If it can go wrong, it goes wrong during my husband's surgery.
Note: My darling better half has approved this post and offered some insight. It is in no way meant to undermine the emotional, mental, physical, and financial tolls a serious illness/injury presents to an individual and those who love him/her.
While my retelling of this might be strange to add bits of humor, to quote the incomparable Truvy from Steel Magnolias, "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."
Mid-way through my second year in college, I came home from work to a frantic group of people huddled around the front desk.
"HURRY! GO CHECK YOUR ROOM! IT'S FLOODING IN HERE!" Michelle Porter shouted at me.
So two things to note about this. I attended Western Kentucky University, students of which are affectionately named The Hilltoppers. The campus is literally a hill. Honestly, it's not even a hill, it's more like a death march into the Himalayas when you've got 30 pounds of books strapped to your back. My career as a sherpa was short-lived.
Secondly, I lived at the top of that hill, on the third floor of my building. So flood? Yeah, I think you're pulling my leg.
Turns out it was legit. One of the industrial-sized air conditioners had somehow exploded, sending tons of water, oil, and other delightful liquids across the swiss cheese roof into our dorm rooms.
I dropped my bags where I stood and ran upstairs. Intent on saving my electronics, I hastily rammed my key into the lock, but I was surprised to find my room pristine. Well, maybe not pristine, but definitely not wet.
In horror movie fashion, I turned my head slowly to my best friend's room across the hall. There, a garden-hose stream of black water was flowing down his front door. And he had just gone home for the weekend that morning.
People often say when you're faced with a traumatic event, you are suddenly blessed with lightning-fast reflexes and Hulk-like strength. I find this to be true. When the chips are down, my anxiety takes a long-overdue smoke break and I become a confident, decisive goddess. Like Xena, Warrior Princess, without the battle cry.
Within seconds of seeing the fountain of doom, I ran back to the front desk, retrieved Brian's spare key, and trudged through the sloppy mess of 30 years of questionable roofing and insulation. I repeated the same salvage plan. Electronics first, textbooks second (if you've never overpaid for a college textbook, you won't understand this), personal possessions third.
In this moment of altruistic pillaging, I somehow managed to single-handedly hoist Brian's 21-inch tube television, yanking the wires from the wall with a single jerk.
Now, I need to address something to my younger audience. Those of us who were alive in the last century lived WITHOUT flat-screen TVs. These behemoths were really heavy and had the girth of a small pony.
Imagine manhandling Lil' Sebastian at Pawnee's Harvest Festival before being bum-rushed by an outraged Ron Swanson. Good, you understand how impressive that was.
As the water continued to pour in from above, and I cannot stress how unnerving that was, I managed to save everything from Brian's room. Sadly, one textbook needed a proper burial at sea. Cost to replace: $56,000. Probably.
After relief efforts were complete, I returned to the front desk to get Brian's emergency number. I phoned his parents' house, and I'm betting their first introduction to their future daughter-in-law was mostly likely memorable.
Hi, I'm Brian's good friend from college. His room has flooded, but I saved almost everything. Please tell him not to panic. He needs to call me.
A call did in fact come later that afternoon, and a bewildered Brian just kept repeating the same question. "How?" I patiently answered all of his questions, reassuring him I got everything out just in the nick of time. With everything secure, I walked across the hall to the failed Hoover Dam project to report on the sudden population explosion of 55-gallon drums now squatting in his room. At one point, I lowered the phone into one of the drums and squealed, "Hear that Noah? It's slowing down, time to send a few doves out to look for landfall!"
Later that night, Brian's mom phoned me, very upset with the day's events. "He's been through so much, I just wish things would get easier for him." She whispered through tears.
My people being of the stiff upper lip variety, I was not accustomed to such a display of raw emotion in our first meeting. I reassured her everyone's been through hard times, but the good news was that I basically kicked butt. I was already in contact with the Director of University Housing to get him another room within our dorm, and I would start moving his stuff the minute I got a key. All of his clothes and linens were being washed repeatedly. By the time he returned on Sunday, he'd be set.
