melibee44

[melibee44]

Pseudoscience Paramedic

All I really remember is the 911 operator being impatient with me. I can’t blame her; she probably knew it was a panic attack... but I didn’t know that at the time. I hadn’t had one in ages. I honestly thought I was in medical distress. 

She really wanted me to take my pulse on my neck while she counted, but wasn’t understanding (I was gasping for air while trying to talk) that I’d had surgery and had an incision on my neck and my whole neck hurt too much to touch. So I was trying to find my pulse on my wrist while she kept insisting it needed to be my neck and I kept trying to tell her that my neck wasn’t an option. 

Luckily, the paramedics saved us from that endless loop when they arrived at the door and rang the doorbell.

I was really hoping the doorbell would wake my parents as I had a long way to go to answer it and was feeling like there’s no way I could walk that far. I still felt mostly paralyzed, even though I’d got my arms going. The operator assured me I could do it though and told me I absolutely had to. How the hell else would they get in anyway?!

I actually rolled out of the bed and my whole self onto the floor with a thud. I pulled myself to my knees and started crawling towards the bedroom door. Then I managed to get to my feet when I had something solid to hang onto and I dragged my ass upstairs to let the two emergency workers in. 

I was so relieved when I got the door open for them, that I dropped to my knees. I heard the words “how do you want us to help you? We can’t give you anything.” 

I remember thinking “I just want you to make sure I’m not dying,” but I can’t remember what I actually said. 

They seemed to know right off the bat that it was anxiety and one of them started coaching me through the breathing I needed to do to start to calm down. She told me that everything I was feeling was common with hyperventilation and panic. She also hooked me up to the pulse and blood pressure monitors and I couldn’t see the numbers, but she didn’t look happy with them until right before they left. I don’t know how long they were there for, but it seemed to be a good chunk of time. The sun had come up by the time they left. 

They talked to me about my options and I refused transport to the hospital. There’s no way I was going to go sit in an ER for hours again only to be told I get one med option and if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. Plus, we had established that I was not, in fact, dying. 

There was a point where while the one paramedic (or EMT - I can never remember which is which) was helping me, the other was taking down a list of my medications from my mama, who had a copy. I use Metformin to treat PCOS and that always confuses medical professionals, so from there, they clarified what condition each med was treating.

I’m on a lot of meds to treat a lot of conditions... anytime I ask the doctor if it’s too much, they say some people just have lots going on and have to deal with it. They tell me that I’m not crazy or on too many things. 

The emergency worker who I’ve nicknamed Pseudoscience Paramedic kept making the judgy “oh wow” noises every time she wrote down a new med. Then once the other had unhooked me from the machines, PP leaned down and told me that she noticed I have a lot of conditions and she had some information she thought might be helpful. She said she would write it down and leave it with my mom.

I thought to myself “this can’t be real... is she for real? This had better at least be fucking hilarious” and she did not disappoint.

She left me the name of a Naturopath Clinic that sells supplements and the name of a book called “Eat Fat Get Lean.” Between the two websites, we had all the pseudoscience hits! The latter even named butter as a “healthy fat” and if that’s not bullshit, I don’t know what is.

I’m not going to share either of them with you because they spread dangerous misinformation and disinformation, but I will share that I immediately thought of one of my favourite writers - SciBabe, so be sure to give her site a visit to learn why pseudoscience is harmful.

Before they left, the other paramedic (not PP) advised me that my pain was not well managed, which while it seemed like stating the obvious, I was glad to again have someone else articulate it. She said I needed to get to a doctor as soon as possible and get something to treat the pain that works for me. I remember tearing up and asking “what do I say when they won’t help me? How do I make them understand?”

She appeared sympathetic and said something along the lines of “I wish there was a simple answer.” She encouraged me to keep trying.

The rest of that morning was a blur of tears and being told to breathe. I had a bit of a fight with my mama when I accused her of not believing me. It’s not really what I meant, but after sleep deprivation, I’m not particularly articulate. We would eventually figure out that we had been misunderstanding one another almost the whole time.

I called my hubby to take me to a Medicentre once they were open and give my parents a break. They were trying to prepare to host a big family gathering the next day.

The lovely doctor was very understanding. She prescribed me Toradol (Ketoralac) a strong NSAID that made a world of difference. Like night and day. I couldn’t believe how much better I felt once it took effect. That’s when I knew for sure the Tramadol hadn’t worked at all. I needed that reference point to be sure.

When she offered the prescription, I nodded then burst into tears and thanked her for listening to and believing me. She took my face in her hands and told me everything was going to be okay and gave me some other pain management tips. She really helped me more than she’ll ever know that day.

[melibee44]

TW: pain, anxiety, panic, thoughts of death

To pass the time while waiting it out (and maybe even get some sleep), I decided to check my mindfulness/meditation apps for something geared specifically towards pain. I needed to try something to get through this. 

Now, I don’t know about you, but between my adhd and constantly racing thoughts, I’m not very good at either mindfulness or meditation. I’m not even sure if there’s a difference or if they’re two names for the same thing. Even my cognitive behavioural therapist gave up on getting me to sit through a guided one when we were together. It’s just not my jam.

But... I was willing to try anything.

