Shortly after leaving the specialist, we walked across to the hospital. Luckily, we were the only two people there. Last time there was a roomful of waiting people. I spoke to the receptionist-person and she advised me that my surgery had been moved to about half an hour away, instead of the two hour wait we had anticipated. I confirmed that all the paperwork was pretty much sorted, but I still had to sign some things. During this, the lady - who was otherwise very nice - made the fatal error of trying to make small talk.
Nothing wrong with small talk but what she said was 'So, got anything planned after this?' like I had just popped in for a spot of tea and I would walk out of here soon like my life was fine, unchanged. That was it. I had some silent, lonely tears before but now the flood gates opened, and the little guards that were supposed to be keeping them shut were like 'Not my problem! See ya!' before abandoning the metaphorical ship and heading to the life rafts.
I think the lady realised the mistake and I'm not going to hold it against her because I know she didn't mean to upset me. I just took the tissue box she offered me and blindly stumbled across the room to where hubby was sitting. He took one look at my face and dropped everything - holding me in his strong, warm arms.
We didn't get much time to ourselves before a kindly nurse came to take us to prepare. I forgot her name immediately and couldn't even make out her name badge. First of all they weighed me.. on this little helipad looking thing where I discovered I'd lost two kilos since yesterday.
Then they ushered us into this little joint room where there was a lady in the far corner. We didn't talk to her. The nurse came back, did some blood pressure tests and then took me out of that room and into a private room.
I got to put on the attractive muu-muu gown and the indecipherable surgery underpants - was there a front? Was that supposed to be the back? Are these multi-sex? Are these the same material they make the hospital booties out of? Technically this was for a hospital booty, I guess...Everything I'm going through and the hardest part of my day is figuring out friggin' underpants - which honestly, I thought was a bit redundant because I knew I wouldn't be wearing them for long.
Maybe they were for the staff's benefit because they sure as hell weren't making me comfortable.
I had to get help with the stupid hospital stockings. Hubby did a good job, but the nurse told us we didn't quite do it right (not in a mean way, she blamed the ambiguous socks too) and helped us out. We made a bit of harmless small talk about how she could probably do this job in her sleep.
She agreed, telling us she helps put the stockings on someone at least five times during a shift.
It pains me that I can't remember her name - I think it was Carly. There was a Carly and a Sam assigned to help me, and I can't remember which one she was exactly.
So that done, I hop into the bed, after quickly stuffing some tissues into my hand. Hubby gives me a cuddle before they wheel me out - this comical hospital bed that barely fits through the friggin' doors - and I overhear the gurney guy (don't even know his name) tell hubby that they'll look after me.
This, I don't doubt. This is probably the best hospital I've ever been in, all the staff honestly give a shit and the amenities are good, like free parking and stuff.
But I'd rather not have to be here at all being treated kindly or not. I would prefer to be still going about my life with a live baby.
Comically, the hospital bed smacks into a random trolley in the hall - the kind of thing that would normally make me laugh hysterically but only manages a kind of smirky smile. When we reach the absurdly small antechamber where I'll meet the anaesthetist - why are those rooms so small? - the assistant comes out - Lee, and she questions me about a red mark on my collar bone area.
Nurse Carly.. I'm just gonna call her Carly - has come back and I'm so grateful for her presence because she gets them to back off.
I didn't even know I had a mark there, so I assumed it might have been from the seat belt in the car, or changing clothes, anything, I have sensitive skin so it could have been a gentle breeze rolling past that did it for all I knew. Obviously I had more on my mind. I understand a hospital being concerned about rashes, and that they're just doing their job but I couldn't give them answers.
Carly said it was probably because I was stressed/upset - and I jumped on that notion like a life preserver.
Once I thought about it later, I had had instances of a red mark in stressful times before so she was probably right.
