Me versus The Scar

I’ve officially made it to my fourth week post-op and I’m feeling pretty good. I can now walk up the stairs one step at a time and on my own. Sleeping has become easier and requires less pillows and props to help me get comfortable. Our daily walks have increased to 20 minutes and my energy levels have improved.

But I have two more weeks of recovery and I can now see why; incision healing is a big pain the ass!

My incision is a horizontal cut from one side to the other across my lower abdomen. Think c-section or a smile that reaches from hip to hip. It’s small and pink, mostly covered by the little bit of tummy left over (AKA The Flap).

For the last two weeks of my medical leave, I plan to work on building my stamina and energy so I’m ready to return to work. This shouldn’t be too hard since internally I’m feeling so much better. The real struggle is with The Scar.

The Scar is proving to be an asshole. While the majority of it is covered by The Flap, the two ends are exposed to every twist or movement I make. Think about it: every time I take a breath, roll over in my sleep, bend to grab something, even sneezing is a declaration of war from The Scar. Just wearing something with a waistband gives me great discomfort and a sharp reminder that I’m not really in control of my body or my recovery. The Scar is!

The worst part of this battle is that I feel fine while sitting and stitching, totally forgetting that The Scar is just waiting there. Then it’ll be time to get up and move. That’s when The Scar will strike! The burning and discomfort ramps up to 11 within seconds and I’m reminded that I’m not 100% and I still have a long road to travel until I feel like myself again.

I almost feel as if The Scar comes on so strongly to prove its point. I don’t appreciate it and, frankly, I don’t need such a painful reminder every time I move.

I am determined to win this war. And a win would mean ending up with a nice faded line and no thick scar tissue. Also, no infections! I have my work cut out for me as I try desperately not to peek at The Scar or prod it obsessively and instead allow it to heal. My plan is to ignore it and act as if it doesn’t exist. Maybe then it will cease to pester me and will fade quietly into my skin.

Until then, I fight the good fight

October 12, 2022 (Part 1)

Visiting the ER in the middle of the night has its perks. One: You can catch a break and get in through triage quickly. Not as many emergencies at night. Two: When you get seen quickly, you get meds or IVs quickly and the pain you came in with is death with speedily. And Three: Not only is the wait in the waiting room short but you may get seen and diagnosed quick enough to go home and get some sleep in your own bed. Logically I know this can all depend on whether emergencies are coming in by ambulances, but that wasn’t the case for us.

In my case, visiting the ER at 8:30 at night on a Tuesday was a dream. We got in quickly and got out just as fast. And it was peaceful enough for me to close my eyes for a while and sleep while the pain meds took hold. In that brief window there on the gurney in a hallway, I felt relief. And with relief came the waves of exhaustion that quickly allowed me to shut my eyes for a brief repose.

Sadly, I wasn’t a life threatening emergency so I was sent home with a prescription and lots of test results to pour over when I was feeling better.

There IS a not so great side to visiting the ER at night on a weekday. When my Oxycodone prescription was created and sent to my local pharmacy per my records, it was sent to one that was closed. I don’t blame them as it was 12:30 at night and I would want to be closed up and at home, too. Little did we know that there is a pharmacy right across the road that is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week with a drive-thru for those who are sent home from the hospital with medicine.

Because we didn’t have this information and the doctor didn’t offer this as an option, my much needed pain meds were sent to wait until CVS opened at 9:00am the next morning.

Then came Wednesday.

I woke up Wednesday morning and willed myself to feel better. But try as I might, the pain was still there, aching just below the surface.

Rolling slowly and with extra caution not to wake my husband (who was equally as exhausted as me due to carrying all the responsibilities AND fighting his own autoimmune disease), I made my way downstairs to take some Advil and use the restroom. I was finding that I could not do much in the morning without peeing first. The pressure and discomfort of my bladder only added to the cacophony of pain that echoed through my body.

Hunched over and gripping one side of my abdomen with my hand while the other guided me slowly down the stairs, I made it to the bottom bathroom and the top drawer were the pain meds were resting. But I suddenly didn’t feel well. The world tilted slightly and I felt warm from head to toe. I knew what was coming…

I was going to faint. Or throw up.

