Saturday, November 24, 2007
The Return
Well. I did it. I survived my tonsillectomy.
The morning of the surgery, I was okay. I was okay on the subway ride to the hospital, with Karen next to me. I was okay talking to the anesthesiologist. He even remarked on how chipper I was considering I was about to have surgery. I was okay talking to my doctor. The second I walked into the OR, I was NOT okay.
I was not okay when I laid down on the operating table, looking up at the big light above my head. I watched my blood pressure spike higher and higher as everyone moved methodically around me, covering me with a warming blanket, putting an IV in my arm, basically strapping me to the table. My hands started to shake and for the first time since I had scheduled the surgery, I wanted to bolt. I wanted to run out of there as fast as I could. I didn't want them cutting open my throat. I was SCARED.
Sooner than I expected, the room start to get fuzzy. I remember remarking that I was starting to feel funny to the anesthesiologist. I don't remember anything after that until he was waking me up, telling me that everything had gone really well. My first question was about my blood pressure. My second question was asking my doctor how big my tonsils had been.
"Enormous," was her reply.
They moved me to the Stage 1 recovery room. My mouth felt very, very, very weird. The stitches made it feel like I had something stuck in the back of my throat but it hurt to much to try and get it out. It was... uncomfortable. The nurse asked me how I felt.
"It hurts," I said.
She gave me some Tylenol with codeine and told me to go to sleep.
For 45 minutes I was in and out. Waking every time the blood pressure cuff tightened on my arm.
Finally I was awake. And I wanted WATER.
When she told me she couldn't give me any, I started to cry. I still had the IV in my arm and it hurt. The tylenol with codeine never completely dulled the pain and I had cotton mouth from breathing through my mouth. Everything felt out of control. And I wanted water.
She relented and gave me ice chips, which were actually perfect.
45 minutes later they moved me to Stage 2 recovery, where Karen could come and be with me. She helped me get dressed, she got me bottles of water and she orchestrated Email Boy picking me up with his car, and was in constant contact with my sister who was in the process of flying to New York.
An orderly wheeled me out and finally, finally- I was going home.
I could spend HOURS writing about the next 8 days. About the vomiting on Day 3 that nearly did me in. About the overwhelming sense that I would never feel better on Day 5. About the constant and unrelenting pain that was as bad as I imagined it would me. About how food became a burden, a necessity to stop the vomiting, but something that I absolutely hated having to deal with.
But really, all that matters, is that I'm getting much, much better. My first foray out of the house, I worried about passing out every single second until I was back on my couch. Today, I spent all morning with Spatch and even contemplated a very easy gym visit, which I nixed after a run for the A train seriously winded me.
I am eating. I don't wake up and want to die from the pain. I am still controlled by my pain meds, but I'm looking forward to weaning myself off them.
Monday, I go back to work and I'm ready.
The morning of the surgery, I was okay. I was okay on the subway ride to the hospital, with Karen next to me. I was okay talking to the anesthesiologist. He even remarked on how chipper I was considering I was about to have surgery. I was okay talking to my doctor. The second I walked into the OR, I was NOT okay.
I was not okay when I laid down on the operating table, looking up at the big light above my head. I watched my blood pressure spike higher and higher as everyone moved methodically around me, covering me with a warming blanket, putting an IV in my arm, basically strapping me to the table. My hands started to shake and for the first time since I had scheduled the surgery, I wanted to bolt. I wanted to run out of there as fast as I could. I didn't want them cutting open my throat. I was SCARED.
Sooner than I expected, the room start to get fuzzy. I remember remarking that I was starting to feel funny to the anesthesiologist. I don't remember anything after that until he was waking me up, telling me that everything had gone really well. My first question was about my blood pressure. My second question was asking my doctor how big my tonsils had been.
"Enormous," was her reply.
They moved me to the Stage 1 recovery room. My mouth felt very, very, very weird. The stitches made it feel like I had something stuck in the back of my throat but it hurt to much to try and get it out. It was... uncomfortable. The nurse asked me how I felt.
"It hurts," I said.
She gave me some Tylenol with codeine and told me to go to sleep.
For 45 minutes I was in and out. Waking every time the blood pressure cuff tightened on my arm.
Finally I was awake. And I wanted WATER.
When she told me she couldn't give me any, I started to cry. I still had the IV in my arm and it hurt. The tylenol with codeine never completely dulled the pain and I had cotton mouth from breathing through my mouth. Everything felt out of control. And I wanted water.
She relented and gave me ice chips, which were actually perfect.
45 minutes later they moved me to Stage 2 recovery, where Karen could come and be with me. She helped me get dressed, she got me bottles of water and she orchestrated Email Boy picking me up with his car, and was in constant contact with my sister who was in the process of flying to New York.
An orderly wheeled me out and finally, finally- I was going home.
I could spend HOURS writing about the next 8 days. About the vomiting on Day 3 that nearly did me in. About the overwhelming sense that I would never feel better on Day 5. About the constant and unrelenting pain that was as bad as I imagined it would me. About how food became a burden, a necessity to stop the vomiting, but something that I absolutely hated having to deal with.
But really, all that matters, is that I'm getting much, much better. My first foray out of the house, I worried about passing out every single second until I was back on my couch. Today, I spent all morning with Spatch and even contemplated a very easy gym visit, which I nixed after a run for the A train seriously winded me.
I am eating. I don't wake up and want to die from the pain. I am still controlled by my pain meds, but I'm looking forward to weaning myself off them.
Monday, I go back to work and I'm ready.
Labels: tonsils
