? If I had been calculative, I would have been angry for the past 10 years, but I wasn't. Not until now that things have changed.
After my op, I learnt to be true to myself, whether happy, sad, angry or hurt. I realised that bottling up was unhealthy, and if it really bothered me, I should say or do something to make the issue or trouble go away. Because life can only be so short.
But then I've also come to reflect upon my painstakingly developed sense of tolerance over the past 10 years. Is that now an effort gone to waste?
I feel like I've returned to those primary and secondary school years.
Today, I was confronted for making her upset. What about me and how I felt? If I had been calculative, I would have been angry for the past 10 years, but I wasn't. Not until now that things have changed.
After my op, I learnt to be true to myself, whether happy, sad, angry or hurt. I realised that bottling up was unhealthy, and if it really bothered me, I should say or do something to make the issue or trouble go away. Because life can only be so short.
But then I've also come to reflect upon my painstakingly developed sense of tolerance over the past 10 years. Is that now an effort gone to waste?
I feel like I've returned to those primary and secondary school years.
August 8, 2009
Some Stats & Facts
I had 3 IV catheters inserted into my arms. Most patients really only need 1.
In this entire hospitalization episode, I had 6 blood tests done.
My op took less than 2 hours. I was second in Doc's line of 6 patients to be operated on that day.
I lost 30% of my blood in total, which is equal to approximately 1.5 litres.
Loss of blood is called hypovolemia, while low blood pressure is called hypotension, both of which caused me to faint (called syncope).
I fainted twice.
My BP dropped to the fifties when I passed out.
I had 2 bags of blood transfused. 800ml in total.
My fibroid was 13 x 9 x 8 cm.
My incision scar is about 11 cm long.
Flesh around my incision site is now devoid of sensation. The numbness is weird!
I lost 3kg after the ordeal.
Post-surgery, I stopped sneezing for 30 days. My first sneeze a month after op didn't feel too bad on the wound.
I laughed on Day 4 post-op though. Wow that felt like I was busting my gut!
In this entire hospitalization episode, I had 6 blood tests done.
My op took less than 2 hours. I was second in Doc's line of 6 patients to be operated on that day.
I lost 30% of my blood in total, which is equal to approximately 1.5 litres.
Loss of blood is called hypovolemia, while low blood pressure is called hypotension, both of which caused me to faint (called syncope).
I fainted twice.
My BP dropped to the fifties when I passed out.
I had 2 bags of blood transfused. 800ml in total.
My fibroid was 13 x 9 x 8 cm.
My incision scar is about 11 cm long.
Flesh around my incision site is now devoid of sensation. The numbness is weird!
I lost 3kg after the ordeal.
Post-surgery, I stopped sneezing for 30 days. My first sneeze a month after op didn't feel too bad on the wound.
I laughed on Day 4 post-op though. Wow that felt like I was busting my gut!
July 21, 2009
The REAL Ordeal
As I was telling everyone, the excitement was really not in the surgery, but in the post-op complications. At least for me.
I awoke in my first-class ward (heehee), blurry, immobile and very thirsty. I did not realize that I was a "nil by mouth" patient as I had not anticipated my procedure to be quite serious enough to warrant it. There were also several other things that I was hooked up to while knocked out cold. A urine catheter was inserted into you-know-where. I thought it would hurt, but that's probably under normal circumstances. With the PCA black box, however, not even the incision wound stung, let alone the urine tube. I was also on the drip, as expected.
Anyway, one of the first faces I saw was Derrick, who came by with a pretty bouquet of sunflowers in the evening. Aaron came with apples and oranges. A whole box of tonics were also delivered, courtesy of company. I was quite groggy then. He, meanwhile, came much later in the night and fell asleep at my bedside before leaving at 1am. Mom spent the night on the couch.
I couldn't sleep soundly through the night, being woken up almost every hour by nurses to change my drip, clear my urine bag, take my BP and temperature. Gah. Medication was also intravenously fed. The worst thing that kept me awake, however, was the onset of shivers. I wasn't cold, but the involuntary teeth chattering, muscle spasms clenching my thighs and body shivers that lasted more than a few moments frightened me. I couldn't help it but didn't know why it was happening to me.
The next morning, I was finally given some Milo. I usually hate Milo but my first drink after 30 hours never felt so good. The anaesthetist also came in check on me. He said that the shivers were probably an after-effect of the GA and would go away (ya right on hindsight). Doc also came in to check on me and wanted me to try getting up, so he could remove the urine catheter and discharge me soon. He said that the fibroid had been really bloody, and I lost 15% of my blood in the process. Phew.