As quick as was humanly possible in my condition, I got myself into the bathroom and prepared for the worst. Within 10 minutes, I knew things were not going to improve and I was desperate to stop the ill feeling that was causing my skin to get clammy and cold. So I pulled down a towel from the wall and made myself a pitiful bed on the hard tile floor.

And there, I cried…

I don’t know how long I was in that bathroom for. I know I went between the lying on the ground and kneeling at the toilet a few times thinking the time had finally come to be sick. But it never was. I was stuck in limbo and as I waited for the inevitable, I tried to remember when I had eaten last.

hopeless tears fell onto my arm and trickled down to the towel beneath me. I was realizing that there was a problem within me and I couldn’t see a solution. I just wanted the pain to go away. I just wanted to sleep.

Damnit, I just wanted to feel better again.

Soon a knock came to the door and there was my worried husband, speaking softly as he tried to opened the door and help me. I was in the way, of course, having made a bed for myself on the ground. But it was hearing his voice and noting the concern threaded through his kidney words that I fell completely apart. I scootched away from the door and allowed him in while I cried and cried. Eventually I got up and threw up (finally!) and he stood there to hold my hair for me.

Once I was rinsed up and better, we made a call to my general doctor’s office and tried to get a follow-up appointment. No one was available so we agreed to see a nurse at 3:00pm. I was grateful to have the appointment but I was also heartsick at the idea that I had all day to wait until I saw someone.

After helping me make my way to bed, my husband picked up my prescription and I was able to blissfully lessen the pain and get some much needed rest.

All I had to do was make it till 3:00pm and then I could see a doctor.

All I had to do was wait…

Routines

When you are out of work for a medical reason and you’ve been given weeks to recover, most people would probably find this to be a blessing in disguise.

But when you suffer from anxiety, OCD, and ADHD, down time can be excruciating.

The first week of recovery was a breeze. I didn’t think much about work at all or all the emails I was missing. Being productive and filling my day with activities was not at the forefront of my mind. I was too busy trying NOT to tear my stitches and trying to use the restroom without too much pain. I was on a regular regime of pain medications and naps were a big part of my day. Oh, and I wasn’t allowed to walk up the stairs without a spotter.

But now that I’m past all that and into my 3rd week of recovery, the struggle has been increased exponentially and I’m mentally fighting with my body on a daily basis. I want it to heal FASTER! And to be functional NOW! But, it won’t…. It can’t. It needs time and time I’ve been given but without the tools to cope with the massive hiatus to everything I deemed of value.

For starters, I no longer have a strict medication regime that requires me to “stay ahead of the pain” and track what I’m taking. Medication is now on an as needs basis and that lack of structure has been devastating. My day was pretty well planned out for me due to my pill popping schedule. This also means my afternoon naps are all over the place now. I used to plan for a nap after my mid afternoon pain pill but with it gone, I don’t nap as frequently and that leads to a tired, cranky me later in the evening. Naps have become very hit or miss.

So to make up for my lack of regular routines, I’m doing what I can to build one that isn’t based on my medicine schedule or my naps. Instead I try to build a balanced day doing a little of everything. I go on a walk in the morning, I have my tea when I get home, I play some games then read a little. I even build in time to try a leave the house when I can. I’m still not driving myself so leaving all depends on who is available to take me somewhere and if I feel like going somewhere.

But…if you noticed above I mentioned one of my cognitive issues is ADHD (unconfirmed but I’m in the process of getting tested) so any routine or plan I create has a 75% chance of failing. Why so high? Depending on my mood or energy level of that day, I may get obsessed with reading or coloring or watching TV/Youtube. My brain can and WILL latch on to things and it can be difficult to shake them. Therefore, a routine is a great thing to have in place except that I need to be patient and flexible in the event that I toss my WHOLE day out the window because I’m mere steps away from completing a show or a task in a game.