I found something that looked pretty good! It was like a guided meditation for pain relief, so I turned it on and went to work relaxing my pain away. 

I tried to keep up with the breathing, I really did. Or... is it keeping down with the breathing when you’re trying to slow it? 

Either way, I didn’t. I couldn’t get myself to breathe at the same pace, so rather than breathing at my own pace and simply listening to the words, I forced it. That’s how the hyperventilation started. 

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a panic attack before, but I hadn’t had one since my teens and in the over two decades since, I had forgotten to keep an eye out for the warning signs, so I missed them completely. 

I’ve only ever hyperventilated once before and it was just as scary then as it was this time... only this time, I was convinced it was due to medical distress. (For those who don’t know and don’t feel like a quick google, hyperventilation is when you breathe out more carbon dioxide than you’re breathing in oxygen, usually with rapid breathing.) So as my breathing get’s faster and more shallow, I’m sure that I’m having a medical problem, so my anxiety just keeps ramping up. 

After what was probably just a couple minutes of this, I started then getting chest pains, heart palpitations, tingling in my arms and legs, feeling paralyzed, and an impending sense of doom. Once I started feeling faint, like I might pass out, my mind began to wander. 

“If I’m working so hard to breathe now and I pass out, does that mean I’ll stop breathing completely and die?”

“Would death really be all that bad at this point? I’ve lived a good life. I could be done now.”

“Ugh, but it would be my parents who find me cold and dead in the morning and that would kill them. They’d be so upset.”

“What would they lament if they found me dead in the morning?”

Seriously, those were just some of the lightning fast, racing thoughts. But I was sure I couldn’t move and that I was going to die if I lost consciousness, which was feeling more and more likely with continued hyperventilation. 

That’s about when I decided I had to do it. I had to call for help. First I tried my mama’s cell. She had been keeping it on and by her bedside in case I needed anything during the night, but when I called, it didn’t wake her. So I tried again. And again. And again.

That’s when I thought I’d try the house phone (shocked this didn’t occur to me sooner), but when I did, the results would be the same. I figured I could try my dad’s cell, but he never knows where it is when he’s awake, so it was unlikely he brought it to bed with him. So what now?

The panic is growing, I’m sure I’ll die if I don’t do anything. They could find me cold and motionless, so what will they wish I had tried?

I still really didn’t want to, but I did it anyway. I called 911.

[melibee44]

Pain, Pain, Go Away...

This is where things start getting a bit fuzzy. I remember getting up and taking more meds. I think I used a bit of cannabis as well, since the tramadol didn’t seem to be making a difference, but I was told to take it and not let it run out, so I did. 

I think I got on my phone and did some chatting with friends to try and pass the time. I know it was this night that I started noting details of my experience because I knew it hadn’t been great so far. 

I remember putting on the TV, but being so distracted by the pain that I had it on the guide for ages before I realized I wasn’t watching anything. I even tried doing some of my puzzle again, though it really hurt to sit up and reach for pieces. 

I remember thinking that I should be trying to sleep, but I was just SO awake. I would call the feeling jacked-up, but I don’t know if that description is helpful. It’s like a combination of being full of energy, but also agitated and anxious. At times, it was like I was vibrating... though perhaps I was just shaky from the pain and anxiety. 

I tried playing games on my phone to distract myself, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t focus on even the simplest of games. 

I kept trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, but even though it was better than the bed, the couch just wasn’t doing the trick. The pain was bad. It felt like someone was cutting into my neck all over again. No matter what I put on the TV, I couldn’t follow it. 

There was a point at which I kept thinking I could see the cat or hear my dad. At one point, I even said hello to my mama. She was definitely upstairs sleeping, but I was sure she had just walked into the room. Is it a hallucination if you immediately realize it’s not there or real?

I can’t remember when, but at one point or another, I decided to take more Tramadol and try the bed again. I attempted to re-stack the pillows in a more comfortable position and laid down, propped against them. 

I didn’t have more cannabis this time because I was thinking of heading to a Medi-Centre in the morning and didn’t want to add cannabis to the issue. It may be legal, but there’s still a stigma and it does have the capacity to exacerbate some problems. The one I was taking was balanced and formerly medicinal and I knew it was the best choice, but I didn’t want the extra confusion, so I opted out. 

I tried so hard to sleep. I just remember lying there, trying to get comfortable and trying to ignore the pain, but the pain was persistent and would not be ignored. I kept getting flashes of someone cutting into my neck again. It was like a searing, burning pain, with occasional stabbing. I was taking long, slow breaths and trying to tell myself it wasn’t real.

Finally, after a long while of that, I thought it might calm my nerves to talk to a nurse at the HealthLink, so I called 811 sometime between 4:00 and 4:30 AM. The nurse I spoke to was amazing. I remember crying while on the phone because I don’t often let others hear me cry. I think there were lots of tears that night though, so when I had a friendly and soothing voice on the phone, I burst into tears again. 

She reassured me that my pain was real and that our bodies send lots of pain signals after surgery. She said it sounded like my pain wasn’t well managed, but she understood why I didn’t want to go to an ER again. She advised me to go see a doctor at my earliest convenience and told me when the nearest Medi-Centres would be open. She said she’d rather have me see a doc sooner, but that it was my choice.