The thing I was most scared of in this time was not perhaps the operation itself but being asked a million times what I was there for. Again, like my last operation and every time you get a blood test it's the same thing, they're just doing their job but I knew I wouldn't be able to cope if they kept asking me about it but fortunately they only asked me once and I was able to mumble out 'D&C' because the cold medical terminology was better in this case.
The anaesthetist came in just after this and he was all "Hello! How are you!" to which I couldn't answer because I was too busy crying. Unperturbed, he tried again with a "how are you doing?" and I tell him 'pretty shitty actually' and went back to crying. Carly had to spell out that I was quite upset because this otherwise friendly dude just didn't seem to get the hint. She also had to explain the red mark again - once more with feeling! I didn't want to be rude but damn! He must have known what he was there for.
Finally, after a while of me staring at a little corner of this tiny room that for some reason had concealed a broken clock and a small TV playing some stupid auction show behind a curtain - I was moved out into the theatre.
Here I stopped crying (mostly) and just lay there numbly looking forward to the forthcoming sleep. I remember my doctor, the OG coming over telling me 'it's going to be alright' or 'it's going to be over soon' - one of those - with a smile but it made me think that this guy's definitely happier doing something rather than sitting in an office talking.
I don't even think I answered him - I don't even remember if I made eye contact or not.
I just automatically followed the process like last time - awkwardly move from the comfy bed to the hard board, put your arm out on the gel thingy for the needle, wait for more pillows, look at the light features above me and wait for the sweet relief of sleep.
This time I remembered being put under - I didn't the last time I was in this room but that might because there was a tear rolling down my face that I wanted to wipe but couldn't lift my arm at all.
None of the nurses that were there when I woke up stood out to me. I don't remember their faces, their names, nothing. I do know my tissues were gone and I felt sorry for the person who had to pluck those snot ridden soggies out of my cold, unconscious hand. Or maybe they fell on the floor and were swept up instead. Who knows.
They kept checking my blood pressure and the pad between my legs. I don't know if they mistook my upset face for pain but they upped my pain killers and I'm glad because I was actually in agony.
I don't know how many other patients they had - at least one other person I think because they weren't very busy. There was one loudmouth nurse who came in, he was cracking cringey jokes and making a a nuisance of himself and I couldn't figure out why.
No one was really laughing at his antics and I pitied him being 'that guy' in the workplace before realising that he should know as part of his job not to be that annoying/noisy in the friggin' recovery area and went back to praying he would go on break soon. He was talking about food and people calling their pets 'fur babies' of all things.
For someone who hadn't been allowed to eat or drink all day and had just lost a baby, this is probably the worst person who could have been allowed anywhere near me.
No one told him to shut up though. That was probably the worst part about the recovery stage because while they didn't encourage him, they didn't stop him either.
Eventually my OG came back to my bedside and said it went well and he had just spoken to hubby and my parents - still a bit numb and dumb I didn't say much, just oh.. I didn't know my parents were here. OG told me to come back in two weeks so he could see how I was doing, told me he was going to send off the remains for testing to try to find a cause which could take 6-8 weeks, then left.
The nurses take me from that area and bring me into my room which seems to take a lot less time than the original trip. My parents are indeed there and as soon as I'm settled, Hubby comes to my side immediately.
My dad asks me if I'm alright and he's the first person that asks this that I don't immediately cry at.
Maybe it's a British thing - our 'You alright?' is basically an English hello and not a question about your health.
I can see mum's been crying but she keeps it together for me. There has been food delivered, and I'm mesmerised by an elaborate dessert because it looks amazing and it also works as a distraction.
The nurse says I'll get my own post-op food and I wonder if the other food was delivered for my husband or by accident. Either way he ate it, except for the dessert which turned out, heart-breakingly, to be coffee flavoured.
The food delivery person found it strange because no one else has refused or not eaten the item but we're not coffee people. Especially for sneaky coffee flavoured things that you think might have been chocolate or caramel and then it stabs you in the tongue with it's gross taste.