So the physiotherapist tried to get me to transfer to the hospital armchair. It was an effort alone to sit up without any back support. After waiting a few moments, I tried to stand. The moment I did, all hell broke loose. Blood rushed from my head and I blacked out. I was hastily lowered onto the armchair. I couldn't hold my head up or control any of my limbs. My vision swam. I was losing consciousness, as the physiotherapist kept calling me to stay with her.
Blink, close, blink close. It was hard enough keeping my eyes open. Then the painful retching made me throw up foam and Milo. The effort felt like a hammer hitting on my wound. I don't remember how I was transferred, but I was back to lying horizontally on the bed.
No more heroic acts for today, including getting off the bed. The urine bag stayed. So did the drip, as I wasn't eating well yet. The PCA, however, was removed. I was also made to wear horribly tight anti-DVT socks that stretched up to my mid-thighs.
The fainting spell, meanwhile, was attributed to the op. There's Part 2 to this story, but later.
Lunch was a few pieces of fish and some mouthfuls of soup, courtesy of Janice & Ade. Corinne kept me company as well. It was pretty scary trying to talk. I kept losing breath. How did an op manage to zap so much of my energy??
More meds came through the IV, as with an anti-clotting injection. The doctor was afraid I would develop the fatal DVT. Aside: I could actually feel the antibiotic burn my bloodstream as it was injected. Ouch.
The evening passed quite uneventfully. Thank God. Slight fever but nothing serious. Back and the heels of my legs were starting to ache with little movement though. Bro helped by massaging my feet. My left hand was swelling slightly due to the IV catheter as well.
It was another night of interrupted rest as a result of a slight fever. He took over Mom's overnight duty. In order to ensure I could wake the sleepyhead, he moved the couch right beside me so I could literally slap him awake. Which I did in the morning when the nurses came to check on me. Hah.
Day 3. I could now order my breakfast, morning break, lunch and dinner from the menu! I think I would have been seriously overfed, if not for my complete loss of appetite. There were five meals served! Doc came by again in the early afternoon to show me my fibroid. Gosh it was HUGE! And bloody. And chopped up, since there was no way he could get it out of the smaller incision.
Doc also wanted me to walk today. The pressure bandage on my wound was removed. My urine bag was removed. So was my IV catheter. Both didn't hurt. So insertion He was hoping to discharge me already, you see.
Big mistake.
Since I had fairly good energy levels, Mom encouraged me to try sitting by the couch first. I managed to transfer myself slowly. Hmm no dizziness, I thought happily to myself. I sat there and rewarded myself with two McNuggets.
Ok time to try getting to the bathroom. Mom hoisted me by my left armpit, Bro on my right. It was very slow progress. Halfway through the approximately 5m route, I started to pant heavily. I felt myself leaning heavily on my supports. I don't remember how, but by the time I was seated on the toilet seat, I was about to faint. Again.
I could feel the symptoms washing over me and gasped for Bro to get the nurse. Blackout again. My body hung limp as my mom supported my chin and repeatedly asked me to open my eyes. I could hear her but my body did not work of my own volition. I was deathly white (according to Mom). One nurse came in, then a houseman, then two more nurses. It was pandemonium.
I can't remember exactly what they did in those few moments. Might have been a BP check or something. The mayhem, coupled with my near loss of consciousnessness, made the initial details blurry. That is, until I heard the houseman wanting to poke me again. No actually it was the pain that brought me back, albeit only slightly. For that moment, I thought he had injected something into me. In reality, the pain came from the immense tightness of the surgical glove he had wrapped upon my left upper arm, in an attempt to insert an IV catheter. He failed to get my vein. (I only knew the details on hindsight, with Mom helping to fill the gaps.)
A staff nurse then suggested she would try on my right. It was then I realized they were trying to inject something into me. The reality of the feared IV insertion still had not sunk in. In my fear of needles, I think I protested weakly, "No I'm okay." My eyes remained closed. Obviously no one heard me.
You know, there is a reason that an LA jab is needed to insert the IV catheter, okay? Because it darn hurts. That was when I finally managed to blink open my eyes. The sitting position must have helped me to regain some consciousness as well. My first blink captured some disturbance. Hmm what's happening? My eyes shut again. My next blink saw the nurse spreading a waterproof sheet on her lap as she knelt beside me. Back to blackness. Then owwww! The IV catheter was in. Wow that hurt. (Again Mom filled in the details - apparently nurse's hands were all stained with my blood as the IV catheter went in. I only recalled dried bits on blood on the transparent plaster afterwards.)
