Princess Georgia and the Anxiety Monster: September 2016

It's actually hard to believe it's been a month already. A friend of mine celebrates her one YEAR Hyster-versary this weekend, but one month still seems crazy to me. Especially considering how painfully slow the first week and a half was. Painful being the key word.

I've started typing a post-op blog approximately 6 times already. At first I got too anxious recalling the early details. Then the goal was to finish it during our drive to/from Myrtle Beach (we left at 2 weeks post-op, likely not my most genius idea, but also not regretted) and while I've never dealt with motion sickness, the achey insides and angry vagina and the spins from the meds convinced me to sleep through as much of the road trip as possible instead. But now we've survived a month, and a month seems like a good place to reflect.

Friday, August 12th I set my alarm for 6:30am. I'd finished packing my hospital bag the night before (full of stuff I never used), so I hit the snooze button a few times before getting into the shower. I loaded my little diffuser with Wild Orange and Peppermint in an attempt to alleviate all the jitters. I also took an Ativan. Duh. I shaved my legs and all the other things that about 20 people were about to get a good look at over the next few days, I moisturized and put my hair up vs. drying it. I was so glad that even though we were leaving early, our baby was up and in Grampa's bed by the time I was ready to go. I wanted to die thinking that I'd go into surgery without one last giant pick-up squeeze, knowing it'd be a while before I could get another one.

Next to Ativan, I highly recommend very loud and happy music playing on your way to the hospital (or any other place that houses a great deal of anxiety). My husband got a great SnapChat video of my dancing and pretending to be super psyched in the passenger seat, with Sia in the background. I took another Ativan after getting changed and into my pre-op bed.

There was only about an hour of waiting, deep breathing, double checking paper work, a blood draw to make sure I wasn't secretly pregnant, and making sarcastic jokes to ease the tension before I had to say goodbye to my husband and got wheeled into the OR hallway. Oh, that hallway!

It's the place were all confidence goes to die. Lol. You lay there in your little rolly bed, half naked and freezing (though the shakes are more nerves then temperature I'm sure), alone with nothing to distract you from thinking about EXACTLY what's about to happen once they wheel you in. I think it was harder for me, because is had such a crappy and SUCH an anxious OR experience last time. I remember my heart rate jumping when I decided to take the little cotton ball bandage off my arm from the pregnancy test. I reminded myself how much worse it is removing that tape after sweating etc, so I peeling it off and put it on my bed...and revealed this giant goose egg next my my elbow! Really?! How much confidence am I supposed to have when the first medical professional of the day bursts a vein over a stupid pregnancy test!?

Even the anesthesiologist gave my arm a concerned look when he came out to meet me and start my IV. He was handsome, and very nice, and not much luckier when it came to my veins. What do they expect though, when you're asked to basically dehydrate yourself for 12 hours before you go in? It took a few tries before he got it in, right inside the crook of my elbow, which would prove HIGHLY annoying for the next 2 days.

I then met the second gynecological surgeon that was brought in, which was a surprise to me, and pretty reassuring. My insides will take all the help it can get! And then Dr. Ben came out to check on me just before they brought me in. He was his happy, loud self and I reminded him 'take all the ovaries, and fix my vagina'.

The anesthesiologist kindly started my drip on my way into the OR, so I have no recollection of getting strapped to the table or people fussing around in the corners. I also have no recollection of waking up, which is very likely for the best. I was in the OR for close to 3 hours, and the information packages all said that I'd be in a post-op bed for at least an hour before being checked into an actual room for my overnight stay, so I assume that happened. As per usual my husband said he knew I was alive when I sent him a text message full of jumbled letters and emojis and a terrible selfie. I never remember how the hell I get my phone back. Or my glasses.

The first thing I really remember is waking up to my husband, and our baby in his stroller. That's a lie. First I remember wanting to scream because I was trying to message my mommies and my sister, and my IV-high fingers wouldn't hit the right fucking letters! At one point, even hours later, I think my husband has to reassure me that my phone was not short circuiting, I was just too high to text. I felt pretty competent, but I suppose that was the nurses/anesthesiologist listening to my repeated reminders that my anxiety does not do well with a head-high. I was awake, but my fingers were not, lol.

I was nervous about, and almost regret asking my husband to bring our son to visit me. He couldn't have cared any less though! He was excited to see me, and excited to eat gold fishes. He may have even gotten some Jello. I don't think I got to eat any Jello, but I've been craving it ever since. He colored me a picture and my husband taped it to my bedside table. I'll probably frame it. I cried when I saw it after waking up again.