I chose to try and wait it out. I didn’t want to wake anyone early or inconvenience them and I certainly didn’t want to sit for hours only to be treated like a drug seeker, even though I was only a few days out of surgery. In hindsight... I should have considered waking someone up, but hindsight is always 20/20.

Don’t stop now:

[melibee44]

Puzzling

When I woke up Friday morning, it was bright and early! Those are two things I rarely experience at the same time... bright and early. The infection had definitely improved quite a bit, so that must mean the pain would be soon to follow! Maybe I’ll be able to enjoy what’s left of my resting time here with mama and papa. Maybe even do a puzzle (which is what I was most looking forward to doing during my recovery).

I made my way to the kitchen to get food and water to take with my meds. I think that’s when I saw my mama, who was happy to see that the redness had gone down. We talked about me having a shower later in the day. That would be blissful! I’d need help getting myself organized for that as my toiletries were in my suitcase.

After I’d eaten and medicated, she asked how I was doing. She has this very optimistic enthusiasm about her. “How are you? You look good! You look like you’re feeling better! How’s the pain?”

I wanted the pain to be improving, so in my mind, it was. In fact, it probably was better than the infection pain, but that was two days ago now. I can’t remember well enough to compare. “I think it’s improving!”

I’d spend a couple hours trying to convince myself of that.

I insisted on getting that puzzle started. I couldn’t handle another day of doing absolutely nothing. While I did that, mama was kind enough to put everything I needed in the guest shower and hung a light so I could see even better while in there. Then she went to work sorting out the pH of the tower garden we share.

The next thing I remember is breaking down in tears while trying to get myself ready to shower. The pain I’d been trying to ignore suddenly became too much and I needed relief. We’re talking full meltdown. I’m pretty sure I regressed in age by a couple of decades. Maybe even a few. Let’s not talk about how old that makes me.

Mama brought me another tramadol and, more importantly, some cannabis oil. I rested on the couch with a pillow supporting my head for a bit. Once I was calm and the pain was slightly dulled (thank goodness for legal weed), we decided I could try for the shower again.

It was blissful and refreshing. I felt like a new person once I was clean and the steri-strips didn’t budge, so all was well!

We decided I should try wearing a bra again, to see if that helped take some strain off the incision. It did. In fact, after this I’d wear it all the time, except in the shower. Though... I suppose that would be one way to keep my bras clean!

After my delightful shower, I insisted I was fine to do some puzzling again, until I was called for dinner. This is where I’m going to mention how insanely grateful I am to have two loving and able parents who are nearby and willing to look after me like a kid again when I’m sick. Shoutout to mama, who did all the hard work, cooking, and cleaning.

For the rest of the evening, I made sure I didn’t run out of cannabis, and spent time with my parents. I tried my best to manage the pain and also dabbled in puzzling some more, when reaching didn’t hurt too much. The pain wasn’t good, but I tried to make it better with positivity... I guess?

We decided I’d spend tonight downstairs for the first time, instead of the recliner. Mama wanted me to try out the bed she’d stacked up with pillows before she turned in for the night, so we could make sure it would work. She figured it could be bad for the incision if I managed to roll out of bed and onto the floor. I’m a klutz on a good day, so this isn’t an outlandish concern.

I believe this was about the point where I had another pain meltdown. The pain I’d been trying so hard to ignore was back and the tramadol really didn’t seem to be helping.

Maybe, if I tried to give it some credit, it would get me from, say, an 8 on the pain scale, to a 7.8. So that’s something, right? Is that what they mean when they say it only helps a little and doesn’t work for everyone? Is this considered okay? Is that why they won’t give me anything else? Maybe I should try another Tylenol since everyone is convinced that should help. It won’t help.

I asked my mom if this was all okay. Why is it taking me so long to do normal things? Most people are back to “normal activities” by now. (What the fuck is a “normal activity” anyway?!) My infection was clearing up, so shouldn’t I be doing much better? Why does it still hurt so much?

She tried to reassure me. She pointed out that I’d had an unusually large mass removed and they’d had to dig around in my sternum. It’s okay for people to go at their own pace and it’s understandable that I’d be going a little slower. She told me it was normal to be anxious and normal to feel some pain. We wouldn’t know it until later, but this is where we got some wires seriously crossed.

Mama went to bed and I tried to sleep. I was feeling very tired and had been up early, after all. Hey, I thought, maybe I can keep this up and get myself onto something resembling a regular-people-schedule!

I didn’t fall asleep. I laid there, awake. Pain slowly growing and anxiety slowly mounting. I didn’t want to get back up because it hurt to move. Standing up was especially hard. So I tried really, really hard to get myself to sleep. I tried old meditations and breathing practices I knew, but it wasn’t working and laying there with nothing but my thoughts was increasing my anxiety, so I got up. It was time for more meds anyway.

Read more:

[melibee44]

Dilaudidn’t

As I was led to the bed and shown the gown I was to put on, I nearly passed out. Everything turned black and I grabbed the bed and caught myself. The nurse told me to sit while we got sorted out. Then my mama helped me get into the gown and get settled in the bed. I was so sore by this point. Not just the incision, interestingly, but also on the left-hand side of the back of my neck. In fact, it was getting to the point of taking my attention away from my flaming red incision and chest.

