Hello 2021 👋🏻
I have to admit, I am surprised this post is being published on time! January. A month of lockdown and little else to do but write. Yet, I did everything but write. Why? Because I know this part of my journey is the most painful. My first blog of 2021 brings with it a lot of emotional baggage that I continue to lug around. Feelings that I am too afraid to offload. Because that means I have to really feel them. And that terrifies me.
18 December 2019. I went to sleep the night before, having had a heads up that today will be the day. It was a restless night, to say the least. But there was still a chance it wouldn’t happen. There are no guarantees, especially when you are on an emergency list. You have to wait until you are literally the most critical patient. So that’s what I did. And I become a nervous wreck in the process.
That morning, I was woken early by one of the nurses who told me that they had a call. Today was the day. Today. Was. The. Day.
I can’t really describe how I felt in that moment. I longed for it to come because I couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. Time stands still when you are waiting for something, doesn’t it? But at the same time, I dreaded it. I didn’t want the surgery. I didn’t want a stoma. The moment came and I felt nervous. I was struggling to control my breathing. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it. My ears were ringing. I felt hot, dizzy and truly terrified.
I HAD to tune out. That was the only way I wouldn’t break down. At that point, I needed somebody. Anybody. To hold my hand. I was desperate to talk and be silent all at the same time. I was so scared. I tried to focus on something, anything, else.
It wasn’t long before the anaesthetist came to my bedside. I had to answer some questions and decide if I would like an epidural or not. I decided not to have one, since I have a phobia of feeling numb thanks to focal migraines when I was a teenager. I was given a blue and white hospital gown and knee length white stockings. I was told they would come and get me when they were ready.
Some time passed, I’m not sure how long, before a nurse and a porter arrived to take me to surgery. I remember that moment so well. I was stood at the end of another patient’s bed trying to distract myself in what I can only describe as robotic-like conversation. It was the first time I’d made an effort to talk to anybody. I heard my name and knew it was time.
They wheeled me out of the bay in my bed. One of the ward nurses nodded to me and said she would see me later. It brought a tear to my eye because I had so little recognition from them up to that point. I nodded back with a forced, weak, quivering smile. I felt disappointed knowing I was going back there after my surgery. Back to a ward that was not equipped to look after me. My eyes were filling up and I felt like I was about to burst. As I left the ward, I put all my energy into holding myself together.
The nurse that came to collect me with the porter was very kind. She told me that she would stay with me until I went into theatre. She was reassuring. She genuinely cared. It would all be ok, she said. I was taken into what I can only describe as a holding room. Some spare beds to my left, room seperators on wheels in front of me and another patient to my right. My nurse said she needed to let the theatre know that I had arrived. As she walked away, I have never felt so vulnerable. So weak. So alone. And with that, I. completely. lost. it.
Everything I had been holding in came pouring out in that moment. I shattered into what felt like a thousand pieces. The nurse sitting with the lady next to me came over. My nurse came back. I was completely unconsolable. They each took one hand of mine in theirs as I cried. And cried. I think that was the scariest moment of my life.
Those nurses gave me the compassion and the patience I needed to regain my strength to face my biggest fear. I don’t even know their names. Or remember what they look like. I’m sure they don’t know the difference they made to me that day. But I am forever grateful to them for what they did. For allowing me to be broken in that moment.
Then, I was wheeled through to the anaesthetist’s room. I call it purgatory: in between what you know and what you don’t. Not knowing where the road you are on will lead. At the mercy of whatever God you believe in.
Then, came the deepest sleep I’ve ever had. And an uphill battle to rebuild my broken pieces.
Reflecting on this now, I see that sometimes you have to let yourself break in order to rebuild. In the moment, I felt weak. But now, I see it was necessary so that I could put myself back together in a way that made me stronger than before.
This reflection was HARD. One year on and describing these memories is no less painful for me. They still hurt as though they happened yesterday. They still scare me even though I know I am safe. Even though I know my surgery went as well as it could have. But the trauma lives on. And so this is something I will continue to talk about, until my tears run dry and I am at peace with what I went through. For now, I will sign off knowing that I have a little more work to do.
Love Me
& My Friend Wendy.
Comments