I cried more in the first two weeks then I maybe ever have.

The Nanas came with flowers and hugs, and a friend who was working in the hospital came to visit which was actually really appreciated in the moment. My husband came back on his own a little later, just in time for my first little post-op walk. I remember the nurse instructing me to slowly roll out of bed in order to leave all abdominal muscles alone, and telling me over and over again to keep my eyes open while standing up to avoid getting dizzy. My legs felt like mush, but the walk seemed easy enough. Again, thanks to the drugs.

Side note, besides the constant drip of fluids, this was my first time equipped with a PAC machine; a little button I could hit every 15 minutes if I wanted (and of course I wanted) to drop more pain killers. I understand why such a thing was invented, IV drugs are far more effective, and the button kept nurses from having to tend to you constantly. But looking back, it was FAR too convenient. And I was on far too much.

And then I was left alone. In hindsight, that was dumb, but the drugs made me confident enough to insist my husband sleep at home, since there was nowhere but a chair for him to sleep on in my room. He left Greys on the laptop to keep me company, and it was actually an uneventful evening. Besides the Heparin shots, I mean. Fuck those little fuckers. It's an anti-blood clotting medication that is of course very necessary, but stings like hell going in and then burns for a few minutes. Right in the tummy! I squeezed the bed rail, and I cried after the nurse left. It reminded me of the shots in my dislocated hips during labor.

Mornings are always anxious for me, never mind waking up in a dark hospital room alone at 6amand feeling like shit. And then another fucking tummy needle. I text my dad (who's always up earliest) and asked him to please wake my husband up, because I needed company ASAP. And then I cried.

The second day in the hospital was much harder then the first. The second day actually felt as though if just had my organs removed. Day 1 the OR drugs have you feeling all cocky, and 'that wasn't so bad,' but once they have left your system, even that little pain killer button can't cover it up. Even though I waited for the 'it's been 15 minutes!' green light to flash so I could hit it again. And again. Constantly. I asked for Ativan, which they always hesitate to give on top of the pain killers. Which always makes me want to punch them.

Dr. Ben was finally free to come follow up with me, soon after I woke up. He explained things super briefly, knowing that patients are on lots of drugs and not really paying attention, and just want to hear 'all went well!' I got the 'all went well,' but I also heard him say he left my right ovary in, and that 'no, I repaired your episiotomy to make it SMALLER'. He left and I started heaving sobbing. In the hysterical, druggy state I was in, an ovary meant I'd still have Endometriosis symptoms. And a smaller vagina meant I'd never have sex again.

My husband was on his way, but I was texting him in a panic, texting my parents, devastated over what I'd just been told. At that point I was too in shock to ask him for clarification or an explanation, and had just kept nodding my head until he'd left so I could cry. A nurse had heard me, and was more then happy to give me an Ativan then. My mom ended up being the first one to be with me in the morning and I cried to her about my stupid ovary and my stupid vagina.

It was around that time that pain in my middle started to get way to heavy to handle. At some point after checking my IV fluid levels vs my catheter output I was given a little ultrasound and discovered my bladder wasn't emptying. A too-full bladder + all the trauma it had just dealt with obviously equals a really painful bladder. A nurse tried repositioning my catheter twice, but by the time my husband came they had removed it and put a bucket in my toilet to measure my pee. Sexy.

I peed on a schedule, and seemed to cry on a schedule too. And walk. Every hour I forced myself to get up and do a few laps around the floor, then pee. And then cry. My dad brought our baby to visit again, but I don't remember it much. I think I felt bad after they left, because I was too miserable to really want company.

That second sleepover was a little traumatic. Mostly I blame the fact that suddenly I was now sharing a room with an old lady who'd come to Emerge with complications after a surgery she'd had a few weeks earlier. I was quite comfy in my room until then, I didn't crave my own bed until then. She got the far bed (that my kid had previously jumped all over), which meant I suddenly had no natural light once our divider curtain was drawn. I think it's the first time I've ever appreciates how important the sunshine is to our general existence. And she slept that whole evening, all night and the next day, snoring like a truck. My IV kept setting an alarm off every time I bent my elbow, the snoring, and the dark made my nerves stand on end. I was itching. And crying. I was also finally hungry.

