A Medical Journey, Pt. 5

Sure, that last post was a touch melodramatic. I will attribute that to artistic license and birth control. But, so sorry, I won’t be retracting the statement since I’m not exactly exaggerating. There are CNN articles confirming Black children die more frequently after surgery than white children. The NIH has done an extensive study on race and surgical mortality rates in cardiovascular and cancer procedures. Last year, the American Medical Association was grappling with Black maternal mortality as women — including *medical students* — died in child birth because they weren’t appropriately treated.

Medical racism is real and so is my fear of falling victim to it — especially in the hands of doctors (and *nurses*) who unwittingly engage the practice.

So, sue me for writing a will and asking to be turned into a companion stone.

Two days before my the myomectomy, June 15, I was instructed to start an antibiotic again because the doctor wants to do another hysteroscopy. I am not thrilled. I am prescribed a Z-pack since the doxycycline went over so poorly on the first go. I pick up the medicine and an unmentionable amount of food at Wendy’s, determined that intake would not be the reason I got sick from this round pre-emotive medicine. The food itself made me feel crummy but, at least, I didn’t vomit. I considered this a small win for later victory. I made a mental note to inquire about taking such a heavy medication the day of the surgery when I was told not to eat or drink anything at all and waited for my husband to return from work.

In the meantime, I tried to preoccupy myself but it wasn’t until the morning of all my preoperative appointments that I finally opened the Bible application on my phone to find the scripture that brought me through so many things before.

“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God;”

‭‭Philippians‬ ‭4:6‬ ‭NKJV‬‬

I honestly didn’t know what to request outside of “please bring me to the other side of this alive and well.” I wondered if I deserved that. I pondered on my plans versus God’s. I considered the ways I’ve let him down and, even, if I should be permitted to continue. I cry.

The 16th passes quickly and with much anxiety. I find myself crying more, mostly to myself because my husband and mother in law are with me and I don’t want to demonstrate that level of vulnerability in front of both of them. My appointments go well — I even skip the hysteroscopy because a nurse, Erika, advised the doctor it would be best for me to skip it. She has no clue how helpful that is to me across the board. I was already in the restroom all day and didn’t think my belly could handle the inflation of my uterus with sterile water, the insertion and maneuver of a camera, and anxiety induced diarrhea.

The surgeon is thorough, answers every question, tells me the possibilities for how the procedure will be performed — bikini cut or vertical cut. Both are frightening but both will enable me to have children. I refrain from comment. I am prescribed pain medication and magnesium citrate (which does not stay down). The preoperative appointment at the hospital is fast. They draw around six or seven vials of blood, tell me where to be in the morning and send me home.

All I want is some French fries — maybe a chocolate chip cookie. But I’ve been assigned a liquid diet.

The morning of surgery, I’m pouty because everyone in the house is eating except me. And I am HUNGRY. While the ramen the evening before was delicious, it was not realistic for my hunger and expectation. I showered using Dial soap as requested, got scared, cried, held my husband’s hand, and pet my dog. We were expecting my father in law, but he wouldn’t arrive until much later that evening. At the hospital, my husband was able to join me all the way up until they gave me anesthesia and rolled me away.

Just before, though, the doctor informs us of a problem with my liver that will require attention sooner rather than later.

I cried when he left the room and asked my husband why there are always so many things wrong me and why I am always last to know. The result of the scan from my liver apparently accompanied my appendectomy last year. Information was included in the dozens of forms I was given for care following my emergency surgery.

I cried in frustration.

I cried in doubt.

I cried in sadness.

I woke up in a recovery room and, within twenty minutes, I was with my husband, mother in law, and a dozen questions. Although they had to leave at 8, I stayed up most of the night. As I wrote most of this post, it was 3:40AM on June 18th. Wrestling rest out of the hands of the incision proved more difficult than anticipated. I later learned that, in order to intubate me, the anesthesiologist completely straightened the 90 degree angle my trachea (and everyone else’s) naturally sits on and left my neck and shoulders in that position. As a result, I couldn’t rest on my back — definitely not flat on my back.

I was checked on at least four times by a great nurse named Mariah that night. I wished, now, that I said three more “thank you’s” before the nightmarish morning tech Valerie and her trainee Chloe showed up in the morning.

Normally, I do not lean into name calling as a form of insult. My mother let me use profanity early in life because she knew I would grow bored with articulating myself that way. But, in this much pain, I had dozens of names for this pair when, in the 32 minutes between calling the nurses station *the first time* and their arrival in my room, I already made my way to my feet to use the restroom. She arrived, angry with me for being on my feet, telling me I should have stayed in bed until she arrived. I gently articulated what they knew — that I pressed the button the first time at 7:15 and it was now 7:47. Valerie was full of excuses. Chloe was silent. I took myself to the rest room.

My in laws were ready to fight on arrival, armed with the text messages recording the three times I pressed the button.

Valerie and Chloe were back in the room; Valeria was lying and making excuses, Chloe acted as though she didn’t hear. The comments included me “getting confused” and “pressing the wrong button.” I was also accused (and I only use that word because it felt like an accusation) of being “very independent” that morning. Then, according to Valerie, the beds were rented and the remotes weren’t compatible with their system.

Before my family arrived, I pressed the button a fourth time and went to the hall to find the light above my door pulsing. The nurses station was full of women speaking loudly with one another. The second floor was full of nurses, just not one for me or my Nepali roommate (who, oddly enough, arrived to the hospital the same time I did and had a hysterectomy). We were well attended through the night but, when they removed the foley connected to our bladders, they forgot we existed by morning.

I was grateful to be released that day, sent home where I could be cared for and attended to by people who kept their ears open to my pain. The doctor messaged me photos of the removed fibroids. I was blown away that I carried that much in my body. Grateful was too small a word. I recognized this change meant gentler cycles, increased fertility, a generally easier time walking, running, and doing exercise.

God is good all the time. Although this isn’t the end, I’m grateful to think more about what comes next. One day, I will have to write about my birthing experience — definitely a much longer series — but, for now, to you who have made it this far, thank you for taking this journey with me. I am grateful.