My food isn't as interesting as hubby's parmigiana. I get the same four sandwiches that I had after my other operation, some overly salty tomato soup, small batch of cheese and crackers, a tub of yoghurt and green jelly. I was looking forward to the soup but it was so much more salty than the one hubby had. He was like, 'well, mine was nice' but then he tried mine and almost spat it out.
I ate the sandwiches, yoghurt and jelly. I had to leave the soup and I gave the crackers and cheese to Hubby. I was told that once I'd eaten and sprung a leak from somewhere other than my eyes that I could go home unless I wanted to stay. It was nearly 8pm by this stage so I wanted to go home.
Going to the toilet was a shocker. I was able to get up fine and pass water okay but discovering there was Betadine or something on your parts leaving stains on the toilet seat was interesting. I also didn't expect - but probably should have - that the toilet bowl would be literally full of blood. Not little dribbly period blood - I mean it looked like I just pissed out blood instead of urine. And lots of it.
I was offered a pad by the nurses but being Mrs Prepared I had my own. I admit, I was surprised it took them so long to offer me a pad - last operation they had one ready to go. Maybe they were trying not to alarm me? Carly had done a pretty swift job of grabbing the sheet that had been under me on the bed and disposing of it.
Eventually, I was able to leave. Hubby and I spent the last 15 min of our hospital stay reading. Well, he was reading. I was trying to read the book I got (anticipating a large wait in the hospital) but they wouldn't remove the cannula from my arm until I was literally heading out the door. Actually, it was the cannula plus half the tubing it came with...so this obnoxious thing was waggling around on my arm with every movement, like I grew a random squid tentacle and nobody but me noticed.
The waggling was also painful, like it was a jerk-off jellyfish stinging itself for some depressing reason.
After the surgery, and after my parents felt I was stable enough to leave, after I had food and a cuddle... I started to feel better. The situation was in no way alright but having the procedure was necessary for me to start healing. I think if we had left it the extra few days like the Dr suggested, that would just have been more days of me sitting around worrying and being upset.
As it happened, after I woke up from the general anaesthetic, I felt a lot less sad. Maybe it was knowing I wasn't holding a tiny corpse anymore, maybe it was having my family around me, maybe it was knowing I could now try to heal or a combination of the above. I don't know. The rest, food and cuddles certainly helped.
Nothing wrong with small talk but what she said was 'So, got anything planned after this?' like I had just popped in for a spot of tea and I would walk out of here soon like my life was fine, unchanged. That was it. I had some silent, lonely tears before but now the flood gates opened, and the little guards that were supposed to be keeping them shut were like 'Not my problem! See ya!' before abandoning the metaphorical ship and heading to the life rafts.
I think the lady realised the mistake and I'm not going to hold it against her because I know she didn't mean to upset me. I just took the tissue box she offered me and blindly stumbled across the room to where hubby was sitting. He took one look at my face and dropped everything - holding me in his strong, warm arms.
We didn't get much time to ourselves before a kindly nurse came to take us to prepare. I forgot her name immediately and couldn't even make out her name badge. First of all they weighed me.. on this little helipad looking thing where I discovered I'd lost two kilos since yesterday.
Then they ushered us into this little joint room where there was a lady in the far corner. We didn't talk to her. The nurse came back, did some blood pressure tests and then took me out of that room and into a private room.
I got to put on the attractive muu-muu gown and the indecipherable surgery underpants - was there a front? Was that supposed to be the back? Are these multi-sex? Are these the same material they make the hospital booties out of? Technically this was for a hospital booty, I guess...Everything I'm going through and the hardest part of my day is figuring out friggin' underpants - which honestly, I thought was a bit redundant because I knew I wouldn't be wearing them for long.
Maybe they were for the staff's benefit because they sure as hell weren't making me comfortable.
I had to get help with the stupid hospital stockings. Hubby did a good job, but the nurse told us we didn't quite do it right (not in a mean way, she blamed the ambiguous socks too) and helped us out. We made a bit of harmless small talk about how she could probably do this job in her sleep.
