Milestones for today (Post-op day #11)

1. I ate two of today's meals at the table (instead of in bed).
2. Two of my steristrips fell off.
3. I used my crutches in a store.
4. I made a bag of microwave popcorn- all by myself.

Post-op Day #8

This is a big day! According to the surgeon, when I get to POD #8, I can shower. Like, for real, running water, hot as I can make it, not worrying about what gets wet shower. And that's what I did.

It. Felt. Awesome.

Eric also decided that today is the day for other big milestones. I have only been outside once in the last 8 days, and that was traveling from the hospital to home. I've become mighty tired of staring at the inside of my house, but have been scared to venture out.

I'll be frank here. Up until last night, I hadn't even gone down the stairs. With the delicate application of a electric cattle prod and the offer of an ice cream sandwich (false and true, for those of you who are counting my blatant lies), I was coerced into a very nice evening watching tv with my husband. I've been a little shaky on my feet and it is extremely reassuring to tackle some of these hurdles while spotted by someone who could easily pick me up off the floor, dust me off and deposit me back in bed if need be.

I was still a bit nervous when Eric laid it on the line. By "it," I mean "his plan to butter me up with a quick wheelchair ride around the yard, followed by hoisting me into a truck for a nice lunch at Neato Burrito." I am happy to report that the burrito was delicious. And also, we have Siberian irises blooming! It turns out that your worldview narrows a bit when you stop interacting with other people or leaving your house.

We ran a couple of errands after lunch and I learned how to navigate the handicapped stall in the bathroom at the grocery store. By the time we got home, my arms had given out and refused to lift me into the truck even one more time. My quads (which were detached during surgery) have made their displeasure known through a coordinated coup, otherwise known as "a really freakin' big charlie horse."

It all represents baby steps, but they're important ones. Eric says that if I don't feel like this a tthe end of the day, I'm probably not pushing myself hard enough. Let's see if he still says that after I punch him in the thigh, recreating the uprising in my left leg.

Mommy snuggles

Yesterday was pretty rough to begin with. I can't really point to anything in particular that made it worse than any other day, but it was. I was more stiff and sore and bloated and heartburny. It was rainy and gloomy, so at least I didn't feel bad sleeping the day away.
Then, my mom went to pick Nora up from school and took her to the library as a special treat for a kid who has been a total trooper through all of this. She just didn't seem to get into it, so they came home earlier than they had planned to.
Nora just stood by my head on the couch and jabbered about her day. At one point, I asked her if she was hungry for dinner and she got a big smile on her face and said, "Yeah!" Then, she vomited all over both of us.
This put us in a quandry. These days, I do not move quickly when I move at all. Nora has no idea what to do with the puke running down her front. I called for my mom who took Nora into the bathroom, where she continued to ralph. By the time I had gotten myself off the couch and down the hall, she was in pj's and feeling better. I took her into her room and she read a story to me while mom cleaned up the living room.
Sitting in that rocking chair for fifteen minutes sent me whimpering back to the couch and reaching for my pain pills.
In the middle of the night, I awoke to hear Nora crying very quietly. Sometimes, she cries in her sleep, so I listened for a while before poking Eric and making him go check on the kid. She had again, thrown up all over her self, her stuffed animals and her bed. She was sitting in the farthest corner of her bed from the wet spot, trying to take off her shirt. Or so Eric tells me. Despite the fact that she was crying for Mommy, Mommy wasn't there.
He brought her in to me, feverish, naked and glassy-eyed and she cuddled up to my side while the functional adults in the house fixed everything. Then, he gave her Tylenol and tucked her back into bed.
Needless to say, Nora is not at daycare today. It's a burden on my mom to be taking care of both of us, so I'm trying to help. But I'm limited to fairly horizontal activities. Luckily, even when all the other Mom activities are taken away, comforting a sick kid is still an option. My arms work just fine for snuggling.

The Basics

In the continuing adventure that is surgery and recovery, I will indubitably encounter situations where I ask, "Would anyone want to know that?" and it's inevitable corollary. "Do I really want anyone to know that?" This is particularly true when the surgery and subsequent swelling is close to your vital organs known as your bladder and bowels.
On the one hand, ew. And ugh.
On the other hand, if someone is reading blogs about PAOs trying to decide whether it's right to proceed with having their pelvis broken (which I did a lot of), it seems dishonest to gloss over just how much your body is returned to a more, um, basic level of functioning.
So how about this- it's there. It's an issue. My husband continues to be a rockstar. Or maybe that's a bad analogy here. He definitely isn't contributing to my problems by divorcing me and throwing televisions out the window. He's amazing. Instead, he gets up with me in the middle of the night to help me to the bathroom, wakes up early to give me shots, rearranges his life and generally takes care of me. I love him more than anything and I'm beginning to think that he likes me too.