I stopped dead in my tracks when she whispered, "He's been fighting cancer for the last three years."
I kept that secret to myself for the next four months, realizing that most people are private. If they want you to know something about themselves, they'll tell you. When Brian shared the incredible story of his diagnosis, multiple invasive surgeries, and an entire year of chemotherapy, I listened somberly. Looking at me strangely, I'm sure he was expecting a barrage of questions. But I gently replied, "I know."
Stunned at my revelation, I could see the cogs in his brain sputtering to find traction. I grabbed his cheeks and lasered my eyes directly into his. "I've known since the night your room flooded but has our relationship changed at all in that time?"
And it hadn't. I realized to love a person, and yes, I was pretty much in love with Brian by that point, you realize you love every part of the person. I didn't view Brian as flawed. Cancer was just a part of who he was, just as my crippling anxiety is part of me.
That sentiment has remained the same since that day in 2000, but cancer has always been part of our marriage. Brian gets yearly checkups and bloodwork.
We reached a point of no return last year when his living prosthesis (surgically-implanted hardware that lives inside of you) began to deteriorate to the point of serious danger.
As part of his cancer journey, Brian's osteosarcoma (bone cancer) began in his left knee, resulting in an incredibly experimental procedure that replaced most of the bones from thigh to ankle with titanium. Doctors at Vanderbilt originally gave the device a 10-year lifespan but Brian had pushed it to the limit by going 22 years on the original hardware. So we set upon the journey of replacing it.
We chose a date in late September, and if there's anything I know about checking in for a complex medical procedure, it's to ignore any optimistic promises doctors make ahead of time. Our surgeon was so confident in the technology and advancements made in the last 22 years, she threw out, in my mind, an insane projection. "If Brian does well he may get to go home the next day!"
Uhm, yeah, this guy had his high-rise dorm room flood. I think we can assume it's not going to be peaches and cream. If it can go wrong, it goes wrong during one of his surgeries.
I packed a suitcase with seven days worth of clothes, necessities, and snacks. I was not convinced. My personal preference is to overprepare and be pleasantly surprised.
The morning of his surgery, we checked in at an insanely early hour and there's one moment before surgery when I legitimately struggle to hold it together. I absolutely hate it when Brian has to take off his wedding ring. Words cannot describe how much I dread that part.
For the next few hours, things were quiet. The surgery was scheduled to last six to seven hours.
I settled into the crowded waiting room with my copy of Margaret Atwood's latest dystopian thriller and kept my mind occupied. No news is always good news.
At hour three, I was paged. Brian was in recovery and they would be sending for me in 45 minutes. "Oh crap," I groaned to myself, that was not a good sign.
Later, I made my way through the labyrinth of PACU alcoves to find my husband still sedated from his surgery. For the next hour, I had a lot of fun congratulating him on his successful breast augmentation. And the awkward moment when he patted his chest to be sure there was no silicon. I'm a loving wife, I promise.
We met with his surgeon, or rather the only one of us conscious met with her and we got the bad news. There was so much damage to the existing unit, more than one "debris field" prevented proper scans. There was far more damage than they originally thought.
Since parts for mega-prostheses are custom-made, imagine their horror when they discovered a part had disintegrated beyond repair and they didn't have a spare on hand.
Upon this discovery, one of their team had left the operating room, phoned the people in charge of making the part, and was en route to retrieve it. The bad news? It wouldn't arrive until the next morning, meaning surgery 2.0 was officially scheduled.
At this point, what can you do but focus on the solution? His proverbial dorm room was flooded. But this time, I had an army of people to assist me in the heavy lifting. Xena sprang into battle mode. It was Friday, and both the surgeon and her entire team were all coming in on a Saturday morning (their day off!) to get my boy back up and running. Lacking in any type of surgical skills, I offered a catered lunch and any bourbon they'd like.