She agreed, telling us she helps put the stockings on someone at least five times during a shift.
It pains me that I can't remember her name - I think it was Carly. There was a Carly and a Sam assigned to help me, and I can't remember which one she was exactly.
So that done, I hop into the bed, after quickly stuffing some tissues into my hand. Hubby gives me a cuddle before they wheel me out - this comical hospital bed that barely fits through the friggin' doors - and I overhear the gurney guy (don't even know his name) tell hubby that they'll look after me.
This, I don't doubt. This is probably the best hospital I've ever been in, all the staff honestly give a shit and the amenities are good, like free parking and stuff.
But I'd rather not have to be here at all being treated kindly or not. I would prefer to be still going about my life with a live baby.
Comically, the hospital bed smacks into a random trolley in the hall - the kind of thing that would normally make me laugh hysterically but only manages a kind of smirky smile. When we reach the absurdly small antechamber where I'll meet the anaesthetist - why are those rooms so small? - the assistant comes out - Lee, and she questions me about a red mark on my collar bone area.
Nurse Carly.. I'm just gonna call her Carly - has come back and I'm so grateful for her presence because she gets them to back off.
I didn't even know I had a mark there, so I assumed it might have been from the seat belt in the car, or changing clothes, anything, I have sensitive skin so it could have been a gentle breeze rolling past that did it for all I knew. Obviously I had more on my mind. I understand a hospital being concerned about rashes, and that they're just doing their job but I couldn't give them answers.
Carly said it was probably because I was stressed/upset - and I jumped on that notion like a life preserver.
Once I thought about it later, I had had instances of a red mark in stressful times before so she was probably right.
The thing I was most scared of in this time was not perhaps the operation itself but being asked a million times what I was there for. Again, like my last operation and every time you get a blood test it's the same thing, they're just doing their job but I knew I wouldn't be able to cope if they kept asking me about it but fortunately they only asked me once and I was able to mumble out 'D&C' because the cold medical terminology was better in this case.
The anaesthetist came in just after this and he was all "Hello! How are you!" to which I couldn't answer because I was too busy crying. Unperturbed, he tried again with a "how are you doing?" and I tell him 'pretty shitty actually' and went back to crying. Carly had to spell out that I was quite upset because this otherwise friendly dude just didn't seem to get the hint. She also had to explain the red mark again - once more with feeling! I didn't want to be rude but damn! He must have known what he was there for.
Finally, after a while of me staring at a little corner of this tiny room that for some reason had concealed a broken clock and a small TV playing some stupid auction show behind a curtain - I was moved out into the theatre.
Here I stopped crying (mostly) and just lay there numbly looking forward to the forthcoming sleep. I remember my doctor, the OG coming over telling me 'it's going to be alright' or 'it's going to be over soon' - one of those - with a smile but it made me think that this guy's definitely happier doing something rather than sitting in an office talking.
I don't even think I answered him - I don't even remember if I made eye contact or not.
I just automatically followed the process like last time - awkwardly move from the comfy bed to the hard board, put your arm out on the gel thingy for the needle, wait for more pillows, look at the light features above me and wait for the sweet relief of sleep.
This time I remembered being put under - I didn't the last time I was in this room but that might because there was a tear rolling down my face that I wanted to wipe but couldn't lift my arm at all.
None of the nurses that were there when I woke up stood out to me. I don't remember their faces, their names, nothing. I do know my tissues were gone and I felt sorry for the person who had to pluck those snot ridden soggies out of my cold, unconscious hand. Or maybe they fell on the floor and were swept up instead. Who knows.
They kept checking my blood pressure and the pad between my legs. I don't know if they mistook my upset face for pain but they upped my pain killers and I'm glad because I was actually in agony.
I don't know how many other patients they had - at least one other person I think because they weren't very busy. There was one loudmouth nurse who came in, he was cracking cringey jokes and making a a nuisance of himself and I couldn't figure out why.
