Читать книгу A Lighter Side to Cancer: From Wake-up Call to Radiant Wellness - Sandra Miniere - Страница 14

As I was preparing for the surgery psychologically, I realized waking up in pain was the thing I dreaded most. I regained consciousness in the recovery room moaning incoherently that the pain medicine was not working. I felt an excruciating burning pain in my chest. I lost consciousness again. I regained some awareness when Paul was next to me holding my hand. The contact helped me slip into reality for a few moments. The next thing I remember he was sitting next to me in a hospital room. Voices were coming from a TV clamped to the wall in front of my bed. I was complaining, “This isn't working; I am still in pain.” He called the nurse. She tried to teach me to push a hand-held button for pain medicine, but my fingers wouldn't work. I still felt an oppressive, painful weight on my chest, and I could not move my arms and hands. I thought, “I just have to get through the next 24 hours.”

Before breast cancer, I was very healthy even though I had asthma. I stayed a long distance away from hospitals and traditional doctors most of the time. But here I was in a prestigious hospital, and the quality of care was a surprise to say the least. Late in the evening of the surgery, my surgeon came to visit me. She had me press the button to call the nurse for something. When no one came to me after about ten minutes, she got angry. She had me moved into another wing, which was not much better in terms of my care.

When I woke up the next morning, I was still in mild pain and could not move my body in the bed. Two implants were placed under my chest wall muscles. The left one became a prosthesis after she removed the tissue of the left breast and the right one a “boob job.” I had no idea how much pain and restriction the surgery would entail. I went into the surgery and reconstruction very naive. I trusted my surgeon’s reconstruction recommendation. She was just going to “pop” two implants under the muscles of my chest wall. It sounded so simple and still makes me smile. If I had known more, I might have thought twice about the procedure. But, I might have caused myself even more stress living with the alternative. All the options were awful. In this case, ignorance got me to do what was best for me. I just had to suck it up and make the best of my decision.

Initially, my efforts to get help in order to control my pain and adjust my body in the bed did not produce results. I lost my composure. I finally got a hospital staff member to call Paul at 6:30 a.m. and tell him to come to the hospital as soon as possible. He was planning to go to work that day, but he came to be with me instead. While I waited for him, I kept trying to get help from the staff for the pain, but my voice was not being heard. Finally, I said I wanted to see the head nurse. When she arrived in my room, I told her I wanted a private duty nurse because I needed help and no one was available to help me. The sponge bath that morning consisted of a warm, wet facecloth put on my tray. I could not use it because I could not use my arms. I could not feed myself either. Fortunately, food did not appeal to me because I still felt slightly nauseous from the anesthesia. The IV method of pain relief had limited effect on my pain level.

We ultimately discovered that with my arm bent, the flow of the IV liquid was constricted going into my veins. Consequently, the pain medicine was not doing the job adequately. The level of care contributed to my feeling helpless and agitated. Once Paul arrived that first morning, I felt a sense of relief because the reinforcements had landed. I had someone to help me move my body on the bed and make sure the pain level was under control. Once the pain medication finally started working, I calmed down. Paul went to work around noon and returned that evening. He could see that I was coping at that point. When my surgeon showed up around 10:00 p.m., I was able to sit up with my legs over the side of the bed. We had a nice half hour visit. I asked her why she was still working in the hospital at this hour. (Less than two days post surgery, I watched myself trying to take care of my surgeon. Helper is in my DNA.) I never did get the private duty nurse because the crisis appeared to be over and I would be leaving the hospital the following day. None too soon!

The two days I spent recovering in that hospital were more stressful than going into surgery, but I survived both. The serenity of my home embraced me when I walked into the house. My cousin would arrive that afternoon. She would nurse me back to health for a few days, and my daughter would take over when she left. I remained in physical distress even with the loving care of the two women closest to me. I slept sitting up with five pillows under me in order to feel somewhat comfortable. Once I got settled into a position, I could not move, but I was sleeping. Within a few days of being home, the high of the pain medication kicked in. I was laughing and joking about my “boob job”—a sign I was getting better.