Me, Myself and Mommy

To find out what got us to the OR start here…
The Miscarriage – Part 1: The Loss
The Miscarriage – Part 2: Waiting to Move On
The Miscarriage – Part 3: From the ER

It was 3:00AM. As I was being wheeled into Augusta, Rain drops kissed my face . I remember wishing the rain drops were good night kisses, but I knew better. I knew that my night was just beginning, but all I wanted was sleep - uninterrupted sleep.

I was able to bypass the ER at Augusta, and go straight to a unit. When  I was wheeled into my room, a warm and  pleasant nurse was waiting for me. A few moments later my mom arrived.

After checking me out, the nurse asked if I needed anything. I told her I needed warm blankets and ice. She hesitated on the ice, but brought me a cup full anyway. My mom (remember she’s a nurse), gives me a mini lecture on how I can’t have ANY-THING if I’m going to have surgery, not even ice.

Seriously!? Who’s side is she on? I thought she was here to make sure my temperature was taken every two minutes, not to deprive me of ice. Ice is the only thing that has kept me calm and from passing out. I’m convinced my mom is a tough love kind of nurse, and she’s probably not used to much backtalk coming from her patients. CHOMP, mmm ice.

I spent the next hour or so going in and out of consciousness. Steve and my mom talked. They talked a lot. I don’t remember what it was about, but it was a lot. I think I told them to hush-it-up, more than once. In my defense, I was tired, cranky, in pain, drugged, and probably about to have part of my body removed. I think a little ‘tude was warranted.

The time came for the ultrasound. I was terrified. The ultrasound I had had less than 24 hours ago at the doctor’s office was torture. I could not even begin to imagine the pain I was in for this time. I braced myself, but there was no pain. Thank you nurse for the shot of pain medicine you gave me 15 minutes earlier.

The radiologist took hundreds of pictures of everything inside of my body. Because we had been through the process twice now, Steve had an idea of what he was seeing on the computer screen. “What is that? Why are you highlighting those areas? Renee didn’t look like that earlier today.” The radiologist vaguely said that it was “free fluid” and that the doctor would have to read the images and give us the results. Steve and I knew what “free fluid” meant. It was blood.  The ectopic pregnancy had ruptured. ”Free fluid” meant that I would have to have surgery.

When we returned to my room, my ice was gone. My nursed claimed she was the one who took it, but part of me thinks that my mom was the one who threw it away. The good thing about having a nurse for a mom is that they know what is going on. They can translate information for you, and make sure that people are doing their jobs. The bad thing about having a nurse for a mom is that they know what is going on. They can take your ice away. They can also be brutally honest about what is going on. The other thing about having a nurse for a mom is you can’t tell them what you need them to be – nurse or mom. They are not good at turning off the mom side or the nurse side, so you’re stuck with both. A tough-loving, emotional nurse slash mom. It’s not so bad, but I want my ice.

Just as I had drifted off to sleep, I heard my doctor’s voice. He had seen my ultrasound pictures, and confirmed what we already knew.

Things began to happen very quickly after the doctor left my room.

I had to have more blood drawn. Because both of my arms had been tapped into in the past day, they took it from my hand. I signed blood transfusion papers (just in case), and had to wear a bracelet that identified what blood I would be given (just in case). I had to have an allergy band put on my wrist, to let the OR team know not to feed me shellfish or use iodine products on me. They shaved my belly.

The room cleared out for a few minutes. We prayed.

At about 7:00AM I was wheeled, bed and all, to a pre-op room. Mom and Steve came too. There I had to answer a lot of questions that I had already answered at least four times since I waddled into the ER. They made me take off my rings and my retainers. They made me take off my underwear. Steve shoved them in his pocket. It was a different pocket from where my rings and retainers were – I think.

Without warning someone came up to my bed and started pulling me away. “STOP. I need to say goodbye. I need to kiss Steve.”

The doors to the OR flung open, as I was wheeled inside. There were bright lights everywhere. People were running around in hats and face masks. I caught a glimpse of the operating table.

Panic began to set in. Was this the operating room, or the execution room?

I am transferred from my warm and somewhat comfortable bed to the tiny, cold, hard operating table. People in face masks began hovering over me. The put my legs in compression stockings. They stretched my arms out to my sides, and strapped them down to wings.

Seriously, are you sure this isn’t the execution room? Because so far, I can’t tell the difference.

My doctor appeared above me.

A small sense of relief came over me.

A nurse appeared, and put an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth.

Panic. I began to hyperventilate.