This is now my life: finding a way to make it through the day as rested and productive as I can balance while my mind is going at lightning speed and my body is taking its sweet time to heal.

Just heal faster damnit!

October 11, 2022

Ahhhh, a day at home. A day with my husband to rest and feel better.

Wait… what’s this pain? Oh god! Why am I in so much pain?

Oh! That’s right! I took a sub day to rest and feel better because my side had been hurting and I needed some time to get my feet under me.

I woke up on Tuesday feeling groggy and hazy. I remembered setting up my substitute request through the district website and I remembered thinking I would only need a day to feel better. In the past it had only been a day of discomfort when I was passing a stone or going through ovulation on a side that had a cyst or two. But this was different. There was something about this pain was that unrelenting.

Plus, I hadn’t slept well. I had woken up in discomfort a few times and then struggled to get back to sleep. Of course, sleep is what I really needed to start feeling better but that didn’t seem possible. So I planned to nap and watch some TV as I stayed in bed most of the day.

My son was home sick, too, so I had to do a little parenting. We set up a doctor’s appointment for him at an express care clinic because he would need a Covid test and a doctor’s note to let him back to school and work. That was easily done online. We also had a parent meeting for his wrestling team that was going to conflict with the doctor’s appointment so my husband and I made plans to split the work. He would take the parent meeting and I would escort my son to the doctor’s appointment for his sinus infection.

But I began to worry that I would not be able to take him. My pain had increased tremendously throughout the day and I was debating whether it was worth it to take me to urgent care. Our express care location wasn’t available to help me (I had been turned away with this pain before because they didn’t have all the capabilities as an urgent care) and my family doctor’s office as booked solid.

Before the day got away from us, my husband and I took a trip to the urgent care just to see what they could do. Turns out, they could do very little and said I was most likely to receive treatment for my abdominal pain at the ER. As the clerk checking me in said these word, hot tears pressed again my eyes while pain blossomed along my left side. I took a deep breath, thanked her for her time, and left through the sliding doors to my husband waiting in our car.

It took every ounce of control I had not to throw my stuff angrily into the car. I was fuming. I was in pain. I was tired. And I was starting to worry that, like the times before, that I would end up in the ER and receive just medication to dull my pain. I wanted answers, I wanted results. But we left and went home empty handed and broken hearted.

My husband held my hand and comforted me as best he could.

Once home, I medicated myself as much as I could and prepared to go to my son’s doctor appointment and thanked all the gods above that he cold drive. I could just rest in the passenger seat and let him get us there without a worry. He was thrilled because he got to take the freeways.

There were no surprises at his appointment. He had a sinus infection and his doctor’s note had him out until Thursday. Oh and his Covid test came back negative so that was some good news for an otherwise bad day. We trekked back home and I quickly made my way into bed. And there I rested until my husband came home and I announced we may have to take a trip to the ER.

Let me confirm for you, readers, that this is a big moment. Doctors, needles, long waits, and lots of tests are not ideal for many but for me they bring a certain anxiety. And just saying the words out loud made me feel emotional. This meant I knew I wasn’t getting better and that I would need help in the most serious of ways.

My husband and I set our son up to be on his own and reminded him to lock doors and get ready for school the next day. Another bonus to him being old enough is that he can manage on his own and we don’t have to have a family member babysit him. He can now take care the housed get himself to bed, within reason of course. Then we grabbed a few things to keep us busy in the ER and headed out.

We got lucky. The ER was not very busy and I was triaged into the bowels of the hospital to sit on a bed along a wall. A sign above me marked me as “Hallway 1” and there I was given medicine, had blood drawn, was given the chance to pee in a cup, and was able to lay down for a bit of a rest in between tests and scans.

The results? A cyst on my left ovary, a renal stone, and a cyst on my liver. But nothing life threatening so I was packed up and sent away with a prescription for medication and told to rest.

At 12:30am, we trudged home and settled into bed as best we could. It was already too late to get our prescription so I would have to wait until the next day to manage my pain.

I had been smart and contacted my secretary and principal with the news that I was going to the ER. I had quickly put in for a substitute for the next day just as a precaution and I was thankful for my foresight.

