April 30, 2007: OH MY GOD.

What? No recovery room?

I thought one always went to a recovery room and some beauty would stroke the brow and spoon ice chips in and shush softly.

Wrong! I missed that part. I first remember prying my eyelids up from the inside to see a dimly lit room with Cheri pulling a curtain across the foot of my bed saying, "Well, he's back with us now." At least that is what I remember.

Ah, there is my beauty. Sally was right there with the ice chips. I think it was between two and three in the afternoon of the thirtieth. It didn't matter to me. I felt like crap. I couldn't move; I must weight a thousand pounds! I am really, really, really tired. I'm going back to sleep.

I don't even know if I went to sleep. I was sooo out of it. I wasn't experiencing nausea. I was steadily come back to this world. And I was beginning to feel. Feel what? Ohhh. Don't ask. Just feel is enough.

I must have been drug through Hell. Somewhere in the process I either caught fire or was scratched up cause they smeared me with gel all over. It was in my eyes, in my ears, in my nose, in my hair, in my ... Let's just say in every orifice and some places in between. I thought that stuff was just put in your eyes to keep them moist. Apparently they used it to caulk around the cannula in my nose for oxygen (keep it up at 8!) and to keep my brain from falling out my ears. Hey! Some of the holes are new!

I think they use that silicone caulk so they can blow you up with a gas to about 90 psi. They continue to ask if I have gas or had gas. They know damn well they pumped me full of it. I am now a part of the National Strategic Reserve System. It was really so they could see during the operation.

And another thing. Is there no way they learn to settle someone in a bed? They pull flesh in every unusual direction and then lay me on top of it. As the feeling comes I begin to realize this just ain't right. But I can't move myself. I don't know if I am that weak or if it hurts too much.
It was hours before I understood that this pain wasn't from the surgery directly, but just because I was lying strangely in bed.

Sally kept filling me with ice chips and giving me sips of water like it was going to make me well. I don't remember if she fed me "dinner". I think it was clear liquids around 7 pm. The nurse kept looking for my heart in my stomach. She said it was all quiet. And I could have told her there was nothing going on down there. She said to be mindful that my bowel was put to sleep too. If nothing is happening there and we put too much in I will be nauseous and that is NOT good. The way my stomach hurts, I believe it would kill me to cough or vomit.

The old lady in bed three had a party. They mostly argued or conjured images in my head that made me wand to poke out my minds eye. Jerry, in bed one, had a party too. Wife, kids, who knows. They stepped in and asked if they could have the chairs in my area. I said, "Sure, as long as we can have it back for my party." I wasn't having a party. I didn't want the kids to come up or Sally's folks. There was nothing they could do and I knew I wasn't presentable. "Leave me alone; I'm fighting cancer!"

Sally couldn't stay in the room for the night because of the privacy rights of other patients. I guess privacy is guaranteed at night but not during the day. So the nurse got her a blanket and pillow and showed her the lounge. It was full of people so she got to come back for a while. I was glad to have her looking out for me. I am always concerned not having an advocate with the patient. And Sally is a great advocate.

Since both Sally and the nurse were there I thought I would remedy my problem. I couldn't stand it any longer. I asked the nurse if she thought that she and Sally could pull my sheets enough to roll me back and forth a couple times to relieve the pressure on my flesh. She assured me that she would do it but would go get a helper. She didn't want Sally to hurt herself.

Ah. That feels better. I can sleep the night now.

Well, technically I could if I were allowed to sleep. They come in and empty the Foley bag. They give me a shot of fire in my belly (that's heparin to prevent clotting). They check my breathing. The oxygen is still up around six litres per hour. My throat is so sore. The nurse listens to my stomach. It was just starting to come back. It was percolating. She also noted that the monitor kept going off because my respiration was six per minute; but, my O2 level was 100%. At one point while the nurse listened to my gut she looked at the monitors. Well your oxygen is at 100% and your respiration is back up around 12 but your heart stopped. I had rested my hands on my chest because I didn't want to put pressure on my stomach. That messed up a lead. Moved my and and voila! My heart was beating again.

It was a wonderful room on the fourth floor with a wall of windows facing East. I watched the dawn and eventual sunrise. To my right was a fellow who had followed me in the prostatectomy line. I felt like Jerry was recovering faster and better than me. Past the foot of my bed was an older woman who had bowel surgery a week before and was anxious to eat food. But she couldn't have food until her bowel was active again. That was entertaining conversation.