It was another 2 hours before the doctor came to see me. Considering the average wait times I saw online, I did pretty well - definitely above average for this trip to the ER. She said she was calling in someone from ENT and confirmed that I had an infection, most likely Cellulitis, a common skin infection (especially after surgery) that isn’t too serious, as long as it’s treated right away. (So yay for getting on it early!) And said it was clear I needed something for pain.

Phew! What a relief to have that immediately recognized. She sent a nurse in to start an IV and get me set up with Dilaudid and an antibiotic. My veins were still challenging, but getting the IV started went much better than the time before. It wasn’t long before I had my first dose of painkillers and the antibiotic.

The Dilaudid was barely noticeable, so it wasn’t long before they had given me a second and then third dose. They actually maxed me out, but it didn’t provide a whole lot of relief. I was hoping that was because of the infection. Sometimes an infection can cause pain that’s hard to eliminate.

At some point during the wee hours, someone from ENT (ears nose & throat) came to see me. She informed me that she was the doc who assisted on my surgery and apologized for taking so long, but had been up for 36 hours, performing surgeries when she got the call and needed a nap for a couple of hours before coming.

I was shocked to hear that surgeons are allowed to go that long without sleep and still operate! Pilots are barred from flying after 12 hours, I believe. And truckers face limits as well... but cutting people open? Who needs to be well rested for that? My FIL, who works in aviation safety, loves to site studies showing that after 17 hours awake, we exhibit signs of impairment, similar to drinking.

Anyway, she would get to go back home and rest once she was done with me, I hope. She took a look at my neck and chest and concurred that it was cellulitis. She wrote a prescription for an antibiotic to take at home for seven days to clear it up. Hopefully that would provide some relief.

We took that opportunity to try and ask her about the surgery, since I hadn’t talked to anyone else who was there. She reiterated that I had a very large mass (duh) and they really had to dig around to get it all. She wasn’t surprised that I was in pain. I asked about something other than tramadol since it didn’t seem to be working.

I got the same lines. It doesn’t work perfectly and it doesn’t work for everyone. I could add some Tylenol (already established that didn’t work) if I needed something more, but that’s all they give for that surgery and it was all I was getting. I reiterated that neither of those worked and she restated that it was my only option.

By that point, I was really hoping that the infection was to blame for all the stubborn pain and that it would be gone as the infection cleared up.

I was discharged sometime between 4:00 and 5:00 AM and mama drove us back out to her house. My dad went and picked up the antibiotic prescription later that morning while I slept hard. I spent all of that Thursday sleeping off the infection, waking only for meds and food. I had to set alarms or rely on others to help. But I slept like it was my job all day and all night.

Not tired of me yet?

[melibee44]

Zombie apocalypse or just surgery complications?

By about 3:00, my mama checked in to see if I’d heard back from the surgeon’s office. I said no, but mentioned his assistant it would be later in the afternoon to hear back. Then I remembered that their office closes at 4:00 or that’s at least when they for sure don’t answer the phone anymore, so I asked her to call and follow up for me before 4:00 because we wouldn’t have an opportunity to try after that.

Mom spoke with her, asked for some clarity around some concerns, made sure she knew I was in lots of pain, but in the end the news was that I wasn’t getting anything else; that’s all they were giving me and since the nodule removed was so large, I should expect to be in some pain.

Fine, whatever. I was feeling too shitty and tired to argue. Obviously all this was normal and I just needed to suck it up. Maybe I’m not as tough as I think.

Those were my thoughts as I drifted off again. I don’t remember much more about that evening... I drifted in and out a bunch... I think my mom made me yummy low FODMAP mac’n’cheese... and I remember concerned looks from my parents when I was awake.

This part is all a little blurry in my mind. More concerned looks, conversations between parents, mom calling 811 (healthlink, not a typo), then the decision that I needed to go in to emergency. They chose the UofA as it was my original hospital. I had an interesting “bib” of red on my chest and things were heating up.

We packed my hospital bag back up, grabbed my meds, and got back into the car and on the road again.

Once in the UofA emergency room, all they do is take your name. No info, no complaints - first name only. Then you wait for the triage nurse to call you.

My mama dropped me off at the door so she could go park the car after and meet me inside. I gave the man at the desk my name and asked a man if a seat close to the front was available, so I could hear my name being called.

When the man I asked looked up, the colour drained from his face. I guess I was a sight. Kind of zombie-like movements, very pale skin, a clear cut across my throat with blood spots on the bandages for added effect and all that surrounded by redness.

He said I could absolutely have that seat and then casually got up and went to the desk. I picked a good spot to hear everything! He told the same nurse at the desk that he didn’t think he was all that sick after all and was thinking maybe he should go. I don’t know if I scared him, if he thought it was a zombie outbreak, or if it was just because if I had to wait, it meant his wait would be really long. But either way, it was pretty funny.

The best part is, he wasn’t the only one! A couple more people after that did the same. At the ER, they never encourage you to leave, just in case, but they do ask you to let them know if you decide to. Some didn’t even let them know. Some folks just up and left.