No one was really laughing at his antics and I pitied him being 'that guy' in the workplace before realising that he should know as part of his job not to be that annoying/noisy in the friggin' recovery area and went back to praying he would go on break soon. He was talking about food and people calling their pets 'fur babies' of all things.For someone who hadn't been allowed to eat or drink all day and had just lost a baby, this is probably the worst person who could have been allowed anywhere near me.
No one told him to shut up though. That was probably the worst part about the recovery stage because while they didn't encourage him, they didn't stop him either.
Eventually my OG came back to my bedside and said it went well and he had just spoken to hubby and my parents - still a bit numb and dumb I didn't say much, just oh.. I didn't know my parents were here. OG told me to come back in two weeks so he could see how I was doing, told me he was going to send off the remains for testing to try to find a cause which could take 6-8 weeks, then left.
The nurses take me from that area and bring me into my room which seems to take a lot less time than the original trip. My parents are indeed there and as soon as I'm settled, Hubby comes to my side immediately.
My dad asks me if I'm alright and he's the first person that asks this that I don't immediately cry at.
Maybe it's a British thing - our 'You alright?' is basically an English hello and not a question about your health.
I can see mum's been crying but she keeps it together for me. There has been food delivered, and I'm mesmerised by an elaborate dessert because it looks amazing and it also works as a distraction.
The nurse says I'll get my own post-op food and I wonder if the other food was delivered for my husband or by accident. Either way he ate it, except for the dessert which turned out, heart-breakingly, to be coffee flavoured.
The food delivery person found it strange because no one else has refused or not eaten the item but we're not coffee people. Especially for sneaky coffee flavoured things that you think might have been chocolate or caramel and then it stabs you in the tongue with it's gross taste.
My food isn't as interesting as hubby's parmigiana. I get the same four sandwiches that I had after my other operation, some overly salty tomato soup, small batch of cheese and crackers, a tub of yoghurt and green jelly. I was looking forward to the soup but it was so much more salty than the one hubby had. He was like, 'well, mine was nice' but then he tried mine and almost spat it out.
I ate the sandwiches, yoghurt and jelly. I had to leave the soup and I gave the crackers and cheese to Hubby. I was told that once I'd eaten and sprung a leak from somewhere other than my eyes that I could go home unless I wanted to stay. It was nearly 8pm by this stage so I wanted to go home.
Going to the toilet was a shocker. I was able to get up fine and pass water okay but discovering there was Betadine or something on your parts leaving stains on the toilet seat was interesting. I also didn't expect - but probably should have - that the toilet bowl would be literally full of blood. Not little dribbly period blood - I mean it looked like I just pissed out blood instead of urine. And lots of it.
I was offered a pad by the nurses but being Mrs Prepared I had my own. I admit, I was surprised it took them so long to offer me a pad - last operation they had one ready to go. Maybe they were trying not to alarm me? Carly had done a pretty swift job of grabbing the sheet that had been under me on the bed and disposing of it.
Eventually, I was able to leave. Hubby and I spent the last 15 min of our hospital stay reading. Well, he was reading. I was trying to read the book I got (anticipating a large wait in the hospital) but they wouldn't remove the cannula from my arm until I was literally heading out the door. Actually, it was the cannula plus half the tubing it came with...so this obnoxious thing was waggling around on my arm with every movement, like I grew a random squid tentacle and nobody but me noticed.
The waggling was also painful, like it was a jerk-off jellyfish stinging itself for some depressing reason.
After the surgery, and after my parents felt I was stable enough to leave, after I had food and a cuddle... I started to feel better. The situation was in no way alright but having the procedure was necessary for me to start healing. I think if we had left it the extra few days like the Dr suggested, that would just have been more days of me sitting around worrying and being upset.
As it happened, after I woke up from the general anaesthetic, I felt a lot less sad. Maybe it was knowing I wasn't holding a tiny corpse anymore, maybe it was having my family around me, maybe it was knowing I could now try to heal or a combination of the above. I don't know. The rest, food and cuddles certainly helped.
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