At that point, I think I must have heard the houseman saying I needed to be quickly flooded with the drip, and another IV had to be inserted. Oh that was the keyword needed to jolt me awake. "I'm okay," I protested rather lamely again.
Oh god regaining some consciousness made the pain at the back of my right hand hurt even more...
It was still pretty chaotic, as it was Sunday and the ward was obviously short-handed. I remember the houseman's mobile ringing several times, and a nurse being berated for attempting to summon him, given that he was trapped in my crisis. Doc then said he needed me back on the bed, since there was little space to maneuver in the bathroom. They pushed the movable commode seat in to transport me. Everything became much clearer after I lay down. I was hooked up to oxygen that helped me breathe, in addition to some machine regulating the two IV drips. The nurses pasted little bits of stickers all over my chest to do an ECG. It was pretty scary being all wired up.
Some rest ensued. Again I don't remember much, but I presume a blood test must have been conducted to obtain my haemoglobin (HB) levels. The houseman came in to give his recommendation, and I jibed him for the painful jabs. He stared at me blankly. Poor guy must have been pretty spooked out by me. But then he panicked when that was the last thing he should have done! Oh well he's a trainee, what to do?
In the end, I was told that I needed blood transfusion, something that my attending surgeon had so far avoided. There are possibly repercussions from taking someone else's blood, mostly in the range of allergies and such. Both mom and I glanced suspiciously at Mr Barry Houseman, and asked if it was absolutely necessary. He said so without much conviction, even though we were told that the opinion concurred with the senior doctor. At that point, it sure felt like I was putting my health in the hands of a guy younger than myself... Yeah he looked closer to Bro's age than mine. Goodness...
I signed the indemnity form accepting the possibility of negative reactions to the two packs of blood I was to receive, but it was almost midnight before the lifeline arrived from the Blood Bank.
Meanwhile, he came back to hospital, after going home for a shower and nap. "You missed all the excitement!" Mom exclaimed. He looked blankly at my wasted face roped with the oxygen tubing, and said: "How come she's like that? I was only gone for a few hours."
Sigh.
Oh by the way, oxygen smells different from regular air. How should I describe it? It's not unpleasant at all, but there is a faint tinge of chemical about it? I definitely prefer fresh mountain air in any case.
The bedpan was also a rather novel experience! I only had to lift my backside for them to slide it under me. Although urine would flow to the back, it never once dripped onto the bed, despite my lying position. Amazing...
I was groggy with sleep when the blood pack finally came. Nurses checked in regularly on my transfusion progress, but it was moving too slowly and the blood was due to expire five hours from the start of the process. The pack was therefore inflated to exert pressure on the inward flow.
It HURT. My arm ached like someone was massaging my muscles that have raised dumbbells a thousand million times. I whimpered.
Unfortunately, I got no sympathy, except a "Just bear with it". I cried and cried, and called for Mom to come back quickly. Poor me.
Thankfully, the second pack of blood went in quickly. Three hours. No allergies. I slept like a baby after the emotional outburst.
Monday. Doc came early morning before his ops to check on me. Apparently, I had lost another 15% of my blood, making it a total of 30%. Doc didn't know where it went to, however. Internal bleeding possibly.
The blood worked like a lifeline though. I could sit up without back support, and transfer to the commode to do my business. Doc was keeping me another day for observation, just to ensure my blood count was stable.
Lunch was a busy affair. Colleagues and Corinne came.
I later attempted to walk to the toilet with Mom's help. Yay success! No fainting. Thank goodness. I also got to wash my hair for the first time since my admission. It was really oily and stinky by then. Yuck. Mom made a mess out of the washing though. Water and hair everywhere!
I slept the best on Monday night. The nurses pretty much left me to my own devices.
Tuesday morning was a flurry of activity before I was discharged. I had my blood test taken again, a visit from Doc, the physiotherapist, the pharmacist, and finally, finally, all the IV catheters removed.
It was strange seeing the outside of my room for the first time. I had been in the ward for four days, but I had never seen how it was really like in the hallways.
The heat, bustle and sunlight outside also hit me. I felt as if I was returning to civilization after a long time.
I awoke in my first-class ward (heehee), blurry, immobile and very thirsty. I did not realize that I was a "nil by mouth" patient as I had not anticipated my procedure to be quite serious enough to warrant it. There were also several other things that I was hooked up to while knocked out cold. A urine catheter was inserted into you-know-where. I thought it would hurt, but that's probably under normal circumstances. With the PCA black box, however, not even the incision wound stung, let alone the urine tube. I was also on the drip, as expected.