I would say that unless you have a high fever, going to the ER with cold/flu symptoms is generally going to be a waste of your (and everyone’s) time. And if you do leave, let them know. It makes their lives so much easier. They have to call the people who don’t answer many times over to make sure they just didn’t hear.

It felt like forever, but it wasn’t long before the triage nurse took my information and it was within a couple of hours that I was admitted to the ER and taken back to a bed.

Not done yet:

[melibee44]

Mmm... floor weed

Mama worked hard to push me through the halls of the sprawling U of A hospital, through the Mazankowski Institute, and over the pedway. I was able to walk myself through the parkade and to the car, where I was very happy to be sitting again.

We stopped at my pharmacy on the way to my parents’ place to fill my tramadol prescription. It might not have been the most convenient, but there weren’t too many open after 10:30 PM, so choices were limited. We had to swing by my place anyway for the huz to load my things in the car for my stay.

I mentioned to the pharmacist that I was nervous because it didn’t feel like the tramadol at the hospital helped at all and they were very clear that I wasn’t getting anything else. They said I could have that and ibuprofen and that’s all. She commented that that seemed bizarre and told me that if it didn’t work by the morning to call the hospital and tell them that I NEED something else. She said to make it clear that it’s not working and insist. She looked concerned. I very much appreciate her concern now.

We went home and I was hurting, but I thought it was normal because I wasn’t screaming or paralyzed with fear or hyperventilating or passing out. I wasn’t even too nauseated from the pain... because I had taken anti nausea meds, but I wouldn’t remember that for a while.

I was still groggy enough to get bits of sleep. A couple of times, I slept through my med alarm, but usually still had a cushion due to the alternating of meds. The one time I slept through two alarms, I woke up in quite a bit of pain, but thank goodness the nerve block still had a teeny bit of effect.

I opened my eyes, felt what I would describe as searing pain and then thought to myself “Don’t panic; it’s nothing you can’t handle. You just need to get to some more drugs. Don’t even need to wake someone up! You can do this.”

I took the meds I had on the side table (was sleeping in my dad’s recliner for the night so I’d be close to help and my head and neck would be elevated) then managed to hoist myself out of the chair, go to the kitchen, find my cannabis oil that I bought just in case (thank fucking goodness!!!) and then proceeded to try and open it. That was the hardest part. But I did it! I got it open then attempted to use the dropper/syringe to get some out.

That was the very sad moment that I knocked it off the counter and onto the floor. Panic. The weed. I fucking dropped the weed.

Whelp, can’t let good weed go to waste! I wasn’t supposed to bend, so I got to my knees and then I think my butt and then was like... well... I’m down here. Can’t let good weed go to waste. I’d forgotten the dropper up above, so I tried to scoop up spilled cannabis oil with my finger and then lick it off. I’ve decided that the five-second-rule is extended when you’re recovering from surgery. The patient gets to decide how long.

I managed to recover a bit of the cannabis oil that way, then bum scooted over to the cupboard and got some things to clean up the rest so the cat (who was very interested) wouldn’t be licking up residue. I don’t even remember how I got up; I just remember that it hurt. In hindsight... I probably should have asked for help. Maybe when I was in the recliner and next to my phone would have been a good time. Hindsight amiright?

I got a bit more cannabis oil from what hadn’t spilled and then put it all away before heading back to bed in the recliner. I was in tons of pain, but I had been told that was to be expected, so I was tidying in the wee hours of the morning with a slit neck and while gasping with pain. Pure logic and clear thinking right there.

I settled back into the recliner and got a bit more sleep, then the next thing I knew, my parents were up and asking how I was. I took drugs and drifted off again. I was in and out throughout the early morning, but once I was a little more with-it, someone offered me coffee (YASSSSSSS!!!) and I started checking in with myself.

How am I really feeling this morning? What do I feel? Did any of the drugs work at all? How would I characterize my pain? I was trying to figure it all out and be as accurate as possible.

I announced I was going to call the hospital, as instructed by the pharmacist, since the tramadol wasn’t working. We figured out which number to call and I did just that.

I explained my issue as quickly and succinctly as possible to the nurse on the phone (way more succinct than this) and she informed me that I wasn’t their patient anymore and they couldn’t help me. She told me I should try my surgeon or my family doc. So I figured I should talk to my surgeon’s office anyway and called them next.

I love my surgeon’s assistant. She’s super nice and clearly works hard, so I was thrilled when she picked up (they don’t always have the capacity to answer the phones) and I told her my issue with as much clarity and brevity as possible.

As much as one can tell over the phone, she seemed surprised I was released the night before. She was even more shocked that I’d been told I could take Ibuprofen since the surgeon’s instructions were clear (I never got them) there was to be absolutely no nsaids after surgery. They are a blood thinner. I said “ohhhhh so that’s why I leaked through my steri-strips last night.

She was kind and calm. She said she understood it was painful and informed me that the nodule was really big (duh) and that it’s normal and okay that I’m experiencing more pain. But again she made it clear that tramadol was the only prescription I would be getting. I heard some variation on that phrase again - this is all we give for these surgeries; you’re not getting anything else. I reiterated that it wasn’t working and she told me that if I really needed something else, I could try adding some extra strength Tylenol. Tylenol.