Even though I'd say I was too nauseous to eat, they kept bringing me full meals, then making me feel bad when they'd come back and take a full tray away. When you've just had major surgery and have been filled with hard core pain meds, they shouldn't be bringing you full meals anyways! But they brought my dinner that night, and the chicken and potatoes and broccoli tasted way too good. I remember telling my husband I should probably stop eating. A few hours later he was half asleep on the foot of my bed, the lady was snoring, my IV alarm was going off, and I puked big time. I didn't even have time to get anxious over it, just tell my husband I needed a bigger bucket then the dinky peanut shaped thing they leave you, and then my dinner came up. And then a bucket full of stomach acid. And then the nurse yelled at my husband because he cleaned up the bucket etc right after...and nurses like to inspect your post-op pukes. At least after that, I was so worn out I slept. Minus the tummy needle.

The next morning my mom came, so my husband could go home and actually sleep. We watched Greys, and complained to each other about my neighbor's noisy machines. I drank my Starbucks juice and ate crackers, and prayed to be released! I also anxiously awaited a suppository, which was promised to me after I answered 'no,' to that constant 'have you pooped yet?' question. Maybe the sexiest part of the whole experience.

Dr. Ben came back around lunch time, and this time he sat down and held my hand. One of my nurses had called him after his initial follow up, explaining how upset I'd been, so he made sure he had some extra time when he came back to discuss my discharge. Having someone else there with me this time, helped too. He explained that they spent ample time cleaning out my Endometriosis, and that leaving me with an ovary was not as risky as I'd made it out to be. They'd been so successful excising all of the current growths that he would have kept both ovaries, but my left had been overwhelmed by cysts, and was useless anyways. My mom thanked him, which surprised me a little, for saving an ovary. She expressed how worried she was about me dealing with menopause, and suddenly I was relieved too.

And then he did his best to reassure me about the state of my vagina. For those that don't stalk my @alwaysgeorge Instagram feed, and for those of you who love the TMI details, sex has hurt ever since I had a baby. For two years, sex felt like 'the first time', and not in a good way. Even before we had a baby, my husband and I just barely fit together, and after my episiotomy healed I felt even smaller. And I know that that sounds like a dream, but I'd been looking forward to a slightly-stretched-out-mom-vagina after a vaginal delivery, in all honesty. I would tear (a teeny but fucking significant tear) every time. And it didn't get better over time. And then it got worse. Turns out, Lupron and all of those super fun hormones can cause the skin down there to thin out, and for the nerves down there to become inflamed.

While I was in surgery, he preformed an episiotomy and perineal repair. I still haven't let myself Google what exactly happened, but I know the incision was redone, and deeper this time so that the muscle and tissue could be built up in order to leave the 'bridge' (I haven't Googled that either, lol but I'm assuming that's the area at the opening of the vagina, where my tear would happen) thicker, and stronger. He also said something about my pelvic floor. He seemed very optimistic (both then, and at my 2 week follow up) that things should be just fine after the 8-10 week healing period. (Stay tuned...)

After all that he also said, 'let's get you out of here,' and that's what mattered most! He signed all the papers, and left me with the nurses to finish up. They insisted I wait a little longer, until the suppository came back out, and then my IV was finally out of my poor elbow. I changed into my nightie, and clenched my pillow against my tummy like it was my job, and my mom drove me home. And then the real recovery began. And it shocked me.

I'm that it all would have gone much smoother had I been able to sleep. Sleep is fucking necessary. But my body went into this awful withdrawal mode, due to all of the narcotics I was dosing myself with in the hospital, and the fact that I was bent on taking nothing but Advil/ Tylenol every 2 hours (because the prescription stuff makes it way harder to poo, and like postpartum poos, post-hysterectomy poos are DEADLY). On top of the constant ache I had flash fevers and chills, and incredible RLS. For a total of 9 days I'd only be able to take short naps during the day. As soon as it was actual bed time, my legs would start buzzing, and then twitching, and then full blown shaking. I had dealt with decent RLS before, when I tried coming off my anxiety meds, when I got pregnant. Or when I took too much Gravol. But this time NOTHING helped. Not the muscle rub creams, not the hot showers or cold baths, not walking before bed or stretching or heating pad. And not Ativan, which was always my last-resort fix before then. I'd spend all night walking laps around our living room, and then getting back into bed to see if it was over yet. I'd sit in the tub, I'd watch TV, and I finished 2 books over those 9 nights. And then the sun would start to rise, everyone would start to wake up (including our baby), and I'd just bawl over the fact that I hadn't slept yet.