The surgeon wisely took me up on the bourbon (which I waited until our first follow up visit weeks later to present, because...malpractice).
For the next 15 hours, I sat patiently with my husband in the PACU as his nurses struggled to get his blood pressure back into a normal range. Apparently, when you go to sleep, your blood pressure drops. Add a bit of anesthesia to pain meds and well, you're constantly asleep. At one point, I leaned over him and very sternly shouted "Eyes on me Fuller! Wake up!"
This is apparently the only thing he remembers from that entire day. He never does anything the easy way. Typical Murphy.
I'll always fondly remember two of my dearest college gals who now reside in Nashville, coming over to keep me company while Brian was having a port installed to regulate his pain medicine. Jen and Ruth, you all are rock stars and I miss you dearly!
At 3:00 am, we finally got discharged from PACU into a hospital room, and I'm sure the nurses were a little weirded out that I was so chipper and helpful, despite being awake for 38 hours (extra hours added since my anxiety prevented me from sleeping at all the night before his surgery). But to be fair, that is my style. I have never lost sight of the fact that while this might be one of the scariest/stressful days of your life, this is a regular workday to someone else. If someone is going to look after Brian, it's going to be me jumping in to help. This proved especially lucky for them later on as I am the greatest sponge bath giver in all the land!
With Brian safely in a room, I allowed myself to release the breath I had been holding for hours. I closed my eyes for three luxurious hours before the lights snapped on and we were back at it for Surgery 2.0. I think it's safe to say that we weren't getting released that day. Surgeon's Optimism - 0 My Realistic Instincts - 1.
After running down all of the pre-op procedures, I was insistent that his reaction to anesthesia was extremely concerning. Apparently, they had read the reports and agreed that 15 hours in the PACU was not something anyone wanted to repeat. Our surgeon had ordered not one, not two, but THREE anesthesiologists to accompany her into the OR for surgery 2.0. I silently cringed on receiving that bill, but at this point, I might have sold both kidneys on the black market to ensure Brian was ok.
I gave him the ceremonial good luck kiss and told him how much I loved him. It's the worst feeling in the world to let someone you love go into surgery. It a helpless feeling. And I was doing it alone, but I was comforted to know that my inner Xena would push, pull, or drag me across the finish line.
My mind shifted to what I could accomplish in the hours he was in surgery 2.0.
Checklist for me:
Spend some time in the chapel praying.
A luxurious shower as I had been in my clothes for 27 hours.
Breakfast - who would not have some bacon in my situation, honestly?
Check-in with everyone via phone and text.
And so I made my way through a rudimentary to-do list to occupy my mind and spirit as the hours crept by at a glacial pace. When Margaret Atwood couldn't distract me, a much-needed break in the tension was a few moments spent cackling at the joke jar our oldest honorary child Nalani had hand-crafted for us. My favorite?
What do Cheerios and the UK football team have in common?
Only one belongs in a bowl.
After four hours, I got a call that I'll never forget. "He's out of surgery and he'll be in his room in 30 minutes. Wait for him there." So I guess having three anesthesiologists are better than one! Yay! We weren't hanging out in Hotel California two days in a row!
Our favorite nurse Tad and I became instant besties. I love meeting people who are as acerbic and witty as me. We bonded over our shared love of reading and salty snacks. I may have gone to fetch him some a few times while I was out getting myself some as well.
After our dramatic time spent in the operating room and PACU, our time at Vanderbilt was mostly uneventful. Every morning, Brian endured the poking and prodding of the attending physicians.
Immediately following lunch, I put on some sultry jazz and gave him a sponge bath. So it may not have been sultry jazz, but that sounds more believable, doesn't it? We watched movies, Facetimed with friends, and became familiar with the cacophony of sounds in daily hospital life. Poor Brian lamented he was enjoying his time away from work, but wished the Air B&B we chose was a little more private. Alas, the food wasn't five-star either. Leave it to Brian to have a crummy vacation!
