Surgery.

I had been nervous about this day, but unfortunately, it came crashing up on me like a freight train, rather than sluggishly arriving, rubbing it's eyes as some anticipated days tend to do.

The hospital called the evening prior to let me know that my surgery would be at 7:30am and that I needed to be there by 6am for check-in and pre-op.  I called my mom and dad, talked with my friends and neighbor, hung out with my loved ones, went to bed early and woke at 5:00am to prepare with hibicleanse and mupirocin and head on over to the hospital. 

Once we arrived and I was checked in, I had to undress and put on a backless hospital gown and socks.  Thank goodness I had read some tip somewhere to wear boyshorts-style underwear because I was wearing nothing else.  The pre-op nurse came in and went through my medical history and chart.  Then Dr. J came in and did the same thing.  This time, he was wearing blue scrubs and his glasses, but his kind green eyes told me it would all be ok.  He wrote his initials on my foot that was about to get chopped to confirm the correct foot (hospital rules) and then ducked out.  One of the scrub nurses came in to greet me and tell me about what to expect...that I would go under anesthesia, have to be weighed, etc., and would then see her in the operating room before fully going under.  At this point, I panicky informed her that I did not want to see the operating room because due to my profession, I have been in far too many operating rooms and know I would flip out upon heading in there.  The timing was perfect - just as I completed that sentence, then anesthesiologist came in and I exclaimed how I wanted no memory of any of this, was nervous and to knock me the heck out (verbatim).  Apparently, they took this very seriously, because I remember getting a shot in my arm to relax, and at some point closed my eyes.

Then opened my eyes and exclaimed "Ok, now what?!"  "You're done." said a voice.  I blinked and looked over at a young nurse in pink scrubs who was gossiping with another nurse in green scrubs.  I was in the recovery room and it was over.  Whew and wow!  They kept me there and kept giving me shots of something until my pain level was at about a 6 out of 10.  Then I was wheeled upstairs to my room.

I wish that was it and it was all that easy.  Of course, it wasn't.

Upon being wheeled out of recovery, I somehow started experiencing the mother of all panic attacks. 

My throat was closing and I was breathing hard.  A slimy cold sweat covered me like a gossamer veil, then turned hot and choking.  I was then out of the elevator and in my hospital room and I could feel every cell in my chest and shoulders heaving and dancing, but not in a good way - in a crowded, suffocating way.  The room was getting fuzzy.  An older lady appeared who told me to "Just relax already" and that she would get me an Ativan.  She returned with the Ativan and water and I gulped both down, but it was already too late.  The room grew black and everything went black, black, black.

I awoke to about 15 people standing around my bed, with one person holding a giant, blue, plastic balloon which was inserted into my mouth, while a man with a white coat was doing chest compressions on my sternum.  I gasped.  Everyone stopped what they were doing and exclaimed signs of relief.  Some even patted each other on the backs as they walked out.  A different nurse in blue scrubs told me that I had passed out for two minutes and they had to call a "Code Green" to revive me.  I was going to get my own room due to the "Code Green" because apparently my blood pressure was so low that I was in danger of going into cardiac arrest.  I was then wheeled upstairs to a private room. 

I slept.  And slept.  And slept.  I was awoken a few times by nurses coming to get my vital signs, but essentially faded in and out of sleep.  At some point in the evening (as evidenced by how dark it was outside my window) two nurses came and grabbed all of my things and wheeled me to a different floor.  Apparently due to my blood pressure still not budging they had to put in me in a special cardiac watch unit.  I slept some more.  Then, in the early morning, I learned that I was not only wheeled to this unit because of cardiac danger, but because my potassium was dangerously low which required a potassium transfusion.  What followed was the most excruciating two hours I've had in years.  The potassium being pumped into my veins via IV bag was like knives.  Sharp things, jagged things, hurty things.  I was literally in tears during each infusion. 

At some point, Dr. J came to check on me and told me to keep motoring through this.  It was calming.  At some other point, Dr. M came to check on me to tell me that he was working on growing the cultures retrieved during surgery but had a good idea what it could be.  I just bit my lip and kept trying my best to hold it together.  Then I was drugged.  Drugged, drugged, drugged.  Drugged from the pain, drugged from the anxiety and drugged to oblivion.  I had many friends and loved ones who came to visit, but I was so jacked up on shots of morphine that I can only faintly remember our conversations.  The rest was a swirl of routine under medication - vital signs, bathroom, sleep.  Eat something.  Vital signs, drugs, bathroom, sleep, eat something, sleep some more.  My doctors drifted in and out, various nurses drifted in and out and friends and loved ones drifted in and out. 

Five days later, I was finally home in my bed.  With a new boot and surgical dressing that was not to get wet or be removed until I had my follow-up with Dr. J in a week.  The rest is a blur and continues to be a breathless haze of low blood pressure, hotheadedness, drugged lethargy.  I've ran 25 marathons and can barely change bedsheets.  It's a lot.  It's overwhelming.  I'm getting the feeling that I may be awhile with this.