Day 2 Post-Op...
...didn't turn out to be what I had bargained for. To say it was hard would be an understatement of the year.
The day started off well and good. I slept great that night, the Percocet was still managing my pain, I was walking around every few hours as I was instructed to keep circulation moving to minimize the risk of an embolism. My appetite was good and I was feeling fairly well.
And then that proverbial "shoe" fell. And it fell hard.
It was around 5pm-ish that all of a sudden I was hit with a giant wave of nausea. I was sitting in the recliner in the office and it hit me like a tsunami. Ever so slowly, I worked my way to standing and called to Jason. He came in to check on me and I told him to go and get a bucket as I wasn't convinced I was even going to make it to the bathroom a mere 20 feet away. I willed myself to not throw-up knowing that it would cost me dearly. My breathing became more rapid and shallow, my temperature started rising, and the nausea tightened it's cruel grip. After many baby steps of putting one foot in front of the other, I finally reached the bathroom. I sat down because I was becoming so woozy. The last thing I wanted to do other than throw-up was to faint and fall on the floor.
The clock seemed to tick by so slowly. On numerous occasions I felt myself start the throwing-up process only to will myself to keep swallowing in order to avoid the painful convulsion that I was certain I could only hold off for a little bit longer. Jason stood by, fanning me furiously as I was damp with sweat. He quickly ran and got a baggie and filled it with ice chips and it was all I could do to part my lips far enough for him to push a piece in. After what seemed like a few hours of increasing nausea, I started to feel a bit unsteady. I knew that things were not getting better, but were starting to get even worse. At this point, I was overdue on my pain meds and I was feeling it. The additional pain wasn't helping the nausea at all. I put a dissolvable Zofran on my tongue. The mint taste hit me (what an aweful reminder of my past pregnancy). And all of a sudden, it happened. I couldn't control it, I couldn't swallow it down...and that was it. I grabbed the zofran out of my mouth and I threw up. A lot. The pain seared through my midsection and I knew I was going down a bad path. I tried to get the Zofran back into my mouth, but there wasn't much left of it and frankly, it wasn't proving to be too successful at that point. I felt so weak and many times it started to feel as if the room was starting to close in. With what little energy I had, I whispered to Jason.
With worry streaked across his face, he tried the best he could. He came up with a game plan and told me that we needed to get me back to the recliner and get the pain meds in. I, however, knew I was past the point of no return and was going to need more than what he could offer.
"Call 911 or take me to the ER. Now."
He got on the phone and called my dear friend Tricia. She came over immediately to watch Ella and Hattie so we could leave. It took me 15 minutes just to get myself up and out of that bathroom, have Jason put my slippers on, and throw a coat over my shoulders. My walker was put in front of me and I willed myself to get to the van...one way or the other. It was either this or the ambulance was going to have to come for me and I just couldn't leave my girls while they watched me drive away in something that had red lights flashing. They would be too scared. Heck...I was scared and I didn't need any more of it to spill over onto them.
Tricia arrived and I couldn't even pick my head up to see her. I was put in the van...bucket on lap. Every turn made it worse. Every bump made me cringe. Jason called his mom on the way and told her that we needed her to come watch the girls as we didn't know how long I would be there.
We turned at the stop lights into the ER entrance and it happened again. I threw up. Searing pain shot through my body one more time...and with it a warm, wet feeling on my abdomen. I didn't know what had just happened, but I suspected something had ripped open. Jason put the van into park, fetched a wheelchair, and opened the door to get me out. I knew I needed to stay still for just a few more minutes and I concentrated on swallowing, feeling that my body wasn't done forcing out what it clearly didn't want in there. By the grace of God, that was the last time I would throw up.
Jason wheeled me in to the front desk. They immediately took me back and roomed me despite the waiting room being full. I was put on an IV, and a combination of Zofran and dilauded were pumped into my veins. The dilauded was administered every 15-20 minutes until relief started.
The doctor called my surgeon, discussed things with him, ordered an x-ray of my abdomen and admitted me to the hospital. According to the x-ray, I had a lot of air pockets that were trapped inside my body from the surgery. And since nothing was moving due to the narcotics and Zofran, my body decided that something had to give. It took action and forced out whatever contents I had in it by way of mouth. By around 2am I was rolled into my room for the night for observation.
It was a long night with not a lot of sleep...complete with a very cranky nurse the next morning who was more than an hour late in bringing me my pain meds and even argued with me that I had never received any dilauded since 2am so therefore my pain must be being managed just fine and I really wasn't in need of anything. Unfortunately, the night nurse apparently neglected her duty of logging information into the charts before she left her shift. She didn't believe me until I described the vile of drugs that had been administered in great detail.
The on-call doctor wouldn't let me leave until my system started moving things. So starting at 12:00 noon, I was given a package of miralax every hour until 5pm. My body finally cried "uncle" and submitted to what they wanted to have happen. I was finally discharged. I got home around 6pm.
My mom had dropped everything earlier that day when I had called. She packed her bags and got in the car and made the 5 hour trek to the cities. I can't tell you what it does for a girl's spirits to see her mama. There's healing that happens just in knowing she is there.
I was so glad to be home. I have never felt such a searing, intense, brutal pain as that of throwing up 48+ hours after an abdominal surgery. Honestly, words cannot describe it. I'm amazed I didn't pass out. I believed in my heart that things really couldn't get worse and that they could only get better. Things had to look up from here...