Nurse, “You’re gonna be fine.”
Doctor, “You’re doing great. It’s going to be simple procedure. You’ll be out less than an hour.”
Me, “The oxygen is making it hard to breathe. It’s burning my eyes ”
Nurse, “Just breathe.”
Me, Did they not just hear me? I can’t breathe. Oh no, am I already out of it and dreaming? Is that why no one is listening to me?

The anesthesiologist popped up out of no where. They need to wear a cat bell or something. The person who is about to knock you out should never just magically appear. And why are all anesthesiologists a little bit crazy? It’s really not comforting.

Anesthesiologist, “We’re about to put you out. It’s gonna be great.”
Me, You are flipping nuts.
Anesthesiologist, “Most people do not remember a thing from their surgery. However, when someone has emergency surgery, they are more likely to have memories of the procedure. But you, you’re gonna be just fine.”
Me, “WHAT?”
The tears started to really roll.
Doctor, “You’ll be awake before you know it. When you wake up, you’ll feel much better.”
Nurse, “Your arm will cramp up when the anesthesia goes in. That is normal. You’ll be out in just a minute.”
Me, “I’m not ready. Please no. I’ll be fine. I can’t do this.”
Nurse, “Breahte. You’re doing great.”
Me, Am I? AM I?  I AM NOT OK. I am not OK with any of this. If something serious happens, I will have no idea. What if I don’t wake up? What if the doctor has to tell my mom and Steve that something went very wrong? What if I can’t have any more children? I’m not ready. God, please make it stop...

My next memory was of my post-op nurse running around. She kept asking me if I needed anything to drink, if I thought I was going to throw up, and if I needed pain medication. I had no idea what I needed or what I felt. I was barely aware that she was even there, except for the fact that it was clear that she had had way too much coffee, and it was impossible to ignore her. Evidently, I told her I needed all three because she shot my IV line with a few synergies of something, and then shoved a straw in my mouth and told me to drink.

My doctor stopped by to see how I was doing. He said everything went really well, and that he had visited with Steve and my mom (I think my mom was still there). He told me that they were able to do laparoscopic surgery, so I only had three small incisions. He told me that they only had to take my right fallopian tube. The right ovary was perfectly healthy. He also checked the left side out, and it looked great. He said he was able to remove most of the blood that was collecting in my abdomen so I should feel far less pain than before. He said a lot of other stuff that I don’t remember, but at least I got the important parts.

I passed out again.

I spent most of the day completely out of it. As soon as I was resting well, a nurse would come in and make me go pee, or drink, or take my temperature (my mom would be very happy), or check my blood pressure. They checked my blood pressure a lot because it was so low. I tried to tell them that it is normally very low to begin with, and all the drugs I was on wasn’t helping, AND it had almost been a day since someone would let me eat.

Some special friends stopped by to visit and bring gifts. I slept through most of their visit.

The doctor came to tell me that I could go home, or stay the night. We chose to stay the night. By the time that I was waking up, and able to move, it was getting dark outside. The pharmacies and doctor’s offices were closed. Most importantly we wanted to make sure everything was OK. We did not want to go home and end up back at the awful local ER a few hours later.

The night went much like the day had, attempting to sleep between nurses coming to check my vitals and make me drink.

The next morning, the doctor came by to see how I was doing, and to make sure I was ready to go home. He urged me to take my pain medication on time to avoid unneeded pain. I was to remain off of my feet for a few days, and lift nothing weighing more than a gallon of milk. (FYI about a week later a picked up a small jug of salsa and really regretted it.)

At about 10:00Am we packed up, and headed home. I didn’t think I was ready to go home, and I didn’t know how the next few days would go. However, I knew that I couldn’t stay and have someone waking me up every time I fell asleep. I may have choked a nurse with my call button if I had to endure that for another night.

With the help of a hospital volunteer and Steve, I climbed into the car. As we drove away, I kept thinking about how I would never be able to check the box that said “no major surgery.” From now on, I would be someone who had had major surgery. In that small way, my life would never be the same.

I don’t want to drag the story on, but I will write about how the weeks after surgery have been. I’ll also write about the emotional roller coaster it has been, and what the future holds for us reproductively. However, I will hold off on The Miscarriage – Part 5: The Post-Op until my doctor’s visit at the end of October. We need to know that I am healthy, and have all of our questions answered before we can really reflect on the whole experience.

The Miscarriage – Part 5: The Post Op
The Miscarriage – Part 6: It Stings a Little

This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 7th, 2009 at 12:44 pm and is filed under Me, Myself. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.