6/29 - Surgery Day
The nurses take my belongings, with the exception of my phone, to a locker and I'm left to my thoughts for only a few minutes, which is good, because in the short time I've been left alone my mind is already wandering around the possibility of the surgery going wrong. I'm picturing the surgeon on the phone with my husband and in this anxiety-fueled day-dream/nightmare I've created in my head, the words "foot amputation" comes out of his mouth, just as my actual surgeon comes in to discuss the procedure with me. Luckily, in real life the words "amputation" never cross his lips, so I'm thinking we may be ok moving forward (knock on wood).
After going through the process and signing necessary paperwork, the OR nurse comes in to take me to the operating room, but not before one last check of questions. Have I had an alcohol in the past 24 hours? Recreational drugs? Do I have any piercings? Any tattoos? Any ink or lotions of any kind on my body? No, no, no, no, and no. "I'm really pretty boring," I say. She laughs and says "You're hanging in with a Plain Jane myself over here," and we both smile (or so I think... it's hard to tell under the masks).
She walks me over towards the OR and I teeter just enough that she reaches out to catch me. "You gave me a scare, there," she says.
"I know! I mean, this is the most excitement us plain Janes are going to get today!" I answer. We laugh, and then I add... "Except, of course, the part where I get my leg cut open and I'm hopped up on narcotics for the next few days..."
Now I know she's smiling at me beneath the mask, and as I get hooked up to the machines in the OR, I'm no longer stressing about how the surgery is going to go or if my foot will be amputated. I'm scared about willingly breathing in the gas that will make me unconscious and losing all control over what happens next. But as the anesthesiologist removes my Covid mask in favor of the one that will make me sleepy, Plain Jane grabs my hand and says "Don't worry, I'll be here the whole time."
I smile at her.
And then I'm awake.
........................................................
And I'm screaming. Someone is slicing my achilles and calf and pounding on them at the same time,
except I can tell no one is because even though I'm not wearing my glasses I'm not Velma so I can at least tell that there's no one near my feet and I'm no longer in the OR. A nurse is next to me and calls to Dr. M who runs over. "Yes, give her more," I can hear him say. I'm squirming in my bed and gripping the rails, "Hang in there... we're getting you more meds," the nurse says to me.
She's wiping my tears with a tissue and the meds finally kick in. Dr. M is at my side and waits for me to calm before telling me the surgery went well. No infection that he could see but given the trauma I'd experienced prior to the surgery my ankle/leg was already tender and his concern is about the soft tissue of the skin healing properly. It's imperative I stay off it for the first couple of weeks, keep it elevated, and ice as best I can. He's also prescribing Percocet with Acetaminophen and Aspirin to thin the blood and avoid blood clots. He'll see me in a week for a follow up.
It takes a while but the meds finally kick in and I'm comfortable again. I'm eventually moved to Recovery Room 2 where I can drink some apple juice and have some crackers, but my mouth is so dry I practically choke on the crackers and find myself unable to eat them. It's starting to storm outside so the nurse bundles up my leg so it doesn't get wet as I'm transferred to my husband's car, and I fall asleep while she's talking to him.
We get home and I wake up in the passenger seat. The storm is so bad that I can't see clearly through the front window in spite of the wipers swishing back and forth as fast as possible (though I could also owe my lack of clear vision to the incredible drugs making me forget my leg was just cut open). What a bad time to NOT have an attached garage. One of the primary take aways I can remember from my semi-lucid state post-op was the doctor stressing to not get the casting wet, so my husband is talking through how we're going to get me inside without getting it wet. He hands me a garbage bag that I tie around my leg, and then he and my dad, who has arrived only hours earlier, meet me at the passenger side door with an umbrella and my crutches. I realize I can barely walk even with the crutches as the meds have made me more loopy than I realize, so my husband has to hold me up by the waist while walking me in, while my mom waits with the wheelchair, into which I practically crash as soon as I get inside. My clothes and the garbage bag are completely soaked in spite of the umbrella, but luckily, as we remove the bag, we find the bandage/splint untouched by the rain.
I'm brought back to my bed and my mom helps me in while my husband runs to the pharmacy to fill my Percocet prescription, and then I'm out.
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