October 26, 2011
Denver, Colorado
I woke up this morning with a serious case of deja vu. Not only was it the fifth anniversary of my kidney transplant, but it was snowing like mad outside. It took me right back in time, back to this morning five years ago. I woke up
that morning to a blizzard. A blizzard! Yesterday, the weather had been just fine, but today, on the day of my transplant, it has to be snowing sideways. I don't see anything fair about this. It's only October, for crying out loud. I wonder if hospitals have snow days.
I doubt it, and as long as it took to schedule this surgery, who knows when I'd get another chance.
I have to be there at 5:00 am. The hospital was very emphatic about that. I'm sure the six inches of snow on the ground isn't going to be considered any sort of excuse for being late, nor the wind that's blowing it in every direction. It could be an excuse for a doctor, I'm pretty sure, but not for a patient. I'm worried about getting there on time.
One thing about being the patient though, is I am being treated like a princess. My sister Susann has come all the way from Wichita to see me through this, and to take care of me for two weeks. My brother Chuck is here too, and my amazing neighbor Bert, from across the street. All three of them are outside shoveling and scraping snow like mad. I am inside the house, all warm and cozy. I'm piling on as many clothes as I can, because I'm cold just looking at the snow. At this point in time, I weigh just over a hundred pounds, and I am always cold, whether it is snowing or not. I am dreading going out there like you wouldn't believe. I can't believe they are all three out there in the freezing cold, cleaning off cars. They have to be insane. Any normal person would just say, "I'm sorry, today has been cancelled", and just crawl back into bed.
The other thing is, I'm a nervous wreck. And I feel sick. I mean really, really sick, like throwing up. I don't think they operate on sick people, do they, especially if they have a fever? As bad as I feel, I'm absolutely sure that I have to have a fever. Surely they can't do it today. We'll get over to the hospital, and they'll say, "I'm sorry, we'll just have to reschedule." And I would be so relieved, and just come home and curl up in a little ball in a blanket, and not come out until spring. And then I might feel like it. Right now I don't feel like it. I'm not ready! Make it stop! I'm scared.
What is
wrong with me? What has turned me into such a major chicken? This isn't like me at all. The last two years have been full of medical events, and I didn't have any qualms about them, I just did what I I was told. I secretly think that all this medical stuff is really interesting. Right now, though, I'm shaking like a leaf.
The funny thing is, that up until yesterday I wasn't nervous. For at least a month or two, people had been asking me if I was nervous. And my very truthful answer was, "are you kidding?" Why would I be nervous? I was absolutely, positively euphoric. My whole life was going to change. I would no longer be spending three days a week tied to a machine for four hours. That's a whole other chapter of my life, and it was going to be over, and I would be moving on! I couldn't be happier. I could hardly contain myself. I was positively gleeful.
But for some reason, that morning, the jitters hit. I had been in and out of the hospital for various reasons over the last few years. But a transplant was a whole other thing. Suddenly it was a scary thing. A dear friend was going to let surgeons open him up, suck a kidney right out of him, and sew him back up. I didn't want anything to happen to him. The surgeons are really good, they do these all the time, and University Hospital is known for doing transplants. Still, if something should happen, I don't know what I would do. What if one of us went to sleep, and didn't wake up? Steve has three kids, and I have my precious little girl. Today, a transplant sounds like the scariest thing in the world. It's hard not to cry.
Scary or not, I'm going. All three cars are scraped and warmed up, and I am going out into the blizzard all bundled up with my overnight bag in hand, and this time tomorrow I will have a new kidney. The heavy coat I have on has to be at least half my body weight. I got in my sister's car, and off we went, our little caravan crunching bravely through the snow. Ugh. Riding in the car is making me feel even sicker. Waves of nausea are hitting every few minutes. I cannot even imagine how this is going to happen. We get to the hospital faster than I could have imagined. I get dropped off at the front door, and my three musketeers are going to park all the cars. I'm going to meet them upstairs, because it's already 4:45, and I don't want to be late.
I'm supposed to be in the Transplant Tower at 5:00 am. (this is at the facility on Colorado Boulevard, before it was moved to
Fitzsimmons) I have no clue where the Transplant Tower is. It would have been a good idea to have found out, I'm thinking. I have always just asked for directions at the front desk. The place is so quiet I could hear a pin drop. There is not a soul in sight. It's darker than usual.
