“For who hath despised the day of small things?...”
Zechariah 4:10
That First Morning:
…I was weak and helpless. I tried to open a can with our can opener, but nope, it took too much force.
“Hone-e-e-y, help me, please!”
And, speaking of honey help, my husband also participated in baby wipe assistance.
It sounds glamorous, doesn’t it?
Again, I was Mrs. Useless Arms 2017, so my husband wiping me down was as close to “freshening up” as I was going to get for days.
I smelled like baby powder, and I’d have to settle for that.
We marked the first drain output of the morning. The chart we were given had date, time of day, measurement, and, for extra fun, the color of the drainage.
Ohboy!
We moved to the bathroom station. My husband uncorked the bulbs, one by one, and guesstimated the measurement. He was careful not to pull or tug as I was on the other end and could let out quite a yelp if I needed to.
I was Kool-Aid Cherry red and accumulated quite a bit overnight.
Drainage done, at least for a few hours.
I decided against using the pouches which came with my recovery garments. The Velcro didn’t stick effectively enough and honestly, the bulbs felt better when they were pinned higher, to my garment, at chest level. I didn’t get tangled that way.
I was, however, still experiencing that catching feeling on my back. I thought something was wrong with my bandages and had my husband check things out.
He found a white 3M patch stuck to my back.
“It’s a monitor, I guess, from your surgery.”
Well, my fussiness wanted to speak with the hospital immediately. Was this Kosher?
My husband called and the nurse explained it, indeed, was left over from my surgery. This was the snagging culprit that kept catching on my bed, on the couch.
No, I wasn’t in danger of unravelling.
“Sometimes,” the nurse explained, “they just forget to take off all of the monitor patches.”
Well, isn’t that darling?
Here I was, thinking the worst, getting anxious there was something wrong and the entire time, hospital staff just sometimes forget to take stuff off?...
…Not long after this adventure, I got a call from Dr. M.
Again, it was bad news. The node had metastasized; I was in Stage 2, Grade 3.
Not much was said after that. I waited for the next Tuesday when I’d finally get the drains removed. I was upset and had no place to put it.
It was what it was. I have cancer; I’m probably dying from cancer, regardless.
That black mood, then, impacted my crying jag later that night.
I decided to go sans garment, seeing if I felt less restricted that way. When my husband went to bed, I had a freak out. I woke him up, crying, despairing that there was something wrong with me.
My chest felt tighter. I felt I was swelling up.
He tried to keep me from hyperventilating.
I decided to put the garment back on, to see if that offered relief.
It did.
I was able to lie on the couch and rest better.
Okay, garments stay on, at least until the drains are removed.
Lesson learned.
The next few days were weak kitten me, unable to operate a can opener. My husband to my constant rescue again. He had cleared these days off with his workplace, and I was grateful for that. The in-home nurse option I was trying to pursue, pre-surgery, wouldn’t work; I wasn’t “housebound enough.”
(Because I’m so active sitting on our couch, fatigued, and dependent on my husband to feed and baby wipe me, but okay, I’m not housebound).
Most of my irritation centered on those drains.
I gravitated, color-wise, from shades of Kool Aid cherry red to pink lemonade, to amber. I had the most output first drain of the morning. We tended to them about every four hours; the last was right before bed.
And I tried not to sit wrong, having them catch and pull- and HURT!!!!
Day by day, I was gaining strength, but not much.
I felt triumphant when, a couple of days before my much-detested drains were removed, I was finally able to use the can opener.
There’s no stopping me now!
I could even open the fridge and prepare my food on paper plates.
I was an inspiration.
People will tell tales.
After about three days, I had more movement in my arms, but reaching was still out of the question.
Don’t even try it.
Repeat: don’t even try it!
I wasn’t very sore, just stiff and uncomfortable.
And that was quite enough for me, thanks.
(Excerpt from “Cancerventures: Tales of a Diagnosed Woman” by Sheryle Cruse)