Because, little did I know, that things were about to get very serious, very quickly.

Post-Op

A week after any surgery, the doctor wants to see you. They’ll check your incisions, your vitals, and answers any questions you may have after your operation.

(By the way, do people still call them operations? Or is it only procedure/surgery?)

My 1 week post-op was Friday. When I was escorted back, the nurse couldn’t help but mention that I was looking 100% better than the last time they saw me in the office. And of course I did…

The last time I was in their office I couldn’t get up off the floor or stop crying in pain.

She took my vitals and checked my incision. Everything, to the nurse’s eye, was looking very good.

Then entered my savior. My surgeon, my doctor, and the first person to look at me and my situation and without a doubt, make the decision to remove the offending organ within me.

If I haven’t mentioned this yet during my recount of the recent events that led to my hysterectomy, I’ve been seeing doctors about my female reproductive complications since 2018. And until this year, I had been told a number of things like “just take Advil to manage your pain” or “that sounds fairly normal” when in fact none of what I was dealing with was normal. But for whatever reason (fear of complications, liability issues, concerns that this solution was too “radical” for a woman of child bearing age), I was given the brush-off. They would lay out my options and then leave it to me to set up or follow up. And who in their right mind signs themselves up for an invasive surgery? I knew what I needed but I just kept living with all the issues, putting it aside until it became an emergency and we had no choice.

We sat and talked, she took some notes and shared a few findings with us. One that stood out was that she has done many of these surgeries and I was one of the worst.

Well, that’s a distinction I didn’t really want!

The other detail we gained is that pathology did confirm that I have endometriosis. When my doctor shared this with us, we all had a good chuckle about it being a little late for that diagnosis. I even joked and said I’ve been saying I have it for years even without the medical confirmation. Under her mask she smiled at my jovial tone and commented that it was good to finally meet the real me.

After my check up was done, we made our way to the desk for my letter to excuse me from work until after Thanksgiving. My little perfectionist brain is struggling with this while my logical mind knows I need the time off to properly heal. I’m in a new position this year and the idea that I’m missing 6 weeks of my new job is frustrating and worrisome.

In the end, my post-op visit was good. And the trip out of the house was exhausting but refreshing. Each day that I get further from my surgery, the happier I feel. I know I have a few things to deal with as I recover but, in my mind, nothing will be as horrible as living with the pain as I have for years.

I feel confident that this was the best decision and I look forward to living a life without pain.

October 10, 2022

I was not sleeping well. The pain woke me every time I tried to adjust my position in bed and getting up in the middle of the night was uncomfortable.

But not bad enough.

Not bad enough to put in a substitute request. Not bad enough to make sub plans. Not bad enough to take the day off.

So into school I went. I did my work but also kept up a regular routine of taking the highest dosage of Advil that I could manage every 5-6 hours. My mood may have been off a bit and every once in a while I would grab my side and take a deep breath as a wave of discomfortable wrapped from my back to my front.

My principal even noticed my discomfort and encouraged me to go sit down. Which I did… kinda.

After the students had left and I had a good chunk of my paperwork done, I ran into a colleague I enjoy talking to. We started chat a bit about my situation and about hers. She swapped stories with me and we commiserated together over the pain our reproductive parts could put us through. In the end, she encouraged me to get a doctor’s appointment and schedule a hysterectomy.

The sooner, the better.

I nodded in agreement and promised her I would. And I meant it…

I finally headed home 30 minutes later than I expected. There, I decided that it would be good to take a day off and rest. It could be another kidney stone or just a bad uterine flair up. Either way, a day to rest and sleep and not move about so much could be just what I needed.

I sent emails, texts, wrote plans, and confirmed my absence from my bed. I sutured up my plans and settled in my bed, where I planned to stay while enjoying some quiet repose and some episodes of The Office.

Just for a day. Maybe two…

Setbacks

It was bound to happen. On the road to recovery after my emergency hysterectomy last week, I knew setbacks would occur.

I just didn’t expect to have a setback only six days post-surgery.