There is no one at the front desk. During the drive over, I had been planning on asking for a wheelchair transport, because I felt so sick. I could barely walk to the front desk from the car, let alone anywhere else. What am I doing here before five in the morning if no one is working? I pretty much have no choice but to lean on the counter and wait, panting, with my heart pounding. I want to go home . . .
I can't believe I feel so whiny. I waited for this day for two years! I should be feeling nothing but gratitude. Instead, my stomach is churning, and my knees have turned to Jello. There is just no way that these Jello legs are going to hold up.
Buck up, missy! Snap out of it!
Finally, I see a person. A front desk person, as it turns out. I explain that I need to be upstairs at 5:00 am, and I need a wheelchair transport to get me up there. He is very nice, as are all the people at the hospital, and he says he'll call for one. I start to wonder where all the people are that I came here with. Surely someone will show up soon, and come to my rescue? As I leaned on the counter, I watched the clock. It kept moving on, with alarming speed, closer and closer to five. I bugged the front desk guy. "I really have to be upstairs by 5:00". I can hear the panic in my voice. The poor man, he will be dealing with panicky patients all day. How does he stay so nice? He is very sympathetic, but he obviously can't materialize a wheelchair. I think how nice it would be if he'd just offer to carry me there, the way firefighters do. But no, he hasn't gone to firefighter school, and he doesn't offer. I am on my own.
Front Desk Guy gives me directions, and it sounds simple enough. It's not too far, and I start walking, holding onto the wall, and stopping to rest. There are the elevators! I'm almost there. The more I walk, the sicker I feel. I get on the elevator. I'm almost there! Oooooh, elevators are not good for a queasy person. I got off of there just in time. The elevator doors open onto the most desolate looking floor I've ever seen. Not a sign anywhere. Just hallways going in different directions. No desks, no nothing. I've been sent to a no man's land, a hospital version of the Twilight Zone. I've watched far too many scary movies and TV shows, and now they've affected my brain. How do I get out of here?
Then, the most miraculous thing happens. A set of double doors opens, and someone I actually know walks through them. Jim Gallagher, a friend that had gone to school to be a surgical assistant was standing right in front of me, in scrubs and a hat. We were both shocked to see each other, what were the odds, and did he know where in hell I was supposed to be? Yes, he did. For the Twilight Zone, this is spectacular.
Next thing I know, I am in the transplant check-in room. And there is my brother Chuck, and Bert, and Steve, my donor, and some of his family. Well it was just a regular party up here, wasn't it? And I had been missing it, wandering around in my stupor. I should have not been such a weenie, and just gotten myself up here, for crying out loud. I managed to check in with the desk lady, which I don't really remember doing. There is no telling what I told her. Steve is in rare form, his usual self, not the least bit nervous. He is his usual wise-cracking self. This is no surprise to me. I really wish I would stop feeling sick. I want to be my wise-cracking self too. Right now, it escapes me. I hope I managed to smile at someone.
So. Time to get ready. Susann and I are escorted into a very spacious room to change clothes, and there is a comfy bed. Comfy beds atomatically put me in a good mood. I get my little surgical hat and gown and put them on, and I'm told to get rid of everything else. Everything? Really? No kind of underwear or socks? Nope. But I'm already freezing! I just took a shower, and put on nice clean socks, and now they are just going to confiscate them, like I'd brought in an illegal thing. What kind of infection could possibly contaminate the OR from my socks? I need them! Hospitals are always freezing. I've never really understood this. It's not cold enough to kill germs or anything, it's just cold enough to make you miserable. Could I at least keep my socks on until surgery? I'm pretty sure I got to keep my socks for a while. My sister Susann gets to hang out with me during all this, which is very comforting, and we find silly stuff to laugh about. That's the great thing about my sis, no matter what happens, we crack each other up.
One of the absolute best thing about hospitals (besides that they save your life and all) is that they have blanket warmers. If you are ever in a hospital, which I hope you are not - ask for a warm blanket. And when you get cold, ask for another one. They will bring you as many as you want, and they'll always put the warmest blanket next to you. This makes me feel a great deal better, except that I still feel sick. I feebly tell the nurse how sick I feel, and I can tell it's no big deal. She looks at me like I'm a little bit crazy. I'm in the hospital, of course I'm sick. It's no problem really. There is no chance of me throwing up, because there is nothing in my stomach. Rats. And I am not feverish. I'm not getting out of this.