Anyway, one of the first faces I saw was Derrick, who came by with a pretty bouquet of sunflowers in the evening. Aaron came with apples and oranges. A whole box of tonics were also delivered, courtesy of company. I was quite groggy then. He, meanwhile, came much later in the night and fell asleep at my bedside before leaving at 1am. Mom spent the night on the couch.
I couldn't sleep soundly through the night, being woken up almost every hour by nurses to change my drip, clear my urine bag, take my BP and temperature. Gah. Medication was also intravenously fed. The worst thing that kept me awake, however, was the onset of shivers. I wasn't cold, but the involuntary teeth chattering, muscle spasms clenching my thighs and body shivers that lasted more than a few moments frightened me. I couldn't help it but didn't know why it was happening to me.
The next morning, I was finally given some Milo. I usually hate Milo but my first drink after 30 hours never felt so good. The anaesthetist also came in check on me. He said that the shivers were probably an after-effect of the GA and would go away (ya right on hindsight). Doc also came in to check on me and wanted me to try getting up, so he could remove the urine catheter and discharge me soon. He said that the fibroid had been really bloody, and I lost 15% of my blood in the process. Phew.
So the physiotherapist tried to get me to transfer to the hospital armchair. It was an effort alone to sit up without any back support. After waiting a few moments, I tried to stand. The moment I did, all hell broke loose. Blood rushed from my head and I blacked out. I was hastily lowered onto the armchair. I couldn't hold my head up or control any of my limbs. My vision swam. I was losing consciousness, as the physiotherapist kept calling me to stay with her.
Blink, close, blink close. It was hard enough keeping my eyes open. Then the painful retching made me throw up foam and Milo. The effort felt like a hammer hitting on my wound. I don't remember how I was transferred, but I was back to lying horizontally on the bed.
No more heroic acts for today, including getting off the bed. The urine bag stayed. So did the drip, as I wasn't eating well yet. The PCA, however, was removed. I was also made to wear horribly tight anti-DVT socks that stretched up to my mid-thighs.
The fainting spell, meanwhile, was attributed to the op. There's Part 2 to this story, but later.
Lunch was a few pieces of fish and some mouthfuls of soup, courtesy of Janice & Ade. Corinne kept me company as well. It was pretty scary trying to talk. I kept losing breath. How did an op manage to zap so much of my energy??
More meds came through the IV, as with an anti-clotting injection. The doctor was afraid I would develop the fatal DVT. Aside: I could actually feel the antibiotic burn my bloodstream as it was injected. Ouch.
The evening passed quite uneventfully. Thank God. Slight fever but nothing serious. Back and the heels of my legs were starting to ache with little movement though. Bro helped by massaging my feet. My left hand was swelling slightly due to the IV catheter as well.
It was another night of interrupted rest as a result of a slight fever. He took over Mom's overnight duty. In order to ensure I could wake the sleepyhead, he moved the couch right beside me so I could literally slap him awake. Which I did in the morning when the nurses came to check on me. Hah.
Day 3. I could now order my breakfast, morning break, lunch and dinner from the menu! I think I would have been seriously overfed, if not for my complete loss of appetite. There were five meals served! Doc came by again in the early afternoon to show me my fibroid. Gosh it was HUGE! And bloody. And chopped up, since there was no way he could get it out of the smaller incision.
Doc also wanted me to walk today. The pressure bandage on my wound was removed. My urine bag was removed. So was my IV catheter. Both didn't hurt. So insertion He was hoping to discharge me already, you see.
Big mistake.
Since I had fairly good energy levels, Mom encouraged me to try sitting by the couch first. I managed to transfer myself slowly. Hmm no dizziness, I thought happily to myself. I sat there and rewarded myself with two McNuggets.
Ok time to try getting to the bathroom. Mom hoisted me by my left armpit, Bro on my right. It was very slow progress. Halfway through the approximately 5m route, I started to pant heavily. I felt myself leaning heavily on my supports. I don't remember how, but by the time I was seated on the toilet seat, I was about to faint. Again.
I could feel the symptoms washing over me and gasped for Bro to get the nurse. Blackout again. My body hung limp as my mom supported my chin and repeatedly asked me to open my eyes. I could hear her but my body did not work of my own volition. I was deathly white (according to Mom). One nurse came in, then a houseman, then two more nurses. It was pandemonium.
