Buh-bye Ms. Lung—Part 2

General Anesthesia is weird. You go to sleep in one room and wake up hours later in another. Just like college.—Ross Shafer

Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash

My escorts to surgery were a young man and woman. They masterfully maneuvered the bed with me in it into the hallway. They were taking a leisurely pace so I pointed my right hand forward and shouted, “Warp speed, Scotty!” The young man replied, “Aye-aye, Captain!” We flew down the hall only slowing down for cornering and to wait for doors to open. Then I was wheeled into surgery. 

My first thought was this does look like all the doctor shows I’ve watched and really don’t like on television. There were four people bustling about doing what I assume was related to cutting me open. If this was a TV show, where was the inane chatter with furtive glances? Perhaps they were waiting for me to break the ice? 

“Helloooooo, everybody! My name is Karen! What’s yours?!” This prompted some chuckles and replies with names being provided. Someone asked, “How are you feeling?”

“To be honest, I’m feeling just fine right now. However, once you’re done with me, I imagine that will change.”

The anesthesiologist looked down at me and said, “Don’t worry, I’m going to make sure you have a really good nap. When you wake up you will be given the good stuff to keep you comfortable.”

“That sounds like a plan! I’ll let you know now that the gold and jewels are buried at the base of the oak tree in the backyard.” 

I didn’t mention that I live in a heavily wooded area. There are dozens of oak trees, but cryptic clues are what makes treasure hunting fun. The oxygen mask was put over my face and I was out in seconds.

I woke up. That was good news! I quickly recognized I was no longer in surgery, but where was I? The room was very dim. There was a window with some light coming from what looked like a hallway. The clock on the wall in front of me displayed that it was just after 2. Was that am or pm? (It was 2 am.) What day was it? I vaguely remembered my surgeon saying he expected I would be up and moving about a few hours after surgery. 

I attempted to sit up to see if there was a nurse in the hall. It felt like I had sat up, but I had perhaps moved my right shoulder about half an inch. That is when it hit me. Pain so sharp and severe that I can only surmise that this is how Boromir felt after being shot with Orc arrows. (That’s for Lord of the Rings fans.) I noticed someone outside the window, so I called out for help. It felt like I was shouting, but it came out like Beaker from Muppets, “Meep.” (And for the Muppets fans.)

A nurse finally came in. “Oh, you’re awake! You are in ICU. Your left lung was removed and surgery went well. Are you in pain?” 

Although my inner voice was screaming, “JEEEEEEEZOPETE! THIS IS WORSE THAN CHILDBIRTH! THIS IS WORSE THAN THE DAY AFTER RUNNING A MARATHON. Not that I ever did one, but I did do Warrior Dash twice. The day after was brutal. Uhh, where was I? Oh, yeah. THIS IS WORSE THAN THE SHIN SPLINTS FROM DANCING IN CAN-CAN FOR SIX SHOWS A WEEK FOR 8 WEEKS!” I managed to squeak out a weak reply, “Yeah.”  

“Have you been using your pain medication pump?”

What??!! Where is it? GIVE IT TO ME NOW, WOMAN!!! She placed what felt like a large ink pen with a button in my hand. I cradled it as lovingly as I did each baby after birth. 

Push the button. Ahhhhh. Relief. Sleep. AWAKE! ARGH!!! Push the button. Ahhh. I had a new best friend. I called it George. I vowed to love it and hug it and pet it and keep it for my very own.

Around 4 am, the nurse asked if I had to urinate. It hadn’t crossed my mind, but okay maybe I do. She said she would get a bedpan. Ugh. She returned with the pan, raised the head of the bed. It felt as though I was being catapulted. 

She asked if I could raise my hips a bit. Sure! Let me kiss George first. She placed the pan underneath me. Okay, pee and get it over with as quickly as possible. I’ve got another date with George. Nothing. Maybe I didn’t have to go after all. 

She asked if I would like her to turn on the faucet in the sink. I have never understood how hearing running water prompts other waters to flow. It’s never affected me that way. It didn’t this time either.

She left the room and returned with another nurse who had a device (ultrasound?) that they used to determine if I had a full bladder. I did. They decided I needed a straight line catheter. Okay, do whatever you need to do. George is waiting. 

That wasn’t a pleasant experience, but my bladder was emptied. I remembered I hadn’t had anything to drink since hours before surgery. This is probably why I was having trouble. I normally drink half a gallon or more of water a day. I was dehydrated! I asked that my hospital issue water cup souvenir be filled and drank it all. Then it was time for George. My precious.

A few hours later the pain management person came to see me. “How is your pain?” By that time, I was planning to change my will to ensure George would never want for anything. I said the pain had been pretty bad, but it was better now. “Let’s see how many times you pushed the button last night. Hmmm, 66.” 

WHAT?! Maybe George wasn’t the best kind of boyfriend and just wanted my money? She said they would be removing him tomorrow for sure and perhaps I would like to try injections via IV for pain. I told her I would be ready to break up with him before I left the ICU. Bye, George. It was nice while it lasted. 

My surgeon stopped by and again in dress pants and sports jacket. I always thought they wore scrubs and white coats all the time. He cheerfully told me how well it all went. Yes, the entire left lung was removed, a pneumonectomy. And with it came a 7x7 cm tumor. He said once a room opened, I would be moving to the recently newly completed part of the hospital. “It is really nice! Like a hotel room!”

Oh goody! I figured since I’m paying the comparable daily rate of a 5 star hotel, it better have a gold toilet. It didn’t, but it did have a big window with a nice view of another building across the street. 

The rest of my stay was mostly uneventful. Sleeping, being injected with drugs through IVs. Taking pills when told to. Trying to choose something tasty from the hospital menu, which I did so successfully twice. Multiple visits from the nurse assistant to take my blood pressure, temp, etc. 

The lung guy came in every few hours to have me suck in the fumes that smelled like sweaty socks. The first time he was there, he used a stethoscope to listen to breath sounds on my right and then left side. I said, “You know that lung is gone?” He said no wonder I don’t hear anything. Haha. 

On Saturday morning, two days after surgery, my surgeon told me I could go home. Of course, that does not mean right away. Six hours later the floor nurse came to remove the IVs and give me the discharge and home care rules. Remember my mention in Part 1 about a funny story concerning the right IV? 

Every time something was injected via that one, I could feel whatever it was shooting into the vein all the way up to the elbow. When she removed it, she said, “Holy crap! Why did you get a #14? I grew up on a horse farm and that’s the size we used on horses!” I don’t know why the pre-surgical nurse used the largest in the drawer. However, I did not have any desire to eat hay or whinny,  so I guess it didn’t matter. 

My husband picked me up around 4:30. I went home with some happy pills that sort of made me comfortable. Certainly not as effective as George. I slept in my recliner for two weeks. 

Next on my agenda: Chemotherapy.