Yesterday, I began to feel better. I had survived Friday's dialysis session, or at least a close approximation of it; still, it was a great relief to find the fistula works well, though I am not looking forward to Monday now that I have run out of skin-numbing Emla cream.
Having surgery is an un-nerving experience. Upon coming round, you are forced to turn detective to try and explain the array of bizarre sensations you are now experiencing. It is exactly the same as waking up after a particularly heavy night of drinking to find yourself in an unfamiliar bed, inexplicably wearing a West Ham strip and cuddled up to a traffic cone; it obviously happened, you were definitely there and yet you have no conscious knowledge of what went on and now have a myriad of questions that need answers. For a mere forty five minutes, I exited the conscious world and was at the mercy of the surgeons who, fortunately, I trusted to competently repair my fistula and not shave off my eyebrows. Yet within this short expanse of time, a lot was done to me of which I have absolutely no recollection. Apart from the obvious - the reduction in the bulge in my arm and the consequent pain was a give away they had fiddled with the fistula - I awoke with a sore throat and a mouth that was both arid and swollen. It took me a good few hours to work out these were all symptomatic of the breathing tube that had been placed down my throat during the surgery. More mysteriously, the underside of my left wrist was incredibly tender, as though it has been bruised. Residual nerve damage maybe? Or was it bashed during the operation? Who cares, I know...but it is likely I shall never find out and it is odd to find pain where there was none before and not know why. Conversely, it was not a mystery how I ended up at dialysis almost four kilos over my dry weight, the most I have ever put on between sessions: I came round on Wednesday to find myself attached to a drip that had already squeezed one and half liters of saline into me. My friends all looked at me in bewilderment as I tried to convey why I found this so troublesome - surely, they pointed out reasonably, there was a medicinal purpose to the extra fluid. I could not articulate my consternation at having been force-fed fluid like a foie-gras destined goose. I was not given the option to enjoy it orally and it negated my ability to drink over the next two days. It also boded a savage dialysis session on Friday to take off the excess. For me, fluid intake is a prized, exquisite indulgence and it was no small thing to find I had imbibed a day's worth of allowance whilst unconscious. Having the fistula plicated was a big deal for me and something I had given an excessive amount of thought to. Yet when it finally happened, I knew nothing about it; I simply woke up to find it done and then spent the next two days climbing out of the fug of anesthesia (and working out how to spell it).
Pre-op, I had somehow not factored in that, post-op, I would be down the use of my left arm. I have been pleasantly surprised to find that whilst my arm has been sore, as long as I didn't move it, the pain has been quite bearable. The caveat, of course, is that I couldn't move my arm. I set about finding as many one-armed activities as possible to pass the time, foremost of which was lying on my bed watching "Rome" on my laptop: tremendously enjoyable if not exactly very productive. I tried typing (see the inane ramblings of the previous entry) but this turned out to be a laborious and frustrating exercise that left me even more cranky than before and necessitated a nap. Yesterday, I hit upon the solution: sorting. I cleared out the paperwork from my desk and organised it into folders. My desk finished, I started on the shelves that house my book and DVD collection and which now look militarily precise. I had been meaning to do both for months and in the perverse life I lead, it surprises me not at all that it took minor surgery to inspire such industry.
As Joanne pointed out, my sorting escapade sounds deathly dull, but by yesterday morning I was desperate to find something I could attempt having the spent the previous two days failing dismally at everything else. I had to sheepishly ask my housemates for help with the most basic of tasks: Maisy was roped in to tie up my hair up and fasten my bra, whilst Caroline (who I am not on quite as familiar terms with yet) was tasked with taping a Waitrose bag (far sturdier, I reasoned, than a chavy Sainsbury's one) around my arm so I could take a shower and wash my hair. I went without a bra. I detest being incompetent and feel a burden when I must rely on the astounding kindness of others. It is both shaming and frustrating and emphasises the reality that my long term survival is dependent on the altruism of somebody who signs up to the donor list and then unexpectedly and inconveniently (for them, anyway) dies. Granted one wish - after asking for ten more wishes, obviously - I would desire nothing more than to live independently and autonomously in my own body.
Through cleaning out my desk, I was rejuvinated - it was onwards and upwards from there on in. I went to Chapel Market and single-handedly (literally) brought ingredients for a stir-fry which I chopped and cooked all by myself. Sure, it was all but inedible but it was in the doing that I succeeded. This morning, I read yesterday's Guardian - a broadsheet, I thank you - with nothing but my guile and right arm. Nothing can stop me now: it can only be weeks, surely, before I am white water rafting and freebasing.
Now the swelling is going down, and the pain is subsiding so long as I don't twist my arm to the right, I am beginning to see the benefits of Wedneday's operation rather than regretting having ever agreed to it. The fistula is significantly reduced and, whilst not invisible, is no longer a burning source of shame. I am now pathetically excited at getting the dressing removed and parading my brand new arm in a t-shirt, even if only in my bedroom. This must be what it feels like to have a boob job, except with less potential to have more sex. For the last two years, I have felt strangely dislocated from my left arm, as though it no longer belongs to me, but to the hospital, to Bostock dialysis unit. It has been another unexpected discovery from the mystery of the operation, and an incredible one: I have woken up to feel whole, more like me again.