I can't remember exactly what they did in those few moments. Might have been a BP check or something. The mayhem, coupled with my near loss of consciousnessness, made the initial details blurry. That is, until I heard the houseman wanting to poke me again. No actually it was the pain that brought me back, albeit only slightly. For that moment, I thought he had injected something into me. In reality, the pain came from the immense tightness of the surgical glove he had wrapped upon my left upper arm, in an attempt to insert an IV catheter. He failed to get my vein. (I only knew the details on hindsight, with Mom helping to fill the gaps.)
A staff nurse then suggested she would try on my right. It was then I realized they were trying to inject something into me. The reality of the feared IV insertion still had not sunk in. In my fear of needles, I think I protested weakly, "No I'm okay." My eyes remained closed. Obviously no one heard me.
You know, there is a reason that an LA jab is needed to insert the IV catheter, okay? Because it darn hurts. That was when I finally managed to blink open my eyes. The sitting position must have helped me to regain some consciousness as well. My first blink captured some disturbance. Hmm what's happening? My eyes shut again. My next blink saw the nurse spreading a waterproof sheet on her lap as she knelt beside me. Back to blackness. Then owwww! The IV catheter was in. Wow that hurt. (Again Mom filled in the details - apparently nurse's hands were all stained with my blood as the IV catheter went in. I only recalled dried bits on blood on the transparent plaster afterwards.)
At that point, I think I must have heard the houseman saying I needed to be quickly flooded with the drip, and another IV had to be inserted. Oh that was the keyword needed to jolt me awake. "I'm okay," I protested rather lamely again.
Oh god regaining some consciousness made the pain at the back of my right hand hurt even more...
It was still pretty chaotic, as it was Sunday and the ward was obviously short-handed. I remember the houseman's mobile ringing several times, and a nurse being berated for attempting to summon him, given that he was trapped in my crisis. Doc then said he needed me back on the bed, since there was little space to maneuver in the bathroom. They pushed the movable commode seat in to transport me. Everything became much clearer after I lay down. I was hooked up to oxygen that helped me breathe, in addition to some machine regulating the two IV drips. The nurses pasted little bits of stickers all over my chest to do an ECG. It was pretty scary being all wired up.
Some rest ensued. Again I don't remember much, but I presume a blood test must have been conducted to obtain my haemoglobin (HB) levels. The houseman came in to give his recommendation, and I jibed him for the painful jabs. He stared at me blankly. Poor guy must have been pretty spooked out by me. But then he panicked when that was the last thing he should have done! Oh well he's a trainee, what to do?
In the end, I was told that I needed blood transfusion, something that my attending surgeon had so far avoided. There are possibly repercussions from taking someone else's blood, mostly in the range of allergies and such. Both mom and I glanced suspiciously at Mr Barry Houseman, and asked if it was absolutely necessary. He said so without much conviction, even though we were told that the opinion concurred with the senior doctor. At that point, it sure felt like I was putting my health in the hands of a guy younger than myself... Yeah he looked closer to Bro's age than mine. Goodness...
I signed the indemnity form accepting the possibility of negative reactions to the two packs of blood I was to receive, but it was almost midnight before the lifeline arrived from the Blood Bank.
Meanwhile, he came back to hospital, after going home for a shower and nap. "You missed all the excitement!" Mom exclaimed. He looked blankly at my wasted face roped with the oxygen tubing, and said: "How come she's like that? I was only gone for a few hours."
Sigh.
Oh by the way, oxygen smells different from regular air. How should I describe it? It's not unpleasant at all, but there is a faint tinge of chemical about it? I definitely prefer fresh mountain air in any case.
The bedpan was also a rather novel experience! I only had to lift my backside for them to slide it under me. Although urine would flow to the back, it never once dripped onto the bed, despite my lying position. Amazing...
I was groggy with sleep when the blood pack finally came. Nurses checked in regularly on my transfusion progress, but it was moving too slowly and the blood was due to expire five hours from the start of the process. The pack was therefore inflated to exert pressure on the inward flow.
It HURT. My arm ached like someone was massaging my muscles that have raised dumbbells a thousand million times. I whimpered.
Unfortunately, I got no sympathy, except a "Just bear with it". I cried and cried, and called for Mom to come back quickly. Poor me.
Thankfully, the second pack of blood went in quickly. Three hours. No allergies. I slept like a baby after the emotional outburst.
Monday. Doc came early morning before his ops to check on me. Apparently, I had lost another 15% of my blood, making it a total of 30%. Doc didn't know where it went to, however. Internal bleeding possibly.
The blood worked like a lifeline though. I could sit up without back support, and transfer to the commode to do my business. Doc was keeping me another day for observation, just to ensure my blood count was stable.
Lunch was a busy affair. Colleagues and Corinne came.
