Ever find yourself dying and dying and dying again? I’ve been on that kick for the past ten days. It’s not by choice. It isn’t like some mental funk that I just need to break out of. When ones health deteriorates day by day, the only thing to call it is a death slide, or I am anyways.
It’s like standing in a field with the sun shining down and the rain pouring down and the wind blowing through you and your visions a blur so up is down and left is right and right is wrong but there’s no falling, no peace is found.
Last Thursday, I endured umbilical hernia repair surgery 2.0. Had the original procedure four years back. I can’t recall that time being super problematic or painful overall. This time? Total nightmare. Them originally keeping me overnight? Whatever. If that’s what my biggest complaint was, then this blog wouldn’t be written.
The hernia site grew darker daily, and more painful, to boot. The leaking began Friday evening, eight days after the surgery. Yes, you read my words in the correct fashion. There’s something slightly terrifying about in one minute you’re standing at the kitchen table, wrapping Christmas presents. Next thing you know, you feel warm splashies on your toes. You look down and whoops, your belly button is leaking an almost stream of dark blood. Did somebody spike my eggnog? Is this some sick joke? No, I was bleeding. Fact.
And then the cramping began. And would not let up. The kind of pain that I can only imagine going into labor feels like. Fetal position to flat on my back shivering, I figured ’twas time to go back to the hospital. Luckily sweet Alexx was moments from sleep so into her car I climbed.
The ride itself was fifteen minutes but might as well been an hour. And upon arrival, my brain was telling me with the level of pain coursing through my big body that I would be admitted stat then treated… also stat. Stat was not the case. We waited in emerge for about 30 minutes, with literally two other people there. “Luckily” Alexx was snapping pics and vids of my journey through hell. On the seats in emerge and on the bed when they finally called my lucky numero, I could not find comfort. And they offered nothing short of tylenol for my pain, can you believe it??
From the room admittance, three hours passed. I wish I was kidding. I tried laying down. Pain. Tried walking around. Pain. Knelt down on the floor and put my head on the bed. Pain. Leaned hunched over the counter. Yep. Pain. Look, I realize men can be babies but I guarantee this was the most physical pain I’ve ever endured. The intense stabbing, cramping was nothing short of unbearable and thanks again nurse for giving me nothing to ease it!!
Then, as though the Red Sea itself parted.. an exit from the pain, in the form of opioids and as often as I needed! That cold feeling entering my vein and the warm beauty that came with it washed through me, immediately relieving me of the festering demons of discomfort. I remember looking over at the barely conscious Alexx and smiling, like a lottery winner.
From there, I was kept most the day, going in and out of consciousness in my lazy boy recliner and under my white hospital blanky. I relieved Alexx of her sweet and helpful duty so she could catch a few hours sleep before work and I remained, satisfied.
The moral of the story was that a bleeding hematoma is a good thing when controlled, which subsequently relieves the pressure that it caused (hence the intense cramping). The doc referred to it like a giant zit. And now here I am, three days after this mess and twelve days after the surgery and I’m still leaking. But as it should be, the black hematoma is now lightening in color and I am finding more relief each day. Slow, though. In the name of rest and underdoing things, I shall heal and be stronger than ever. Amen.
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