The only times I’ve ever had Tylenol help me in my life is when I’ve had a fever. And after I nearly gave my family doc a heart attack after going for my checkup blood tests mid-cold one year (loads of acetaminophen in cold medicine), I now know that it does horrible things to my liver. Lesson learned there. Go easy on the Tylenol and don’t take it if it doesn’t work. It didn’t.

She was checking in with my surgeon for me though. She even tried to get him out of surgery (they appear to have been having a surgery marathon of some sort). I honestly don’t know if she was ever successful. The pain was getting worse and things weren’t feeling right. But I was super tired, so was sleeping on and off for the remainder of the afternoon.

Don’t stop now:

[melibee44]

Tramadon’t

I don’t remember much about to trip back upstairs. I think I was out again for a bit once I wasn’t gobbling ice like it was my job.

I came to in 5G3, in a room that was much bigger than the first, had glass doors, and was bright, but there were no other patients and everything else in the unit was dark.

The nurse I had was polite, but aloof, and went to work doing her job. She told me what I had had for anesthetic/pain, asked me how My pain level was, and waited for my answer.

This is a good time to tell you that I hate the pain scale with a passion. A linear scale doesn’t do pain justice, but our doctors and nurses are strapped for time and need a super fast way to assess us. I think I eventually settled on an 8, even in my fog.

She brought me a drug called Tramadol and told me to take it. It was two pills and I did as I was told. It hurt like mad to swallow them. She said that was normal because I had been intubated and it can be raw after. I also remember my jaw being achingly sore (intubation) and realized that I didn’t tell them I have TMJ because now that I get regular massages, it doesn’t bother me too much anymore. So she said that it made perfect sense for my jaw to hurt, in that case.

She said it was time for me to start moving around a bit more and try to start sitting up. So she helped me and waves of pain and nausea washed over me. She assured me that some pain was normal and I thought to myself “this is some pain?! Oh man, I’m in trouble when the block wears off...” I told her I felt like I was gonna barf. She got me something to throw up into and went to get me an anti nausea med. Luckily I didn’t throw up. I don’t think I could have handled that pain, considering I could feel my throat so well. She made me swallow the nausea med as well. I forget the name of it, but it’s the one they always give you at the hospital. It fucking hurt. I said ouch and she said something to assure me it was okay. I told her I was still feeling lots of pain, so she went and got me Dilauded. Luckily, I didn’t have to swallow that one.

I didn’t notice a big difference in pain with the dilauded, but at least I felt like I was sleepy and could rest again and seemed to be done swallowing things, so yay!

I’m pretty sure this is when my mom inquired as to whether or not someone would be by to tell us what happened in surgery, how it went, or if there was some sort of report. The nurse was surprised my surgeon hadn’t been in to tell me about it after surgery and I relayed the info I received from recovery nurse about the surgical team being gone.

My current nurse then said “I’ll go ask” and brought back my info sheets with three things jotted down on the back. She told us I had had a right hemi thyroidectomy (what i was expecting) with a massive nodule on it removed (duh, you could tell it was massive from the outside). They had moved my right anterior parathyroid from the back to the front (can’t remember if he told me that would happen, but it’s standard) and something about a “front sternal dissection.” In my head I said “wtf is that?!”

My far more eloquent mom said “I’m not familiar with that procedure, can you tell me more about it?” She’s good. The nurse didn’t know and had to go ask someone else again. She returned once more and said it was a big nodule (again duh) and they had to open some things up in the area to get to all of it. My mom googled later. It was my sternum. They had to dig around in my sternum?! (That’s still in question and I’m writing this little aside almost 5 weeks after surgery.)

At about this point, I indicated that while the dilaudid seemed to help a little (or at least got me high enough to not care) the tramadol didn’t seem to have done anything. She told me (and I’m totally paraphrasing) painkillers don’t make everything great, they just reduce the pain. It’s normal to still feel some pain. In my head I was like “shit, if this is just some pain, my tolerance is not as great as I thought! And not as great as all my docs/massage/physiotherapists have said.” I think that’s when I said “it feels like a lot though. Like the dilauded was nice enough I guess, but I’m worried about only having the tramadol at home.”

She told me (after consulting briefly with a senior nurse) that if I was worried, I could alternate it with 400mg Ibuprofen, every two hours overnight. And she told me to set an alarm, so I wouldn’t wake up with nothing at any point because then the pain can get out of control.

Through the week, I would learn that I was not to have ibuprofen after surgery and exactly what it meant for pain to get “out of control.”

They gave the nausea med and the dilaudid some more time to work, then my nurse came back (I think with some of my things this time?) and told me it was time to try walking to the bathroom. She sat me up and made sure I handled that okay, then told me it was time to stand. Standing hurt. I was nauseated, but was assured it was all okay and I figured that I’d she said pain and nausea were okay, it was time to get on with it.

I safely went to pee, which took a while for only a tiny amount, and announced my success after. As I was told to, of course. I remember stopping by the nurses station, where it seemed like the three of them were the only three other people left in the unit. I told them again “I’m worried about pain, the tramadol doesn’t seem to have worked and it’s all you’re sending me home with. I’m really nervous about not having adequate pain treatment.