I woke around 6am needing to shift my pillows around and decided to use the moment to relieve myself. I find myself organizing my days in new ways. I stack activities that involve movement because it’s easier to do it all at one time while I’m up. If I need to get up, I find other things I need to do while I’m on my feet just to save myself the extra effort of getting up again.

My husband woke with me and sleepily asked if I needed help. I told him I was good.

I thought I was good.

The bathroom is mere feet from my bed so I got myself to the edge of the mattress and allowed myself to sit up and stay there a moment. Getting up too quickly can result in my head swimming so I take it real nice and slow.

After a quick respite on the edge of my bed, I trundled over to the toilet, turned on the light, closed the pocket door to the master bathroom, and sat down.

Within seconds, I began to feel… funny. My head started to swim and my eyesight got a little fuzzy around the edges. My hearing started to get dull and my body was beginning to work up a good sweat. Simply and quietly, I said out loud through the bathroom door…

“Something’s wrong…”

In a flash, I had cleaned myself up and my husband was by my side sitting me down carefully on the cold tile floor. My instinct is always to get as low as possible when I feel faint because I don’t want to go down hard and hurt myself.

My poor husband tried to comfort me but my body was covered in a layer of sticky, clammy sweat and my face had no color. It was taking me every ounce of energy I barely had to keep myself conscious.

And yet, we managed.

I know surgery recovery is difficult and there will be ups and downs. I thought I had been doing a good job of caring for my body as it knit itself back together but I must have missed something.

Did I move too much the day before and drain myself of all my energy? Had I not eaten enough out of fear of pain? Had I not slept very well and was simply just exhausted??

I can’t know for sure.

Once I got some color back in my face and I felt like it was safe to stand, my husband helped me back into bed and there I would rest for another hour or so. Since then, it’s been a low key day. I’ve stayed immobile most of it with only a tiny walk outside. I’ve laid prone most of the day instead of switching it up between sitting and laying down. My meals have been a little bit bigger and I’ve made sure to work in a few snacks in between. I also took a moment to message my doctor and let her know what had transpired.

I’m hoping tomorrow will be better. I’m hoping the doctor will check on me and tell me I’m healing well and that my near fainting experience was a fluke event.

I also hope that the dark feelings of sadness and grief fade so that tomorrow is a much more positive day.

October 9, 2022

It had been a wonderful weekend. Like always, we had set up a list of things we wanted to accomplish and together, we got them done. We always try to blend the weekend with chores and rest so that our weekdays run smoothly.

This weekend was unique in that my son and husband were invited to a Rams game in LA while I got some time to myself at home before joining my good friends for a craft night. Yes, we are that group of teachers who spent time in school and out of school together. And we like each other, too.

As the time drew near for me to leave, I quickly created a fruit platter to share and finished getting ready while I sent messages to my husband asking how things were going. He was having a good time and our son was really enjoying his first NFL game in person. I was happy for them. Our lives can gather so much speed that there are times we are racing past each other just to make it to the next event without stopping to connect. Knowing the boys were together and making new memories was enough for me to feel content.

(Even if I had some mild cramping that was threatening to get worse. Oh well, it was something I could handle like I did every month.)

At the designated time, I got myself and my fruit platter into my son’s truck and drove over to the craft event at my colleague’s house. We stood around and chatted about all our kids while snacking on the shared goodies everyone brought with them. I made a small plate for myself because, while I hadn’t had anything since lunch, I wasn’t very hungry.

(It was looking like that mild cramping was now more of a pinching feeling on my left side, and only my left side. No worries, I dealt with this pain every month so it wasn’t really anything to worry about…)

Together with my dear friends, we strung together beads and twine, yarn and babbles to create some adorable Halloween/Fall decorations to adorn our mantles or walls. We laughed and chatted, tried to keep count of the yarn turns while keeping up with the conversations around us. I finished my craft and threw away my plate in preparation to leave for home.