So, I get wheeled into the surgery waiting room, on a quite comfy rolling bed, with my pile of warm blankets. And Steve is already there! And he is looking mighty fine in his little hospital hat. We are informed that our surgery has been pushed back a bit, because the one before ours is taking longer than expected. There is a surgery before ours? Holy cow. I thought 5:00 am was an ungodly time for surgery. How do surgeons do this? Did they start in the middle of the night? Well, obviously they did, because 5:00 am isn't even daytime yet.
So we start waiting. I think that it would be a really good idea to go to sleep, because I really hadn't had any sleep. I spent the night being nervous. Ha! No one sleeps in a hospital, I knew that. They had to start messing with me, taking vitals and what not. For some reason they needed more blood tests, as if they hadn't taken enough blood in the last six months, and started poking around my veins. I remember to appreciate the fact that everything is checked out up until the last minute, even though they are seriously interfering with my attempt to sleep. I usually have a big fat vein in my right arm, but today it wasn't so great. It was hardly even there. I think I'm probably dehydrated. They came back and said that the results they got from my blood weren't possible. If the results were right, I should be dead. That's a bit disconcerting, but since I'm alive the test is clearly wrong. But I worry a little bit. Naw. I wasn't dead, so they would just have to find a better vein. And the best vein is in my neck. I don't understand how the blood in my neck is different from the blood in my arm.
If anyone is qualified to explain this, please feel free to enlighten us in the comment box.
And they couldn't really get at my neck easily, so they were going to have to tip me backwards. Seriously? I didn't know that hospital beds even did this, but they do, and they stood me pretty much on my head. (It makes me wonder what else that do that no one knows about.) I'm not sure how this was helpful. It didn't do anything for my upset stomach, but they got their better blood samples. But each blood draw was different, so how did they know which was right? They kept taking them until they got one that they liked, and that's what they used. And it meant that my line was in my neck instead of my arm, for the duration of my hospital stay. That turned out to have its advantages later.
Well, aren't we glad that we got there at 5:00? We waited, and we waited some more. One thing about scheduling surgeries, is they aren't like airline reservations. Well, that's probably a bad example. Maybe plumbing is better - you never know what you'll run into. Sometimes things just take longer. After waiting around, I started to regain my original excitement. There was Steve, happy as a clam, about to get a kidney cut out, leaving him with one. He wasn't all sick and worrying. I was going to get a pretty normal life back. People used to ask what I would do first after surgery. That was easy. I was going to drink gallons and gallons of water. And hopefully, it wasn't going to taste like metal. I could travel! Just a couple more hours. I could hardly believe it.
Finally, they came in and wheeled Steve out. He got to go first because he had to get his kidney taken out, and it would take a while. I got to wait for a while longer. We wished him well, told him thank you again and again, and how we loved him to pieces. He gave us a jaunty wave, and said something witty. A bit later, it was finally my turn!
You know the scenes in hospital shows where you see all the people looking down at you, as they wheel you along the corridor? It looks just like that. Except this time, there were my brother and sister's faces there too. My sister held my hand as long as she could. I could tell how worried she and my brother were, sending off their baby sister to get cut open, and her insides rearranged.
Into the operating room we go, and I am relieved of my mountain of blankets. It must have had my eyeballs coming out of their sockets, because a nurse reassured me that I'd be warm. I feel like I've been thrown into a frozen wasteland, naked. And sure enough, they covered me with some other really nice warm thing. Ahhh, I'm so toasty. I'm giddy, and they haven't even given me any drugs. The surgeon says hello, and tells me that when I wake up, I will feel really awake, and that I'll think I'm going to remember things, but that later I probably won't. I think it's funny that I remember him telling me this, but I don't remember half the stuff that happened after I woke up.
It's always a shock to get off the comfy bed, and onto an operating table. They are hard as a rock, and you land with a clunk when they move you onto it. And they don't feel wide enough to keep a person from falling off. I feel like I'm teetering on an ironing board. And I'm skinny! I hope they make these in different sizes. I'm sure there are good reasons for both of these things, and anyway, I didn't feel it for long. The big bright surgery lamp came and hovered right over my head, and blinded me into oblivion. I started counting backward from 10, and made it to eight.
To be continued . . .