I later attempted to walk to the toilet with Mom's help. Yay success! No fainting. Thank goodness. I also got to wash my hair for the first time since my admission. It was really oily and stinky by then. Yuck. Mom made a mess out of the washing though. Water and hair everywhere!
I slept the best on Monday night. The nurses pretty much left me to my own devices.
Tuesday morning was a flurry of activity before I was discharged. I had my blood test taken again, a visit from Doc, the physiotherapist, the pharmacist, and finally, finally, all the IV catheters removed.
It was strange seeing the outside of my room for the first time. I had been in the ward for four days, but I had never seen how it was really like in the hallways.
The heat, bustle and sunlight outside also hit me. I felt as if I was returning to civilization after a long time.
July 13, 2009
Some Realizations
Interestingly enough, drawing of blood on the forearm doesn't hurt as much as trying to take out the pressure band aid after that.
Similarly, the surgical glove used to tie my arm before inserting the IV catheter hurts as much as the injection itself.
Open surgery really only hurts immediately after. And it seriously hurts. But only a while, like perhaps two minutes. When the painkillers hit the blood stream, things become more tolerable.
Having a urinary catheter stops all natural urge of peeing. The urine flows freely into the drainage bag without any volition. And it doesn't really hurt. Or maybe I just didn't feel it, being so drugged up.
Lying in bed is tiring. When movement is limited by tubes and a recent incision scar, backache is the order of the day.
Similarly, having to lie on the back also means very sore heels, given that the weight of the legs pivots there.
IV catheters don't hurt after they've been inserted. The tubes are made of flexible material, so hands and arms are allowed to bend and move around.
Blood transfusion can hurt. When veins are small, the inflow can be very slow, resulting in possible expiry of the blood. Pressure is then increased to "force" the blood in. The arm ache feels like someone massaging muscles that have raised dumbbells a thousand million times.
Fainting is scary, unlike dramatizations in the movies. All control of the body is lost. As much as I struggled to even open my eyes, I couldn't do it, as much as I could hear people calling me to keep me conscious.
Hospitalization hardly qualifies as rest. Nurses interrupt sleep throughout the night to take temperatures and BPs. The purpose of being hospitalized, is really to be monitored.
The effect of a GA is almost instantaneous. No psychedelic shapes or wandering thoughts. It's awake one second, knocked out next moment. The anesthetist hardly had time to say goodnight, sweet dreams before all consciousness is lost.
Similarly, the surgical glove used to tie my arm before inserting the IV catheter hurts as much as the injection itself.
Open surgery really only hurts immediately after. And it seriously hurts. But only a while, like perhaps two minutes. When the painkillers hit the blood stream, things become more tolerable.
Having a urinary catheter stops all natural urge of peeing. The urine flows freely into the drainage bag without any volition. And it doesn't really hurt. Or maybe I just didn't feel it, being so drugged up.
Lying in bed is tiring. When movement is limited by tubes and a recent incision scar, backache is the order of the day.
Similarly, having to lie on the back also means very sore heels, given that the weight of the legs pivots there.
IV catheters don't hurt after they've been inserted. The tubes are made of flexible material, so hands and arms are allowed to bend and move around.
Blood transfusion can hurt. When veins are small, the inflow can be very slow, resulting in possible expiry of the blood. Pressure is then increased to "force" the blood in. The arm ache feels like someone massaging muscles that have raised dumbbells a thousand million times.
Fainting is scary, unlike dramatizations in the movies. All control of the body is lost. As much as I struggled to even open my eyes, I couldn't do it, as much as I could hear people calling me to keep me conscious.
Hospitalization hardly qualifies as rest. Nurses interrupt sleep throughout the night to take temperatures and BPs. The purpose of being hospitalized, is really to be monitored.
The effect of a GA is almost instantaneous. No psychedelic shapes or wandering thoughts. It's awake one second, knocked out next moment. The anesthetist hardly had time to say goodnight, sweet dreams before all consciousness is lost.
July 12, 2009
The Ordeal
Let me clarify. I've never stayed in a hospital before, not even to nurse someone. I even hate injections. The idea of an IV tube makes me cringe. But days after the diagnosis, I came to acceptance and braced myself for the open myomectomy.
Because it is a momentous experience, I hope to detail the entire course of events. And to also clear some misconceptions about ops in the meantime.
The ordeal really began the night before. I was told to take laxatives to clear my bowels. I didn't just empty my stools. The diarrhea that lasted the whole night completely cleared my entire digestive system. I didn't even have to worry about the midnight fasting rule, since I was in the toilet most of the time.