“The info sheets I got at my pre-op appointment said to tell you if I’m not down to a four when you want to send me home and I’m definitely over a four. Like well over a four and I think more like a 7 or 8.” A bit earlier, I had asked my mom to look up useful descriptions of the pain scale and help me use it accurately. I vaguely remember, for emphasis, saying something along the lines of “I don’t want to come off as a complainer or worry wart, but the instructions were in a few places and very clear.”

They waved me off. They said the sheets say a lot of things. That I’d be fine. Don’t worry about it. And that “you’re not getting anything else; that’s all we can give you.” I heard this (almost exact phrase) several times over the next 36 or so hours.

I remember being scared, walking back into the room, then my mom drawing the curtains and trying to help me get dressed. I do also remember her musing about how she would get me to the car and I remember either thinking or saying “it’s just my neck, I can walk that.” because my legs felt okay. Pretty sure that’s anesthesia logic and it’s why you’re not allowed to sign legal documents for at least 24 hours. No post-surgery land title changes, my friends!

The nurse called in from outside and said I’ve left you a wheelchair! Right here!

My mom tried to figure out what to do with the bags... I was like, if I sit, do you think I can hold them on my lap? And waited to see if that could work. It wasn’t the worst. I did still have my outer muscles numbed, after all. Thank goodness. Then off we went. I had been discharged and was finally out of their hair. Not their problem anymore.

*Now might be a good time to note that I was sent home without anyone going over breathing, coughing, or any other exercises with me.

There’s more:

[melibee44]

Delicious, refreshing ice chips!

When I woke up, a nice nurse said words I don’t remember and I was in and out a few more times. Then I announced I was thirsty and she fed me ice chips and did all the caring things you’d expect or at least hope for. She was the absolute fucking best. My favourite person that helped me at the hospital that day.

Every time she went away, she was just a blur (still no glasses), but I’d recognize her voice. So that meant I could hear her talking with other nurses and on the phone with other units. Now that I was awake and thoroughly enjoying feeding myself ice chips, I was ready to go. But... they didn’t know where to send me. All their instructions said I was supposed to go to the overnight unit (3D3), but that unit didn’t have a bed for me.

She asked a lot of people what to do, but nobody seemed to know the answer. Eventually, they decided it was time to call my emergency contact - my mom - who was waiting upstairs for me to come out of surgery.

She advised them (she told me later) that 5G3 had all of my things and they seemed to be expecting me back. Then after both she and my lovely recovery nurse conferred with the nurse up in 5G3, who was adamant I belonged there, it was decided that that’s where I would go for the time being.

I think in my head, I thought a doctor would come and see me and decide if I was ready to go or if I had to go to an overnight bed, wherever available. When I was wheeled upstairs, I was told it was “for now” and I remembered recovery nurse saying I was supposed to be in overnight, so what else would there be to assume?

I never saw a doctor before I was discharged. I double checked with my mom to make sure I just didn’t remember a doctor. I don’t remember one because there wasn’t one. When I woke up in recovery, I was told my surgeon was gone. Something about a long day. I thought that meant a different doc would check on me later, but I guess I was very wrong.

Quick note - this photo was also taken later on, back in 5G3

Don’t stop now:

[melibee44]

A room of my very own!

I got to “my own room” at five minutes to one and it was not like any of the other rooms in the unit. It was kind of an L shape, with each arm of the L holding just enough room for a bed, an IV unit, and... actually I don’t even remember anything on the walls or anything much else there but a chair. All the medical equipment was portable. The room didn’t have a door; just curtains that only went down half the wall and I had to go to the big bathroom outside. When I had to pee one more time before surgery, they had to give me a second gown to cover my butt because the first one was too small. Thank goodness for the papery foot booties to wear! I still didn’t think too much of it. In my head, I was like weird temporary spare “room” but okay.

While I got settled into my bed, the nurse was trying to boot up her computer and it wasn’t cooperating, so I waited patiently while they were trying to get her another or fix that one. It was quite the kerfuffle outside from what we could hear.

She finally got it going and was hurriedly entering info and double checking my medical history. Then as she was trying to do my vitals and go over my history (they try and make sure they know everything and haven’t made any mistakes before they go ahead), the other nurses started rushing her and reminding her that they were coming for me and they had to have me ready fast.

Multiple nurses came together to help take my info and get my vitals, so they could get me sent off. There were a few details I gave the nurses (like being wheezy from not taking my advair, following instructions) that they wanted to make sure the anesthesiologist got, so apparently the best way to do that was for me to pass it along.

Everything was so chaotic. They kept saying “they want her in the block!” And the nurse wheeling me said “wow, this is fast! You get to go straight to the block!”

I was all “wtf is the block?!?! I don’t know what the block is! Can someone tell me?”

But nobody answered me.

‘They’re coming for her’ paired with ‘you’re going straight to the block!’ All sounds very ominous, but also fun! Like some sort of extreme hospital gauntlet. At the end, you might be one of the lucky few to win your health!

So I got to ‘the block’ and learned that it was where you talk to a pain specialist and they give you drugs to numb specific nerves. They do this in addition to putting you to sleep. It’s where you go to get a nerve block. And no, there was no Jenny there. (Sorry, I had to.)

While I was in the block and they were trying to deal with a poor, vomiting elderly woman who needed them, I could hear someone at the door (didn’t have my glasses by this point). That person was urging them to keep it moving so I could get my block because they want me in surgery soon.

