Fuck That Shit

IMG_4710

 

It’s been a week since I sat with my forearm delicately balanced on the side of the hospital bed, desperate not to disturb any of the wires or tubes, and held onto E’s pinky finger once again for what felt like forever. It’s jarring and emotional to witness someone coming out of anesthesia. It can take hours, which in her case it did. Hours of a perfectly strong and capable adult seeming like a newborn baby opening her eyes to the world for the first time. Hours of dilated pupils, slow blinking, head lolling around in wide circles searching for noises she couldn’t place, confusion over what time it was.

When I walked in and saw her I almost started crying. I had been dutifully holding back the tears all day but when her first words to me were My chest hurts, I pretty damn near lost it. The look on her face declaring a pain level of “shocking” didn’t help either. I swallowed the enormous frog in my throat, put my hand on her head and did my best to smile. I said, You did it! And you’re OK!

In time I picked up the drill from the recovery room nurse: Let her rest when her eyes are closed. Keep her abreast of her own situation when they’re open. Rinse and repeat for as long as it takes. Shortly I took over the duty of wetting her dry lips with a tiny sponge on a stick that looked like a blue lollipop and spooning her tiny ice chips out of a Styrofoam cup. It felt good to be useful. Having a job made it all feel less insane.

When we finally got upstairs to her room I realized that wasn’t the place for tears either. So instead we got fake pissed at the nurses and doctors who had no respect for natural circadian sleep rhythms. How dare they have such disregard? Sarcasm took over as I adjusted the pillows propping her arms up and spoon fed her yogurt, joking that someday when we’re in our 80’s I’ll have to do this all over again because technically speaking I’m younger and she’ll likely become invalid first. We waxed poetically about all the fun we could have at home with her pain med clicker while falling in and out of naps.

We had logged about three hours of sleep between 11:00 pm and 5:00 am when the morning shift arrived to check vitals and the hospital day officially began. After a breakfast of pancakes and eggs, there was physical therapy, shots in the stomach and intern rounds. Such a blast.

As the day progressed she started to regain her strength. Everything went according to plan and after one more night of constant checks and hardly any rest, she was released. The long holiday weekend was a slow trudge up Recovery Hill with only minor setbacks and a sometimes hilarious level of “mom being totally out of it.”

But then yesterday at her first post-op check up at the doctor’s office, the plastic surgeon found an infection in her right breast. She immediately made an appointment for Eri back at the hospital with an infectious diseases specialist. He would be the one to decide if she needed a different medication or to be re-admitted. Infections are no laughing matter and I went straight into serious mode. As much as I hated to say it I thought she should pack an overnight bag just in case. She very begrudgingly agreed.

But this morning when I awoke and got ready I felt very differently.

I texted her: I think instead of packing an overnight bag we should go with positive hell-no-you’re-not-spending-another-night-in-the-hospital thinking.

She replied in agreement: Yah I won’t be admitted, I’ve decided. Fuck that shit.

Once again strength and defiance ruled the day and got her through.

She wasn’t re-admitted today but the specialist did give her a second antibiotic to take on top of all the other meds in her arsenal. There is a plan in place should the infection prove pesky: IV antibiotics are the second line of defense. Surgery to remove and replace the implantation spacer is the worst case scenario.

But as far as we’re concerned, Eri’s time in the hospital is over for now. There is just no way in hell she’s going back there.

Recovery is such a vital time for support and love. If you’ve considered taking part in the Cycle My Heart Out campaign now is the time to do it! Please help us reach our goal to not only help Ericka and her family but to help everyone who benefits from the services at Ann’s Place.

THANK YOU!!

#AnnsPlace

Cycle My Heart Out 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “Fuck That Shit”

  1. Every time I have surgery I have an infection and last time it was definately life threatening but Dr. Nee the head of infectious disease at Danbury Hospital pulled me through so know you are in good hands. Love to you Ericka and know you are in our prayers!!

    Like

  2. Sighhhhhhhhhhhhh, there just are no words, with exception of unfair, which has been one of Ericka’s repetitive words since she was little. Middle child syndrome no doubt. She seems to be easily prone to infections, she has been dealing with it all along. I just hope it’s nothing serious and the doctor is taking every precaution. Ericka I love you and miss you and I hope within a few days your pain will subside. I will see you as soon as possible.

    Like

I'd love to connect! Please leave a comment and share:

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s