Blurry and tired from the night's exhaustions, I woke up at an unearthly 6.30am to shower, in anticipation of the inability to do so in the next few days. Dad drove Mom and I to the hospital. It was a cool, serene morning.
It was all quiet at the admissions area. I was instructed to head to the 24-hour clinic, where I was directly prepped for surgery at 10am. I changed into operating robes and disposable underwear. My hair was kept in a net similar to a shower cap. My slippers were given plastic covers. I waited in hunger.
While I had come to terms with the op, Mom had worry written all over her face, as the reality of the situation finally sank in. I texted everyone about my ward number, in an attempt to distract myself from the fear. Words of encouragement poured in.
10am came and went. Doc's earlier op had been delayed. I was ushered into my ward to wait. Goodness, the place looked like a hotel! Replete with flat screen TV, tasteful furnishings and even daily newspaper, I was deeply impressed. Being a single bedder definitely has its perks.
An hour later, a nurse came to fetch me down to the operating theater. The time had come to be slaughtered.
Mom came with me to the second floor via the private elevators for medical staff. As I passed the doors into the restricted area, leaving my mom to wait outside, the fear and sense of being lost really hit home.
The nurse led me to a couch to wait. There were magazines for browsing, and music playing softly in the background. An environment obviously designed to calm nerves. My fear and confusion completely distracted me from discerning what the songs were about. But at the back of my head, they vaguely sounded like Christian hymns of hope, faith and comfort. I started to tear.
The nurses were very kind. One of them wrapped me in a thick blanket, and passed me a box of tissues. I changed into ops slippers. A short while later, I was led to a long corridor that was flanked by doors to each operating theater.
The antechamber held a trolley bed and some cabinets. I was instructed to climb up to it. The nurses confirmed my name and ID several times, and asked me if I knew what op I was undergoing. I was shaking. Again, they were incredibly kind and kept reassuring me. A medical intern came out of the theater and spent several minutes chatting with me. That helped to keep my fear at bay and imagination from running wild.
The anesthetist came in to hook me up with an IV catheter. I honestly couldn't decide if the incision would be scarier or the catheter, which I knew was huge compared to my tiny wrist and veins. "I'll be injecting a local anesthesia on your hand before inserting the IV, and it'll feel like a tiny bee sting. Have you been stung before?" asked the anesthetist. I breathed a sigh of relief. True to his words, I only felt the tiny bite of the LA but not the insertion of the IV.
I was also told that the GA would be administered via the IV, while a tube was inserted into my throat, after I've been knocked out, to help me breathe better during the surgery (intubation). No worries of a blocked nose or phelgm in the throat then. After the op, I would be brought to a recovery room to monitor my vitals. I would also be given medication to reverse the GA process. As I awaken, I would be extubated. The anesthetist also asked if I wanted to keep the PCA after I was back in my ward. PCA refers to Patient Controlled Anesthesia, a black box with a button that allows me to decide if I need medication injected intraveously to reduce the pain. I didn't know what my pain threshold was, given that I haven't undergone any surgery before. I honestly told him that, and he recommended that I keep the option available meanwhile (very good idea on hindsight).
Soon I was pushed into the theater. I barely had time to register my new surroundings before I was gently instructed to shift onto the operating table. People were bustling around me. My finger was clipped to a heartbeat monitor. I was fed oxygen through a mask. My anesthetist said he was injecting the drugs, and wished me goodnight and sweet dreams. He barely repeated it afterwhich I instanteously lost consciousnessness.
I awoke to this incredible pain that made tearing inevitable. I was drowsy and hardly registering the nurses bustling around me, yet my tears kept flowing. I moaned. They quickly hooked up the PCA and shoved the black button into my hand, urging me to press it. I did, multiple times in fact. Still, it took a minute or two for the drugs to kick in. Meanwhile, I grabbed a nurse's hand in a vice-like grip, attempting to convey the pain. Groggily, I overheard someone saying, "She's feeling very painful."
I lost consciousness again...
I felt myself being rolled out of the restricted area. I heard my mom exclaim, "Oh she's out. She's out."
I knocked out again.
I don't remember much of my first few hours in the ward. It was a cycle of awakening to pain, depressing the PCA, and falling back to sleep again.
Because it is a momentous experience, I hope to detail the entire course of events. And to also clear some misconceptions about ops in the meantime.
The ordeal really began the night before. I was told to take laxatives to clear my bowels. I didn't just empty my stools. The diarrhea that lasted the whole night completely cleared my entire digestive system. I didn't even have to worry about the midnight fasting rule, since I was in the toilet most of the time.