I'd planned on keeping a recovery log, in order to better blog about things, but all I ever wrote was 'Day 4, depression.' Recovering from major surgery is serious business. It is far more serious then I'd prepared myself for, admittedly. But not sleeping, that does such awful things to our bodies and our brains. Those days were dark. I was very angry, and very sad on top of being very sore and very scared. Who knows why, but I could fall asleep (after Ativan) while the sun was out, however that meant not being able to take care of our kid. A few days I had to have my husband stay home from work (after the initial 2 days he'd booked off), and my mom took our son for a few days, because I couldn't handle it. And I needed to nap. And that's when the mom-guilt kicked me right in the face. I was sore, I was exhausted, and I was a shitty, useless mom.

I kept telling myself the RLS would end soon, that withdrawal can't last THAT long. It had been over a week since I'd had any real painkillers, and the movies made it seem like people recovering from a drug addiction were usually over that initial detox stage by then. On night 10 I gave up hope, and went to cry my face off in Emerge. I was given a Clonazapam prescription, which I disputed at first. I'd been on Clonazapam before, and it's basically Ativan which we knew wasn't working. The doctor said that taking Clonazapam regularly, twice a day, would make a difference. It didn't. It just made me MORE tired while not being able to sleep. I was like a shit-faced drunk person stumbling around our living room, trying to walk it off, for the next 3 days.

Besides that, everything progressed as it was supposed to, and continues to. The pain was awesome, like the worst Endometriosis pain possible, all at once. The only was I could describe it was, 'my uterus kills,' minus the uterus. I was nauseous, from the Advil/Tylenol and lack of wanting to eat, so I was anxious. But that was all to be expected. We went for walks as much as possible while my husband was home (in case the kid tried to run away), and when it was just me at home with our son we spent it on our big bed, with toys under the covers and Disney on the TV. Showering helped me feel less repulsive, as did all the love that was left on my doorstep by friends!

My two week post-op follow up appointment was a life saver. We waited an hour and a half to finally see him, but Dr. Ben assured me that everything looked and felt completely normal. The internal exam took all of 30 seconds, and I wanted to die, but he also found me a magical drug to knock my legs out at night. And just in time for vacation!

The night before we started our 18 hour road trip was the first night I'd slept since leaving the hospital. And it was remarkable. I took the prescription for the next 6 nights, until the side effects started to outweigh the sleep! Figures, lol. I don't think there's ever such thing as a 'win-win' when it comes to prescription medication. I started getting crazy chills in the afternoon each day, and super nauseous. The night before leaving to come home, I figured that if the RLS came back, I could sleep in the car the whole next day. But I slept that night, and the RLS hasn't returned since. (Praise!)

I'm so glad we didn't forgo the trip because of my recovery. I was uncomfortable, and I needed naps every day, but that wouldn't have been any different at home. I got to sit in a big pool with our baby, and visit my Sting Rays at the aquarium, and wander Target. My friend came with us, and she's a big part of why the week away wasn't a disaster. She stepped in when I couldn't 'mom' as much as I wanted to, she even babysat so my husband and I could see a movie like a normal, non-recovering couple one night. We all went shopping, and walked the big pier and won prizes at the arcade on the boardwalk, and looked for alligators.

I got to celebrate my 3 week post-op survival in the sand, in the sunset, staring out into the never ending ocean, with our baby screaming in the background. That was perfect. That was the turning point for me, I think. The moment when I could actually see the light at the end of this Hysterectomy tunnel, out on the salty horizon. I inhaled and exhaled deeper right there, and I felt very whole again for the first time in a long time...despite being much emptier in the middle.

And that's where I'm still at today.

Things still hurt, mostly because I couldn't wait any longer to pick up and carry our kid. I still have a stitch in my belly button, but my incisions are no longer swollen, and are less purple and more me-color. My vagina still kills most of the day, but I'm trying desperately to ignore that, and the fear of it once again not healing well enough. I'm still lacking real energy, but I'm excited to get up and do actual shit every day.

I still have a month or so to go before the estimated recovery period is over, and I'm so excited to know how amazing I'll feel then. I'm so excited to say, 'really good' when my dad asks me how I'm feeling every morning. I'm so excited to feel like Endometriosis is something I HAD once. I am so excited to feel my anxiety melt away (at least a little) now that I'm not sick every morning, and every time I go out in public.