Gas passer – striving for more

Ok, this aint the best way to look at the past few days, but really, this must be recorded.

I needed to have my insides overhauled – had finished producing my children so my system decided the uterus really couldn’t stay unproductive. So the uterus started producing fibroids. Would have been fine, except fibroids are never delivered. They just grow and grow and push things around and generally cause trouble, until of course, you’re too old to produce kids anyway.

Finally, the surgery got scheduled. Here I am, flattened out on a gurney, with a couple of needles poking in. Set one of the surgeons comes around, pushes some papers in front of me and says sign. Oh-kaaay! So, I sign on the dotted line. Then comes the next set, another lot of papers, another signature. Here I’m thinking, would they do the same to someone who’s not a doctor’s wife? I know I’ve read the consent form, but isn’t someone supposed to tell me all the risks? (A different matter that as an anaesthetist’s wife, I probably am a firm believer in Murphy’s law. More can go wrong than one can even begin listing)

Next, I’m rolled in to the OT. Transfer myself to the operating table with huge round lights beaming down on me, like in the fillums. So, tell me, why could I not have just walked in?

Next thing I know I’m waking up, feeling thirsty. Hubby being Hubby, lovingly dabs the parched lips with a wet rag. Swimming in an out of sleep for the next few hours, I’m closely monitored in the post op area – no ICU with seriously ill patients for me to see and scare me(aaaaah! the advantages of being a staff wife).

Time to be shifted to the room. So the blood trolley rattles through corridors, lifts and more corridors and its time to shift to the bed. Now, this takes some doing. 5-6 guys, all hanging on to the sheet below me heave ho at once and there you are, Bob’s you uncle!

Monitors are attached, cuffs tied in place. And the first sips of water administered. The pain med pump is set. Two hrs later, the pump decides its not working and the first of the beeps go off. Bleary eyed, hubby looks into it. Fifteen minutes later, back to the same, and so on through the rest of the night. The nursing staff is in and out through the night. The heart monitor keeps taking my BP at set intervals, crushing my upper arm to smithereens every time. The shoulder begins to ache. The poor nurse is pressed into massaging the shoulder and upper arm. All in all, not a great night, though a lot worse for the attending hubby and nurses-I’m all woozed out, they are the ones working!

Morning arrives with belches, nausea and endless questions about passing gas. At least 7 incidences of hearing to me tum. Meanwhile the loo door malfunctions, locking people in – so am shifted to the next room. Is it the movement, or just that it was bound to happen, the big throw-up arrives. Turn my head, no kidney tray in site, so just throw up all over the freshly changed sheet. A large towel is pressed into service. Soaked through. It’s all out, finally. Feeling much better for it.

The rest of the day is spent in no hunger, no pain, and answering the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Thirst assuaged infrequently with sips of water, and HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Being raised up, lowered, belches, belches and more belches – followed often by a small upchuck of bile laden mucous, checked and the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS?

Yup I’ve been belching, horribly so. No, No – Paaaasing gas??? Yup I have(ain’t that just too indelicate a question to answer?)

A more peaceful night. No monitors going beep. No Big Questions to answer. A midnight top-up of pain killer, right into the spine. Brilliant! No pain. Snooze off once again.

Morning arrives and my left leg decides not to move left to right or vice versa. Shall I press the panic button? Wait a while. Nope. It ain’t getting better… but I remember the incident described on other patients and their reactions. So mention it but keep the panic under wraps. And yes, I PASSED GAS!

Ok, time to remove the catheter that has been quietly removing all the liquid product of my kidneys. A swift pull, and its out. Two hours later, no sensation. I don’t still wanna go. And there’s talk of putting it back in. Disadvantages of a VIP patient. A lot more gets done than absolutely necessary. Thankfully, 3 hrs later, make it to the loo and voila, pass urine on my own and some poop too. Everyone’s happy! No more catheters for me. A fairly peaceful night except for a trip to the loo. Morning arrives, Hubby gets ready for work having checked on the pain med, blood pressure, position, etc. and yes, I continue to Pass Gas.

Now, I’m hungry. Ask for breakfast – just a soft-boiled egg and toast will do. Consternation in all quarters. No, no, we can’t give you food till the consultant says so! She’s not likely to be in for another couple of hours and I’m hungry! My stomach growls. I call the Hubby. Apparently, no patient in recent history has actually ever asked for food on their own. Everyone moans, groans and generally requires cajoling to take in the daily nutrition. Hmmmm. Yup, I’m certifiably nuts. Much consulting later some breakfast is brought in – hard boiled eggs, cornflakes with skim milk and toast. So what If I’ve been growling lactose intolerance.

Couple of humdrum days later – spent alternating with smiles for vistors, bucking up the kids, pain, indigestion, horrible food – with no respect for the lactose intolerance, I’m released. Street Clothes! What a blessing! Hadn’t realized how much the hospital clothes were irritating me. The wheelchair is brought in. Looking around who its for. Certainly not going to be wheeled out. Big battle over this. Hey, I aint a cripple. Eventually have my way and walk out on me own two feet.

Hell yes, I am still PASSING GAS! Too much of it.