After my transplant was fnally complete, I could hardly recognize myself. I was unbelievably swollen. My abdomen was huge. It was like someone had put a huge tortoise shell on top of me. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. But the thing that stood out most to me was my arms and shoulders. They hurt horribly... worse than the incision from transplant. My bones felt like they were burned. The fingers on my right hand buzzed. (In transplant they insert IV's into very deep veins and can damage nerves in the process.) I begged for heating pads for my shoulders. The wonderful nurses scoured the nearby wards for them for me.
I want to shout out to the nurses. Over the years, I've dealt with many. Out of the hundreds of nurses I met over the years, I only had two bad experiences. I've come in contact with a lot of great nurses, but those in the ICU units at Cleveland amazed me. They were extremely knowledgable and skilled, but they were also compassionate and gracious. They cleaned me, fed me, cheered me up... did everything I was unable to do during those first weeks. I was very grateful for their assistance and care in my helpless state.
I was in the ICU nearly three weeks. Most liver transplant patients are heading home at three weeks, so I had a pretty rocky start. My goal was to get to the regular floor. In order to do that, I had to be able to have my NG tube removed. My nurse warned me not to push it. "You'll really wish you hadn't if your stomach isn't ready." I got it out soon after, and headed to the regular floor.
I was so happy to be on the regular floor! It meant I was improving and thinking about heading home. Little did I know, home was not in my immediate future. My stomach began to fulfill the nurses dire warning. An NG tube had to be reinserted. I struggled with a bout of supraventricular tachycardia (rapid heart rate that required cardioversion - medically stopping and restarting the heart). Once again I developed a pneumothorax and had to have a chest tube for more than a weak.
My incision would bleed profusely. At one point I was sitting up and looked down. There was a four foot diameter pool of blood that was running from my chair to under my bed. I freaked out, thinking I was bleeding to death. The nurse called for help when she saw it. It turned out to be blood laced water, which appeared more severe than it was.
In the ICU, I had one-on-one care. On the regular floor, I had great care, but lonliness began to set in as the nurses visited less and less often. Additionally, the massive amounts of medication made me feel numb - like my personality was on mute. The combination of the unresolved mental trauma from the shooting event in August and the crisis where my respiratory system shut down left me feeling vulnerable and unsafe. As I struggled with bouts of dilerium, I hallucinated people trying to harm me and my son. I became very withdrawn and started shutting people out.
I remember one day the surgeon came into my room like a whirlwind. He opened the blinds and demanded to know why I was sitting in the dark. Where was the Angela he knew? This withdrawn, unsmiling person in the bed was unrecognizable! He demanded to know what was wrong! I really didn't know what was wrong.
The next day, the hospital chaplain paid me a visit. He was a really great guy, and I appreciated his concern. We talked. I enjoyed the visit. Then they sent an art therapist. I didn't know hospitals had such a thing. But she sat my bed into a chair position and set me up to paint. I finally did talk to her while I was painting and realized why I was feeling so down. My mental health began to improve and I fought hard to recover.
My art therapy paintings...
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