Post-op day #3, bustin' out

So I passed PT today and they let me go home. It was an amazing series of "coincidences" orchestrated largely by my husband. I wouldn't have passed yesterday and as I hobble around here tonight, I feel pretty certain that I wouldn't have passed had they checked me much later in the day. Of course, I may just be excessively tired and sore from all the activity related to the trip home, I guess.
They pulled out the epidural this morning, which I was pretty sure was not working anyway. I was rocking the Casbah on just Percocet. But the resident wrote me for MS Contin as well as Percocet. I scoffed at that, thinking that the pain is going to get better every day, right? That lasted until 4:00 this afternoon. I broke down and started the hillbilly heroin (I know, not really, but life is just funnier this way.)
Tonight, I feel rough. But I'm home. In my bed. With my husband and daughter and bathroom and food and no one checking vital signs in the middle of the night or insisting leave the catheter in place.
And it took several acts of Congress to get me here, many of which fall firmly within the category of doctors making the worst patients. For instance, Eric removed my catheter. This was surprisingly not awkward. I guess you just get to that point in your marriage someday. I didn't think it would happen quite so soon...

Post-op day #2

It's been an interesting couple of days here on the orthopedics floor. I'm currently attached to an epidural, two IVs, a Foley catheter, a drain and a continuous passive motion machine. I'm hoping that they'll let me travel a bit lighter soon.

I'm feeling a little crummy. My Hematocrit dropped to 19 yesterday, making my blood pressure drop and my heart rate to speed up. All I knew was that I felt miserable. They gave me back the 2 units of blood that I banked before surgery and my blood counts still aren't setting world on fire, but my tongue is pink again. It was white yesterday. That was so freaky.

I also had a couple of fevers since surgery. It's nothing anyone is concerned with. They have me on antibiotics anyway and it's not likely a real infection. I can't say that I've ever experienced shaking chills and sweating through the sheets before. I could do without it to be honest.

Eric has continued to be awesome through this. They used a sterile prep goo on me that is supposed to be great for long cases because it doesn't come off. Unfortunately, it doesn't come off. And it itches. And I was prepped from my breasts to the bottom of my foot. Eric found a big bottle of rubbing alcohol and painstakingly removed all the adhesive and prep and miscellaneous crud. Then, he bathed me. That is love (or at least that's what he keeps telling me).

If anyone is interested in coming to visit, I'm up for that now. The narcotics are making me sort of loopy, which I tend to realize when the nurse or physical therapist gives me this long look, indicating that what I just said made little or no sense. Good times! So come on up to room 3245 and laugh at me. I'll laugh right along with you!

It's alive!

I made it through surgery- 9 and 1/2 hours of it. Eric actually went in for about 2 hours near the end. I never, ever could have done that. Mad props to the boy! Also props for the fact that he has washed my face for me and fluffed my pillows. He's an excellent fluffer.

So, it looks like there was no cartilage tear, but there was lots and lots of impingement from my fat femoral neck, so they shaved that down and did the PAO after that.

So the part that I was mosty scared of is over. Now, all I have to do is get through the recovery.
That's easy, right?


PS- If you're wondering how I'm capable of blogging, the answer is simple.
Epidural.

Tick...tick...tick

There is a building here in Hershey that never fails to tickle my gallows humor funnybone. It was a standard gift shop or something until about 2 years ago. Then, it was converted into a after hours urgent care clinic called "Good Nights" or something like that. They painted it dark blue and put up a neon sign of a new moon and stars with a clock in the middle. It threw me off for months until I figured out that it's not actually a functional clock.

Then, after less than a year, the clinic went out of business and the building sat empty until just recently. It was nice to see that Gift of Life was establishing an office in the area, but I wish they would have redecorated. I suspect that they don't have either the funds or wherewithal to remove that clock.

The message it sends to me is, "Now is the twilight of your life. And time is ticking." So very, very wrong.

So when I started thinking about the countdown to my surgery, I automatically thought of the non-functional, highly politically incorrect organ donation clock. We're at less than 24 hours now on a working clock.