The story of my surgery
Between the end of last year and the beginning of this one, it is very possible to assume I’ve said the word “surgery” a thousand times. Honestly, it’s annoying and it makes me feel as if I’m milking attention from my experience, but I’ll explain a bit more about that later. Since arriving back to work, I haven’t felt like myself. I feel as if a part of me has been removed. However, the one thing that has remained the same is how I process these situations. Here is the story of my surgery (thousand and one). Please make sure you go back and read the previous sentence in the same cadence as Will Smith uses when he starts the theme song for the Fresh Prince of Belair.
Ignoring the problem
Prior to finding out about my little resident, I was relatively fine. There were some tell-tale situations that should have given me a clue as to what was wrong, but at the time, I didn’t know. My logic went like this: “If I could ignore the discomfort before I found out, the situation must not be that bad.” A few weeks passed and I dove headfirst into my work, convinced it would be fine once I became more rigorous in my sugar-free diet. There was about a week of vacation scheduled for after my first ultrasound. It was during that week that I experienced a painful incident that almost made me to throw up. That was when I stopped blocking it out and started panicking. Things were officially serious.
More ultrasounds
The second ultrasound was transvaginal. It felt as uncomfortable as it is to say. If you’re a bit shyer, I’d say the worst part is focusing on what the doctor is saying as they poke around and prod your uterus. Thankfully, whatever modesty I had with my doctor died long ago. The results of the second ultrasound were immediate and my gynaecologist measured it to be about seven centimetres. She was even able to sketch it out and show how everything was situated. I’m not really sure why I didn’t think in the beginning that Frida was that big. I kept imagining it was like an internal skin tag, long and limp. Because it was situated between my bladder and my uterine wall, it was causing a lot of discomfort that I didn’t tell anyone about it until my gynaecologist asked. We discussed surgical options and agreed to meet two weeks later so that I could consider.
Feeling the pressure
Over the course of two weeks, my pain and abdominal swelling went from bearable to becoming clear that something was wrong with me. I wore oversized clothes so that nobody would notice my belly. There were no safe positions. Whether seated, standing or laid out, I was constantly uncomfortable or in pain. The doctor took one look at me and suggested I be scheduled for her only available surgical space, which was only two days away. “Wait! How will I be able to do that? I have a job and it’s the peak of the season. I can’t take days off. Can’t you schedule me for after the New Year?” I inquired. My gynaecologist responded, “I’m sorry, but I will no longer be here after December, then you’re in the hands of another doctor. But based on how much pain you’re in now, you may get even worse in two more weeks.” This was Monday. I would have to be checked into the hospital on Wednesday and go under the knife on Thursday.
Pre-op prep
This may not sound like such a bad thing, but for a Type-A obsessive compulsive, this is a scenario I have played out in my head and I was so uncomfortable with the outcome that I pretended it could never happen. But here we are. I checked myself into the hospital and was given all of the prerequisite entrance questions. My last meal was steak and lobster, because I didn’t know what to expect of recovery. I was placed in a room with one other lady, a nurse, who had been where I was time and time again. Well, she’d had a few C-sections, and I was in for a myomectomy. If you don’t know, it’s basically the same scenario in terms of procedures and recovery time. Still, I remained unprepared.
Postop breakdown
The first thing I remember after the general anaesthesia wore off was crying. Everything hurt. The medication was not strong enough. But beyond that, I was generally scared. I was bombarded with a rush of emotions I hadn’t felt since I was a young child. The anaesthesiologist I met the day earlier smiled at me, but the only thing I could manage was a crooked smile as I weakly reached up and wiped free flowing tears. Depressing, yes. Being wheeled to my room, I made out the figures of my mother and sister. Mentally, I was clearer than imagined. Nobody prepared me for the lucidity. There was pain. A lot. The paracetamol liquid dripping into my bloodstream was betraying me and I felt it all. There was a nurse who mercifully gave me a shot in my leg that made everything very beautiful for a few hours. Then more pain. The first day was agony, but aside from letting the nurses know; I didn’t say anything.
Artists become aliens
It wasn’t until I saw the pictures of the actual procedure and what was inside me that I really grasped the magnitude of what I had been dealing with. It was disgusting. There were pictures taken during the surgery when the doctor was removing Frida. It was the size of a soft ball. Personally, I think it looked similar to the Chestburster scene from Ridley Scott’s Alien. After the pictures, it made sense why I couldn’t have had them; Frida had a tiny sister, removed laparoscopically. The potential incisions would have been too small. There was a lot about my condition that was unclear. I spent four days re-acclimating myself with my new body and performing regular bodily functions via a checklist in order to earn my discharge papers. If you’re at this stage in your own recovery, don’t cough, laugh or sneeze, it’s a painful trick.
Discharge disaster
My first night back home I had an anxiety attack. Remember that part about me being obsessive compulsive? I have OCD, and mild anxiety. That mild turned into severe by the time I got home. In order to avoid constantly getting worked up, I have a specific system of how I do things, which, in addition to my chronic independence, made it very hard for me to accept that I couldn’t do simple things like shower in my bathroom alone. It’s not something I’m proud of, but while my niece was making my bed, that feeling of loss of control and anxiety started to creep in. I wanted to shower and calm down, but I couldn’t until I had had some assistance in my bathroom. The thought made me even more anxious and before anything could be done, I was crumbling emotionally. My entire body shook under the emotional weight and I could feel myself crying and trying to control my very aggressive shaking. More pain. More anxiety. I didn’t notice when my niece left and my mother showed up, but she was there to help me calm down and breathe.
Adjusting awkwardly
Within the span of a few days, I had to readjust to a whole new life, new body, new everything. My everything was tired all of the time. I got used to falling asleep mid-conversation and being smacked in the face with my phone. This made me respect my sleep schedule and nap more. I couldn’t move anything out of my way, so it had to be sidestepped. This taught me how to deal with my anxiety in a different way. Acceptance was something hard, but when you have no choice, what can you do? This made me less anxious. I couldn’t tell when I was hungry or when I had to use the rest room. Before, if I was in pain, I tended to ignore it; but now I have to listen to my body or it will start to do very weird things. Crying when happy, sad, angry, bored – there are tears for everything now. The doctor said it’s normal following a procedure of this magnitude and that my hormones should be regulated in a few more weeks. But I’m excited for the days when I don’t get emotional about things as trivial as things finally going my way.
Almost four weeks postop and I’m feeling more like me, but a different me. This has been a life changing experience. It has matured and humbled me greatly. I’m still figuring out what that means, but I’m optimistic about who I’m going to become. One thing is for sure, I won’t take my health for granted and I won’t ignore pains anymore.