It still took a little bit. I hope that lady is doing alright now. They started trying to jab me with an IV needle, but it took a while to find a vein because you’re not allowed water after midnight on the day of surgery.

Those bruises lasted weeks, but I also bruised the ego of the resident doing it, so I got my licks in.

While I was in “the block,” the anesthesiologist came to see me. I had told anyone who would listen along the way the three things I had to remember, just in case my memory failed me or I was impaired by the time I saw him. Not the worst idea ever as I could hear others repeating them, but luckily I remembered when I talked to the anesthesiologist. He got the necessary info.

After much more urging from the door and comments about hurrying, then pleas of “they’re waiting,” I was wheeled out the door to surgery with a numb neck and chest. So at least the block worked.

From there, I was pushed wheeled into the OR where everyone was scurrying around and getting me prepped, but I was expecting that level of activity there. Everything was bright and shiny, just like I thought it would be.

Then an anesthesiologist put something in my IV and I woke up groggy, confused, and numb/sore in recovery.

This photo was actually taken later, by my mom, but I wanted to include a visual.

Keep going:

[melibee44]

And so it begins

On the Monday before surgery, I was supposed to get a call between 3 and 6 PM, telling me what time to be in for surgery the next day and if I didn’t hear from the hospital by 6, I had a number to call.

I didn’t receive my call, so I was waiting at 6:00 PM with the phone number in one hand and my phone in the other. I remember giving it an extra few minutes, so I didn’t seem too impatient... sort of like when you’re calling a date back, but with nurses I guess. It felt rational at the time.

They seemed confused when I called. I was like fuck, maybe they didn’t properly schedule me. In my head, I was worried it had been rescheduled and I did all that prep for the holidays and packing and cleaning for nothing. In hindsight, that wouldn’t have been the worst thing.

But as it turns out, they didn’t know if it was supposed to be day surgery or if I was supposed to be kept overnight, so apparently neither unit did anything with that. They didn’t know, so they left it.

So the folks in each unit conferred for a minute, I was transferred to the day surgery phone, and was told I should report to day surgery. This is what I was told in my pre-op appointment... even though they gave me a bit of info for each unit. (Phone number and some general info for one, location and directions for the other.)

The lady on the phone told me to pack an overnight bag just in case my surgeon wanted me to stay overnight, so I rushed upstairs after the call to do just that! I was sure to include some facial cleansing wipes, toothbrush and toothpaste, slippers, and pyjamas that read “unplug me.”

They told me to be in the unit at 11:15 and and that my surgery would be at 1:15. So the next day, we (my mom accompanied me) were signed in, bracelet on, and stationed in the waiting room before 11:15, where we were told to wait, but of course not told for how long. Time went by and I kept making eye contact with the woman at reception, so I figured she knew I was still waiting and someone was working on it.

I was trying so hard to be patient at every step of the way because I know healthcare workers get pestered. I just didn’t want to be one of “those” patients... but it turns out patients get antsy or anxious for a reason! Either way, I didn’t want to be a bother.

But by 12:45... no bed.

I was still in the waiting room and loads of others had come and gone.

So I asked. I approached the desk cautiously and started “hey, I know you’re super busy but...” and she was like “oh, let me make sure your name is on the list” (it was) and then made sure someone was getting me a bed. I was playing it cool, but thought I should add something: “It’s all good if it’s behind schedule, but I just thought I’d check since my surgery is scheduled to start in 30 minutes.”

That last statement, something I almost didn’t mention because I thought they knew, seemed to stir up some energy in the unit... we couldn’t see everything from the waiting room (which used to be a room room, just the beds and equipment had been replaced with chairs), but we could hear loads of activity. After a few minutes of hustle and bustle, she popped her head around the waiting room door, and said they were just working on getting me my “own room” and were cleaning it and “that’s why it took so long.”

Well, I call bullshit, but that will have to wait for the next post. Stay tuned!

Keep reading:

[melibee44]

Why am I here doing this?

Exactly four weeks ago, I had surgery. A hemi thyroidectomy where a very large mass was also removed along with the right half of my thyroid.

I expected everything to be by the book. Everyone I talked to in the healthcare system seemed to think it would be no big deal - why should I think any differently?

I was sooooo wrong. It turned into one of those experiences people warn you about. Those ones you think you’ll never let happen to you because you’ll stand up for yourself and be oh so strong!

The thing is... you don’t know it’s happening to you while it’s happening. You’re in severe pain, busy doctors and nurses are rushing around, everyone’s telling you you’re fine, and in the end you figure it’s just a perception problem on your end.

I’m just a big wuss, right?

I’ll detail my journey here on good ol’ tumblr since I didn’t want to start something new and it’s no good for porn anymore, right? Wait... is anyone still on here?

Oh well, who’s gonna read this anyway? Hi mom!

Just in case anyone’s wondering, I’ve already reported it to patient relations, but wanted to put the whole experience into my own words while it’s still fresh. I’m using notes I made on specifics shortly after surgery in order to represent details as accurately as possible, but this is all from my perspective and I am a human, so... that’s a disclaimer I guess?

Red the next instalment here:

[melibee44]

What do you think?