As I walked back to my spot, I grabbed my side and let out a slow breath. A piercing, sharp pain sliced through me. The teacher nearest me asked if I was ok and when I explained that I was most likely having ovulation cramping or some reproductive issues, she nodded in understanding while a few others around me tipped their heads to the side in sympathy. They all knew my story. They all had heard of my past harrowing experiences with doctors and ER visits.

(I even laughed and said “Hell! It could be another kidney stone.”)

We parted ways and I trekked back home with my finished craft as the discomfort in my side increased in frequency and pain.

But still, I managed because this is what I had been taught to do. To push through and trust that my body is working properly since every doctor’s appointment, every urgent care visit, every step into the ER told me I was fine. That my pain can be managed with Advil and lots of water. That my pain has a simple cause and it was nothing to worry about.

And I would manage because it was what I do.

A New Purpose

This blog has been asleep for many years. I had no need of it. I was no longer aching from a broken heart and working through the pain. No longer was I in need of a place to vent the frustrations of a bride-to-be who did not want a wedding. And I’m still a mother who writes letters to my son.

This blog had no purpose. No reason. So it sat dormant, unused and forgotten.

Until now.

On Friday October 14, 2022, I had a total hysterectomy with salpingo-oophorectomy. For those not in the know of the female anatomy, this long title means I lost it all: uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, and cervix.

This was an emergency decision, one that I am thankful for. It was also a decision that was taken from me due to the extreme conditions I found myself in the days before. Pain, vomiting, crying, and fear clouded the moments leading up to my obgyn seeing me and declaring within minutes of our appointment that we would do an emergency hysterectomy. So while I’m thankful, I also have a lot to work through.

And herein lies the new purpose of this space. This will be a place where I can work through the unexpected situation I find myself in. Weeks off of work to heal, instant menopause, soreness and bodily issues that leave me needing help almost 24 hours a day, and the grief of losing a part of my anatomy that turned so violently again me.

I hope to write it out, work through concerns and worries, and maybe connect with others who have had a similar situation like mine.

And maybe my story will inspire or comfort someone else during their darkest times.

Letter To My Son: Bad Dreams

Hello my little man,

It’s been some time since I last wrote you a letter. A year and some months, to be more precise. I wish I was better at writing down these little thoughts for you to read when you are older, as you are now while reading this one.

You were 10 1/2 and growing like a weed when you finally flew by yourself for the first time. It was a tough decision and one we didn’t make lightly. But the trips to your dad and stepmom’s for the holiday visit twice a year were becoming tough on all of us. 8 or so hours of driving in one day were putting more than just miles on our cars.

After years of putting it off, we finally booked you your own tickets and flew you to your dad. He greeted you with warm hugs and lots of love. I couldn’t have been more thrilled to hear that you touched down safely.

Even though you were in good hands and probably having the best time ever, I always worried. Every hour of every day that you were apart from me.

It didn’t matter that we would speak on the phone or send messages to each other while you were gone. The moment you left my side, the worry set in.

And when I started to settled down to sleep each night after worrying about you all day long, my brain would wander and I would begin to have bad thoughts. Much like dreams but without the being asleep bit.

I am the reason you had (and probably still have) an overactive imagination. In those brief moments of quiet awake-dreaming, my mind would drift to dark corners where you were no longer with us and I had to find a way to live without you.

In those moments, I would lose control of my thoughts and fear the worst, as silly as it could be. And I would hurt from my head to my toes. Tears would trickle down my cheeks quietly. Life without you would not be worth living because YOU, my son, give me purpose.

Those nights without you still haunt me. The realization that someone on this planet could mean so much to me that a life without them would be meaningless, was devastating. My world felt like it was being torn apart just at the thought of something bad happening to you. Thankfully, it never did.

As always, you’d come home, chattering away about how great things were and how much you loved sleeping in and staying up late, watching movies and playing video games while you grew closer to your dad and stepmom. Together you all made memories that would never fade.

While it was great to hear you so excited, my one thought each time I took you back into my arms after a long trip away was that I could start living again. My bad dreams had been nothing but just that: dreams.

And my purpose had returned to me and, it was you.

With all my heart,
Mama