OMG, this fucking drain! It feels like the doctors decided, "You know what? We've done enough. Time for this chick to start carrying her own weight...in blood. Let's stitch a tube into her skin, let it dangle 40-feet from her body, oozing blood and guts all day and see how she deals with it."
It's not enough that we had fair warning, when the lovely RN (my beloved "I don't do yoga. I do bacon!" nurse) explains how a drain works, exhibiting with a completely clean, empty, unused piece of equipment. Although she's being very gentle and tactful, I can tell that my son looks like he wants to throw up, and I feel my blood pressure dropping as I inspect the spot on the floor I plan to melt into.
It was the part of surgery that worried me the most. It's the part of after-care that involves me. And blood. And measuring it. And cleaning it. I was assured that all would be ok. Millions of women are dealing with drains everyday - some of them have FOUR! God bless.
Me? I have one. One stupid little rubber tube, connected to a stupid clear grenade that I tuck in my pocket...like that's normal. I mean, I've heard men bragging about the grenade in their pants, but it's not anything I ever thought I'd be dealing with.
Ok, it's not really a grenade, but I bet if I spray painted it olive drab I'd get shot at by airport security.
It's a pain. It makes me woozy, but it's just a stupid little drain. I can deal. Right?
Ummm...not so much. Night one at home after surgery and it goes a little something like this:
6:30pm: I'm done. Bed time. My dear friend, Kim, sets an alarm to get me up and make sure I take my pain meds at 10pm.
At 11pm she bursts through my door, "OMG I slept! I'm so sorry! Take your meds!! Did you take your meds??"
11:01pm I shuffle to the bathroom and as I reach for pain meds I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It looks like I've been shot. Blood soaked through all of the MANY bandages taped to my chest and body, blood dripping down my rib cage.
11:01:01pm After staring at myself in shock for what feels like an hour, I'm definitely going to pass out. I make it the full, agonizing distance of four feet from my bathroom to my bed, flop down and shout for my friend.
11:02pm She comes into my room panicked by my panic and asks what's wrong. I have no idea if I said anything comprehensible aloud but as I sit up and try to explain, blood comes shooting out of me at an alarming rate. I think it's the tube - it's not working anymore. I have to fix it. I go back to the bathroom. Crap, I can't fix shit, I'm going to pass out, I go back to bed. Now I'm sitting in a pool, I have to fix the stupid tube, so I run to the bathroom.
And THIS is what it's like to witness me taking care of me, when blood is involved. It's a viscous circle.
11:05pm Kim has left a message for my plastic surgeon and my breast cancer surgeon and has somehow gotten me to sit still.
11:50pm While I am still contemplating what type of witchcraft Kim is practicing on me, my breast cancer surgeon calls back and Kim picks up the phone:
I'M WITH YOUR PATIENT AND HER DRAIN PIPE BURST!!
Most of my head was still in panic mode, but one little spot inside my silly brain was roaring with laughter! I'm not a damn house! And that's when I knew I'd be ok. And that's when I knew I was loved. The people around us don't always have the answers or know what to do in a panicky situation, but the good ones can bring you down from a ledge, or at the very least, keep you company up there while they Google 'how to repair a leaky drain pipe'.
ALSO, you know you're loved when your sister-in-law sends you a sweet "At Least You Don't Have to Wear a Cone" candle, an adult coloring book titled "Boobs" and a little silver bell to ring whenever you need something - a snack, a sponge bath, someone to turn the page of your coloring book.
AND, you know you're loved when you have to turn your phone off by 8pm every night so you can get some sleep, because the number of calls, texts, emails, and private messages from people who care and want to help are creating an all-night strobe light festival in your bedroom.
** I'm sending love and gratitude to each of you who have contributed to the light festival. Thank you for caring about me and checking on me. If I can ever return the favor, I will be right there. Just don't call me with plumbing issues, 'cause clearly I'm not so good with drain pipes.
Comentarios