Recovery
20 July 2022
I wake up in recovery. Hoping like crazy they didn’t have to do-a-Janice on me. There is a nurse immediately there. Dazed, trying to get my bearings. There are about 16 beds in recovery, only one other person – a guy about my age across on the far wall. I wonder what he’s just had done … A wardie comes and wheels him away.
I’m wired-up and still have an oxygen mask on. My throat feels like I’ve smoked a pack of Winnie Reds and sculled a dozen shots of cheap tequila. I ask for some ice cubes (knowing that’s all I will be permitted). She obliges – even gives me two. Sweet sweet water.
An elderly patient is wheeled in and parked next to me. He looks and sounds like John Jarratt in Wolf Creek. Maybe he’s had a tube stuck down his throat too. He is hacking and coughing. My gown is loose and the radioactive blue breasticle is popping out which makes me feel a bit self-conscious. Seems an odd choice to put him right next to me when there is ample space in the recovery room …. perhaps they’re trying to economise on covid-cleaning. They top up my pain and anti-nausea meds which help drown out his ocker drawl. I drift off to sleep.
I enjoy the trip to the ward. It is like being on a gentle train journey, sailing along the corridors, slightly high. The wardie navigates the twists and turns expertly – not a jolt or a jump. He slows – and apologises – as he approaches a small bump through a doorway. I wonder if they go to bed-moving classes and get rated on their skills … he is definitely 5-star.
The same lovely young orderly brings in my bags and puts them within reach on the chair next to the bed, gives me the ‘call’ button, dims the lights then closes the door behind him. I look around groggily. I’ve missed the dinner run but they bring me (someone else’s) food. I scoff it before they work out it was meant for another patient. Starving. Then my meagre meal arrives – a snack box with a ham and cheese sandwich, some cheese and crackers and an apple. I eat the sandwich then squirrel the rest away for ‘ron. I have a feeling it will be slim pickings for the rest of the evening.
I have my own room – I catch a fleeting glimpse of the Telstra tower before the sun disappears. The old man in the room next to me has no idea of personal space. His TV is at maximum volume and he rings all and sundry – on speaker – to tell them about his surgery. Thankfully I’ve brought my noise cancelling headphones (quite possibly the best item I packed).
I’m parked-up with the bed inclined (so want to lie down to sleep … wish I’d brought my feather pillow from home). I’m attached to a saline drip. Blood pressure, oxygen and temp checked every half hour for first two hours then every hour for the next two hours. Pain meds administered. I still have my leg compression stockings on and the compression bands over the top of those. People come and go from the room, I present my arm when needed to check BP and oxygen, sleep haphazardly, limbs akimbo, wild hair tangled in tubes and oxygen mask straps. My bed resembles a mosh pit and I'm rocking a Bjork-meets-stoned-Courtney-Love-look. I don’t care, so so tired.
I sense they have put the young-uns on the less desirable nightshift. The lass who introduces herself as ‘one of the night nurses’ is sweet … but distracted. I ask repeatedly to have my water jug filled (I’ve still got an IV in so not able to move around easily). Later in the evening I tell her I want to go to the toilet (big event) which means disconnecting the drip – or taking it with me. She proceeds to undo the tape on my hand which is holding the needle in. Even I know that is not how you ‘disconnect’ it. She realises her mistake then detaches the tube at a junction in the line and I am free to head off to the toilet. Never mind me trying to use only my right hand – with a cannular and tube attached – to wipe given the left side is out of action. Vague thoughts of keeping-things-sterile cross my mind. Later that evening/in the early hours of the morning she realised she could attach my drip unit to a portable trolley so no need to detach ….
BP, oxygen, temp
The pain has eased from a 7 to a 2. I can feel waves of giddiness and exhaustion. I’ve taken some selfies of the underarm, quite a neat incision. I’m not sure what's going on with the red, 'sunburnt' skin. Question for the doc tomorrow.
Midnight. 1am. 2am. There are buttons dinging everywhere. What do they all mean? Is someone dying? They never stop …. I can’t sleep. It is like a car assembly line. Clanking, beeping. BP, oxygen, temp. They bring me 2 Phenergan tablets which help get me 3 hours sleep.
BP, oxygen, temp
5:30am My drip machine starts beeping. The bag is empty. I buzz the young, slightly inept, disinterested night-nurse who disconnects it. I’m free! She mentions there is a kitchen down the corridor so I potter down to make a cup of tea. Bliss. I pass the night nurse on the way back, she is on her phone. Shift finishes at 6am. I thank her and go back to my room. I hear her telling a colleague she is finishing up at Calvary in 2 weeks time … seems she may have already clocked-off.
The ward is waking up. People start pouring in. First off the mark is the very efficient, bustling duty nurse. I like her. No mucking around. She tells me how the day will roll and warns me to be chill re. discharge time as there are lots of moving parts and things can move slowly. No worries.
6:00am
- Shift change. Duty nurse and offsider check wound
- Random person to stick needle into my stomach (wtf is that for?) anti blood clot meds
- Surgeon’s registrar and duty doctor to check wound, pain
- Breakfast delivered
- Breast care specialist nurse visits
- Person to take lunch order
- Duty doctor to provide discharge papers
- Physio for exercises and scar treatment
- Ben the Pharmacist to take-my-order
- Oh my goodness, nurse to check BP and take cannula out - oh and towels to have a shower!
- Another person: would you like a cup of tea or coffee? Mmm, I see the Blend 43 sachet and politely decline.
- The Cleaner!
- Ben the Pharmacist returns with my stash in a brown paper bag
- Random nurse comes in to say it will be a little longer for paperwork
- Duty nurse arrives with the all important piece of paper saying ‘Abbie can now leave the building’. Yahoo! But wait …. we don’t want you carrying anything down - or walking for that matter - we’ll ring for a wardie.
- Wardie turns up with a wheelchair. Feel like a goose.
Depart: 11:30
The red stuff on my skin is from the antiseptic wash used in surgery – once upon a time it would have been the betadine-colour. The nurse says it will wash off but warns me it stains so perhaps skip the white 2000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets for a spell. What won’t wash off is the blue dye underneath the areola. That will last for a few weeks. The dye from the scan yesterday will linger in my body for a while. It will also turn my pee blue/green which I am curious to see. For the moment, my boob (or what’s left of it) looks like it has been badly tattooed. I’m thinking I was wise not to get a tattoo on that part of my body – if breast cancer didn’t wreck it, gravity was always going to be an issue.
Bloody gravity. Bloody boobs.
The Day After
21 July 2022
I sleep from 8pm to 10am. A first for me. Only problem is I’m now behind on my pain med schedule and body is not in a good place this morning. I shove the first lot of pills in asap.
I have become very fond of the little pillow the Bosom Buddies made me. At night, it looks like a curled up cat in the dark. If I lie on my left, I can nestle the poor broken breasticle in it to get some relief.
I have been instructed to wear a special bra day and night. This bad boy is definitely not from the Victoria's Secret range – or if it is, it’s from the very very secret Victoria's Secret range. It has no less than 6 hooks and eyes at the back – and the front. It has shoulder straps that resemble tow-ropes and elastane fabric so thick and strong, you could use it for bungy jumping or an industrial-strength catapult. It is the chastity belt of bras, no one shall pass. I hate it.
My legs feel wobbly and tingly. No double the fallout from the cocktail of meds.
Shower, eat, do my physio exercises. So sore.
Parcel delivery!
I walk down to get a coffee – slowly but good to be out and about and moving again.