Waking Up
You know the place somewhere between awake and asleep? That was where I was. Aware, but unwilling to take that final step into consciousness. Unmoving, I knew that the moment that I opened my eyes, reality would begin to seep in.
I had endured this kind of thing before, but I was sure that this time it was going to be worse. Somehow, this was definitely going to be worse, initially anyway. More pain means more drugs, more drugs, less clarity. Would it be worth it? Would I be able to say that I was glad that I’d had it done? Last time I did and I was, but it lasted just three years. Three years of a relatively pain free existence, then I fell, again. Falling is something I do.
Have you ever noticed that once you have an injury you seem to aggravate it - all the time? It makes you clumsy. Every time I am feeling it (pain), I seem to instantly become super inept! I used to call it the “dropsies” when my kids were younger, now I just call it a pain in the ass.
My kids... How are they? What are they doing? Who is looking after them today? It’s a Tuesday, I think. With the attention span of a fruit fly, I easily flit from one incoherent thought to another, maybe I doze off for a while.
I can hear the nurses talking, the machines beeping. I hear a quiet sobbing not too far away. The idea sets in and I can feel a burn on my face, is someone sitting here, watching me sleep? I hate that! (People, even loved ones, who come to visit and just sit there and watch you sleep). Haydn wouldn’t do that; he would stroke my hair, kiss my forehead, maybe, hold my hand. He would want to see me open my eyes. I am pretty sure he is not here. I wonder where he could be?
I want to open my eyes now. The urge to look is almost irresistible, almost. But, if I do… open my eyes, I mean. If I do and there is someone, here, just watching me sleep. If I open my eyes and see someone, someone who will instantly arise and say, “Hey, how are you, you ok? Can I get you anything?”
I’ll have to smile and say something like, “fine, good, bit thirsty”. That’s always expected, being thirsty, it’s usually true too, and logical. Before surgery you are not allowed to eat or drink anything for, what is it, 8 hours? Then they do whatever it is that needs to be done, usually sticking tubes down your throat, up your nose, drying everything out.
It is at this point that I begin to take stock of what I really feel like. Crap. Crap, with an oxygen tube in my nose, yeah, now I can feel that. My nose is cold and dry. My finger has a pulse monitor clipped to it, my left hand is cold and aching just a bit so I must have a drip in that hand. My body feels heavy, a dead weight and I know that so long as I do not move at all it will stay that way. I have that horrid bitter taste in my mouth, from the anaesthetic, my throat is definitely parched, I try swallow, ouch. Yes, right now an ice chip or six would be heaven. Maybe opening my eyes is a good idea. I feel tired, like I am standing on the edge of a cliff and all I have to do is open my eyes. Then, if I submit to waking, I know, I’ll feel like I fell off one.
I sigh and open my eyes, which takes a bit more effort that I had anticipated. Quick assessment seemed to show that there was no visitor at my bedside. Panning left I see a group of hospital folk in discussion. Bleep, bleep went one of the machines and when I looked to the right a nurse smiled and spoke, “doctor she is awake”.
My eyelids are heavy and I feel a bit sluggish. As I watch the Doctor move out of the huddle and walk towards me. “Mrs Skolmen”, he says, shining a too bright a little torch into my overly sensitive eyes, “you gave us all a bit of a scare” turning to the nurse, “please would you page Dr Barnes, and let him know that she is awake.” His attention returns to me as he begins to check the various vital signs. Without warning he pulls the sheet up from my feet to my knees. I am now painfully aware that I am butt naked under this here thin, little, white sheet.
“Can you feel this?” he asks running the back of something like a pen, down the inside of each foot in turn. (Damn, I should have stayed asleep! Actually Doc, I would rather like some ice chips and a familiar face! That’ll teach me!)
“Yes,” I mumbled, “Can I please get some ice?” I asked weakly.
“Does it feel the same on both sides and on both feet?” Was he just ignoring my demands? “How about here,” he asked, his pen, going further up my leg now.
“Hey Doc, I this isn’t even a date, careful where you put that thing!” Crap! Did I just say that out loud? No, it seems that was in my head, that or the Doc is just pretending he did not hear me. Good call either way!
I wonder how much of this poking and prodding I am going to have to put up with. Just then a vision in white breezes up to my bedside and in her hand is a highly coveted cup of ice chips. Yes! There is hope after all. I tune out the Doc, who has now been joined by the anaesthetist and focus on my ice, “the precious”.
As the first little sliver passes my dry cracked lips and tingles on my tongue, I hear muttering about how low my blood pressure had dropped. They had battled to get me out of the haze of anaesthetic for an alarming period of time. Who cares, I’m awake now and I have ice, yummy, scrummy wet and cold, ice is my new favourite thing. This time, I have a quick behind the lids re-run of Julie Andrews singing “my favourite things”. Maybe... I am still too out of it. I am having my own Ally McBeal moment, sans the dancing baby, no wait… why am I seeing a dancing baby? Morphine probably. All the while, that saintly being in white is still slowly slipping ice chips into my mouth. I feel like a puppy, but I like it.
As I slowly rise out of the fug that is my doped up brain, I realise that I must have in fact dozed off again. The doctor is gone and so is the lovely bringer of ice. I drag my eyelids open again and there is “my Haydn”, holding my hand, forehead resting on the bar on the side of my bed. As I wiggle my fingers he lifts his head and smiles. I love him. He rises and kisses me, just like I had imagined he would and I have a sense of déjà vu as he asks me the questions I knew he would ask...
“Yes, I am fine. Can you get me some ice?” no surprises there.
Returning with the nurse and another cup of “the precious”, he smiles at me in triumph. “How are you feeling now Mrs Skolmen?” the Nurse asks, as she pulls a file from the foot of my bed.
“Okay,” I say, “what time is it?”
“It’s around seven thirty” Haydn tells me, “You have been out of it for almost 12 hours! We’ve all be so worried. Your mom and dad are just outside - we can only be in here one at a time. The girls are at home with Maria, they aren’t allowed into the ICU. Probably for the best, you look a bit scary, all pale and tubey.” He scrunches his nose. Haydn has a thing for needles, tubes and hospitals.
I can see the concern lined in his face and just by the pace of his prattle I know that he has felt lost. “I love you too and I’m glad I am back” I say, in my head. I wonder if he knows that I am really battling to concentrate. Is he still talking? I fade back into oblivion.
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