Blurry and tired from the night's exhaustions, I woke up at an unearthly 6.30am to shower, in anticipation of the inability to do so in the next few days. Dad drove Mom and I to the hospital. It was a cool, serene morning.
It was all quiet at the admissions area. I was instructed to head to the 24-hour clinic, where I was directly prepped for surgery at 10am. I changed into operating robes and disposable underwear. My hair was kept in a net similar to a shower cap. My slippers were given plastic covers. I waited in hunger.
While I had come to terms with the op, Mom had worry written all over her face, as the reality of the situation finally sank in. I texted everyone about my ward number, in an attempt to distract myself from the fear. Words of encouragement poured in.
10am came and went. Doc's earlier op had been delayed. I was ushered into my ward to wait. Goodness, the place looked like a hotel! Replete with flat screen TV, tasteful furnishings and even daily newspaper, I was deeply impressed. Being a single bedder definitely has its perks.
An hour later, a nurse came to fetch me down to the operating theater. The time had come to be slaughtered.
Mom came with me to the second floor via the private elevators for medical staff. As I passed the doors into the restricted area, leaving my mom to wait outside, the fear and sense of being lost really hit home.
The nurse led me to a couch to wait. There were magazines for browsing, and music playing softly in the background. An environment obviously designed to calm nerves. My fear and confusion completely distracted me from discerning what the songs were about. But at the back of my head, they vaguely sounded like Christian hymns of hope, faith and comfort. I started to tear.
The nurses were very kind. One of them wrapped me in a thick blanket, and passed me a box of tissues. I changed into ops slippers. A short while later, I was led to a long corridor that was flanked by doors to each operating theater.
The antechamber held a trolley bed and some cabinets. I was instructed to climb up to it. The nurses confirmed my name and ID several times, and asked me if I knew what op I was undergoing. I was shaking. Again, they were incredibly kind and kept reassuring me. A medical intern came out of the theater and spent several minutes chatting with me. That helped to keep my fear at bay and imagination from running wild.
The anesthetist came in to hook me up with an IV catheter. I honestly couldn't decide if the incision would be scarier or the catheter, which I knew was huge compared to my tiny wrist and veins. "I'll be injecting a local anesthesia on your hand before inserting the IV, and it'll feel like a tiny bee sting. Have you been stung before?" asked the anesthetist. I breathed a sigh of relief. True to his words, I only felt the tiny bite of the LA but not the insertion of the IV.
I was also told that the GA would be administered via the IV, while a tube was inserted into my throat, after I've been knocked out, to help me breathe better during the surgery (intubation). No worries of a blocked nose or phelgm in the throat then. After the op, I would be brought to a recovery room to monitor my vitals. I would also be given medication to reverse the GA process. As I awaken, I would be extubated. The anesthetist also asked if I wanted to keep the PCA after I was back in my ward. PCA refers to Patient Controlled Anesthesia, a black box with a button that allows me to decide if I need medication injected intraveously to reduce the pain. I didn't know what my pain threshold was, given that I haven't undergone any surgery before. I honestly told him that, and he recommended that I keep the option available meanwhile (very good idea on hindsight).
Soon I was pushed into the theater. I barely had time to register my new surroundings before I was gently instructed to shift onto the operating table. People were bustling around me. My finger was clipped to a heartbeat monitor. I was fed oxygen through a mask. My anesthetist said he was injecting the drugs, and wished me goodnight and sweet dreams. He barely repeated it afterwhich I instanteously lost consciousnessness.
I awoke to this incredible pain that made tearing inevitable. I was drowsy and hardly registering the nurses bustling around me, yet my tears kept flowing. I moaned. They quickly hooked up the PCA and shoved the black button into my hand, urging me to press it. I did, multiple times in fact. Still, it took a minute or two for the drugs to kick in. Meanwhile, I grabbed a nurse's hand in a vice-like grip, attempting to convey the pain. Groggily, I overheard someone saying, "She's feeling very painful."
I lost consciousness again...
I felt myself being rolled out of the restricted area. I heard my mom exclaim, "Oh she's out. She's out."
I knocked out again.
I don't remember much of my first few hours in the ward. It was a cycle of awakening to pain, depressing the PCA, and falling back to sleep again.
July 10, 2009
June 24, 2009
In a Happy Place
The op's been booked. We made up. I finished my 10,000-word report.
All in all, things are looking up. I'm thinking of going shopping because I'm happy.
All in all, things are looking up. I'm thinking of going shopping because I'm happy.
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