Having surgery is an un-nerving experience. Upon coming round, you are forced to turn detective to try and explain the array of bizarre sensations you are now experiencing. It is exactly the same as waking up after a particularly heavy night of drinking to find yourself in an unfamiliar bed, inexplicably wearing a West Ham strip and cuddled up to a traffic cone; it obviously happened, you were definitely there and yet you have no conscious knowledge of what went on and now have a myriad of questions that need answers. For a mere forty five minutes, I exited the conscious world and was at the mercy of the surgeons who, fortunately, I trusted to competently repair my fistula and not shave off my eyebrows. Yet within this short expanse of time, a lot was done to me of which I have absolutely no recollection. Apart from the obvious - the reduction in the bulge in my arm and the consequent pain was a give away they had fiddled with the fistula - I awoke with a sore throat and a mouth that was both arid and swollen. It took me a good few hours to work out these were all symptomatic of the breathing tube that had been placed down my throat during the surgery. More mysteriously, the underside of my left wrist was incredibly tender, as though it has been bruised. Residual nerve damage maybe? Or was it bashed during the operation? Who cares, I know...but it is likely I shall never find out and it is odd to find pain where there was none before and not know why. Conversely, it was not a mystery how I ended up at dialysis almost four kilos over my dry weight, the most I have ever put on between sessions: I came round on Wednesday to find myself attached to a drip that had already squeezed one and half liters of saline into me. My friends all looked at me in bewilderment as I tried to convey why I found this so troublesome - surely, they pointed out reasonably, there was a medicinal purpose to the extra fluid. I could not articulate my consternation at having been force-fed fluid like a foie-gras destined goose. I was not given the option to enjoy it orally and it negated my ability to drink over the next two days. It also boded a savage dialysis session on Friday to take off the excess. For me, fluid intake is a prized, exquisite indulgence and it was no small thing to find I had imbibed a day's worth of allowance whilst unconscious. Having the fistula plicated was a big deal for me and something I had given an excessive amount of thought to. Yet when it finally happened, I knew nothing about it; I simply woke up to find it done and then spent the next two days climbing out of the fug of anesthesia (and working out how to spell it).
Pre-op, I had somehow not factored in that, post-op, I would be down the use of my left arm. I have been pleasantly surprised to find that whilst my arm has been sore, as long as I didn't move it, the pain has been quite bearable. The caveat, of course, is that I couldn't move my arm. I set about finding as many one-armed activities as possible to pass the time, foremost of which was lying on my bed watching "Rome" on my laptop: tremendously enjoyable if not exactly very productive. I tried typing (see the inane ramblings of the previous entry) but this turned out to be a laborious and frustrating exercise that left me even more cranky than before and necessitated a nap. Yesterday, I hit upon the solution: sorting. I cleared out the paperwork from my desk and organised it into folders. My desk finished, I started on the shelves that house my book and DVD collection and which now look militarily precise. I had been meaning to do both for months and in the perverse life I lead, it surprises me not at all that it took minor surgery to inspire such industry.
As Joanne pointed out, my sorting escapade sounds deathly dull, but by yesterday morning I was desperate to find something I could attempt having the spent the previous two days failing dismally at everything else. I had to sheepishly ask my housemates for help with the most basic of tasks: Maisy was roped in to tie up my hair up and fasten my bra, whilst Caroline (who I am not on quite as familiar terms with yet) was tasked with taping a Waitrose bag (far sturdier, I reasoned, than a chavy Sainsbury's one) around my arm so I could take a shower and wash my hair. I went without a bra. I detest being incompetent and feel a burden when I must rely on the astounding kindness of others. It is both shaming and frustrating and emphasises the reality that my long term survival is dependent on the altruism of somebody who signs up to the donor list and then unexpectedly and inconveniently (for them, anyway) dies. Granted one wish - after asking for ten more wishes, obviously - I would desire nothing more than to live independently and autonomously in my own body.
Through cleaning out my desk, I was rejuvinated - it was onwards and upwards from there on in. I went to Chapel Market and single-handedly (literally) brought ingredients for a stir-fry which I chopped and cooked all by myself. Sure, it was all but inedible but it was in the doing that I succeeded. This morning, I read yesterday's Guardian - a broadsheet, I thank you - with nothing but my guile and right arm. Nothing can stop me now: it can only be weeks, surely, before I am white water rafting and freebasing.
Now the swelling is going down, and the pain is subsiding so long as I don't twist my arm to the right, I am beginning to see the benefits of Wedneday's operation rather than regretting having ever agreed to it. The fistula is significantly reduced and, whilst not invisible, is no longer a burning source of shame. I am now pathetically excited at getting the dressing removed and parading my brand new arm in a t-shirt, even if only in my bedroom. This must be what it feels like to have a boob job, except with less potential to have more sex. For the last two years, I have felt strangely dislocated from my left arm, as though it no longer belongs to me, but to the hospital, to Bostock dialysis unit. It has been another unexpected discovery from the mystery of the operation, and an incredible one: I have woken up to feel whole, more like me again.
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