As I sit here waiting for surgery, what is it that I most dread? Is it the pain, the risk, the recovery??? No. It's the smell. All I can think about are the smells. The awful, nauseating odor of the hospital. That new-tubing smell. The alcohol swab and antibacterial soap smell. The general smell of "sterile." It makes my stomach churn just thinking about it. This morning, despite being "NPO," I felt a strong desire to throw up as the memory of the smell entered my nostrils. I've been stuck three times already. Once for a blood draw and twice for the IV. My veins never like to cooperate the first (and sometimes second) time. And of course the only option left for the IV was in the side of my wrist. There are only a few other places to choose from that are more painful and inconvenient. And still, through the pain of the needles, all I could focus on was the smell. It's as if it has a homing device leading it straight to my nose. They're subtle smells, but potent in their memory cells. For one who has been in the hospital and the OR as many times as I have, unable to see well without my glasses, it is the smell that brings back the memories. Perhaps if I could shut down that sense, just for the duration of my hospital stay, then I might be better able to block out the memories of surgeries past. But short of holding my breath, there is little hope that I will be capable of escaping the smells.
The sad thing is that there are ordinary smells that I've ended up associating with the hospital as well. Walking into McDonald's is the equivalent of walking into Texas Children's. Apple juice reminds me of ICU. But the worst smell of all is that of new plastic. It causes a recollection of nasal canulas in my nostrils. Can't escape that smell. Once in a while I'll open a new package of something seemingly innocent (a specific example escapes me at the moment) and I'm flooded with memories. None pleasant. The cold, hard OR or cath lab, complete with all of the smells that nauseate me, is the worst memory of all. Because it is that awful smell of the "gas" just before drifting into sleep that I dread the very most. The giving up control, and a little piece of my life, myself, my memory. That is the worst moment in all of this. That, and its anticipation.
Fifteen head-to-head battles with surgery have left me a bit scarred. And I'm not referring to the physical evidence of being sliced open on the table. I'm talking about emotional scars. They're subtle, and most can't see them. But once in awhile, they wreak havoc with my ability to stay somewhat sane. I can pretend that it's just an inconvenience and that surgery doesn't bother me, but once in a while, one of those scars rears its ugly head and pumps raw emotion straight to my eyes and my attitude. Nathan and I argued this morning. He wasn't getting up and moving as fast as I would have liked, so I lashed out, thinking he must be too non-chalant about something that had me so worried. However, his reply of throwing the newspaper he held in his hand across the room belied his cool exterior. It's an awful good thing we love each other, and understand that it is the stress talking, or we would have split long ago. He has been present for 12 of my 16 surgeries to date (that's including this one scheduled for today). I'm so lucky to have someone who is willing, and able, to put up with it the way he does. I don't know what I'd do without him.
I'm not exactly sure why I've become so philosiphical this time around. It isn't as if this surgery has me worried that I might not make it, or even that there will be complications. Perhaps it's just the fact that it so closely follows my last surgery, two months ago. I'm ready to be done with surgery. Unfortunately, there will always be another one around the corner... Nothing I do or hope for will ever change that. At least, not while I'm alive, and I'd really like to stay that way for a while longer.
I could end up writing a novel here if I continue, so I'll stop. Thanks to all of you who have been so supportive and helped me to feel less alone. At times, you're the only voices I'm ready to hear. Thank you.
The sad thing is that there are ordinary smells that I've ended up associating with the hospital as well. Walking into McDonald's is the equivalent of walking into Texas Children's. Apple juice reminds me of ICU. But the worst smell of all is that of new plastic. It causes a recollection of nasal canulas in my nostrils. Can't escape that smell. Once in a while I'll open a new package of something seemingly innocent (a specific example escapes me at the moment) and I'm flooded with memories. None pleasant. The cold, hard OR or cath lab, complete with all of the smells that nauseate me, is the worst memory of all. Because it is that awful smell of the "gas" just before drifting into sleep that I dread the very most. The giving up control, and a little piece of my life, myself, my memory. That is the worst moment in all of this. That, and its anticipation.
Fifteen head-to-head battles with surgery have left me a bit scarred. And I'm not referring to the physical evidence of being sliced open on the table. I'm talking about emotional scars. They're subtle, and most can't see them. But once in awhile, they wreak havoc with my ability to stay somewhat sane. I can pretend that it's just an inconvenience and that surgery doesn't bother me, but once in a while, one of those scars rears its ugly head and pumps raw emotion straight to my eyes and my attitude. Nathan and I argued this morning. He wasn't getting up and moving as fast as I would have liked, so I lashed out, thinking he must be too non-chalant about something that had me so worried. However, his reply of throwing the newspaper he held in his hand across the room belied his cool exterior. It's an awful good thing we love each other, and understand that it is the stress talking, or we would have split long ago. He has been present for 12 of my 16 surgeries to date (that's including this one scheduled for today). I'm so lucky to have someone who is willing, and able, to put up with it the way he does. I don't know what I'd do without him.
I'm not exactly sure why I've become so philosiphical this time around. It isn't as if this surgery has me worried that I might not make it, or even that there will be complications. Perhaps it's just the fact that it so closely follows my last surgery, two months ago. I'm ready to be done with surgery. Unfortunately, there will always be another one around the corner... Nothing I do or hope for will ever change that. At least, not while I'm alive, and I'd really like to stay that way for a while longer.
I could end up writing a novel here if I continue, so I'll stop. Thanks to all of you who have been so supportive and helped me to feel less alone. At times, you're the only voices I'm ready to hear. Thank you.