By evening, Tad and Brian debated the merits of salt n vinegar chips vs dill pickle chips and various flavors of ice cream. I did a lot of TikTok-ing during these debates.
One hilarious experience of note was my unfamiliarity with the many gadgets now attached to my sweet husband. By day three, Tad and our physical therapist Ben trusted me enough to lead Brian around for his hourly walks. As we cautiously returned to our room, I led Grandpa Jones on his walker to the side and slowly back into bed.
Attached to his knee was a drain to remove excess fluid. Ordinarily, this accordion-style disc was clipped to his stylish gown, but it had wiggled loose and hit the floor. Concerned it would pull deep within his incision causing a host of catastrophic issues, I instinctively dropped his leg to catch it but was too late. It hit the floor and splattered everywhere, but mostly on me. Wisely, I didn't document this part of the recovery with photos, but I'll let Lois roll her John Deere into this post for a visually-striking rendering. Tad was quite horrified when I ran to the nurse's station to get his help. Note to self, being covered in blood in a hospital doesn't instill confidence in the staff. People panic! In retrospect, maybe dropping his leg was a really bad idea, but thankfully, his reflexes kicked in. Looks like our team did their job.
After six days (still laughing at the original overnight prediction), our team helped me load my beloved into the back seat for a delightful two-hour car trip back home. I'm so relieved I didn't have to bake him a cake with a file inside.
Over the next several weeks, life at the Fuller Convalescent Home offered no less than seven-star service. Our patient was well-cared for and wanted for nothing. Meals were served with panache. And proper seasonings! Linens were always fresh. The best of all? No hourly wake-up calls during the night.
I did keep up my daily routine of assisting him with personal care, and I'll say one thing - lawn-sized garbage bags fit nicely above the thigh.
As physical therapy progressed, Brian was required to wear a leg-length compression stocking, which we affectionately called the Donna Summers. Many times I climbed the stairs to hear "Last Chance for Romance" being sung by a husky baritone.
So what can we learn during this life-changing event?
Humor gets you through the dark times.
Pessimistic attitudes lead to proper packing. It can also help you avoid the indecency of washing your underwear in a hospital sink. Pack enough essentials for triple the hospital stay expected. Plan pessimistically and let yourself be pleasantly surprised.
If in doubt, don't drop your partner's recently replaced knee in lieu of a drain bag. It's messy.
Maybe consider changing shirts before running down the hallway covered in blood in search of help.
Dystopian drama is probably not the wisest genre to dive into during a stressful time. Plan your literary choices wisely. Think light and bubbly, like Under the Tuscan Sun or Tina Fey's Bossypants.
Make friends with the nurses, CNAs, housekeepers, and dietary aides serving your loved one. These are the people in charge of recovery. Get to know them. Ask them how their day is going. Offer to do anything to help make their job easier. You will be rewarded with extra treats for your loved one and they will come running even when you're not covered in your loved one's blood. Every day, our team members stopped in to say hi and asked if we needed anything outside of the scope of their normal routine. Kindness is a powerful commodity within a hospital.
To build on the above, these are real people doing their everyday jobs. Be sure to praise them constantly and offer to write any complimentary notes to their superiors that they deserve a $20 an hour raise immediately. And do just that. Retaining good people is the goal of any organization. Identify these people by praising them!
If in doubt, you can still bribe and barter with bourbon. And salty chips.
Congratulate your spouse on their successful "unnecessary cosmetic enhancement" immediately after surgery. Record their reaction. Kinda kicking myself I didn't document that.
Love, support, and be patient with your patient. Check your attitude at the door. Serve with love and tenderness.
Be strong for the person who needs you most. Now is not the time to crack - channel your inner Leslie Knope, Xena, John Rambo, etc., and get to work.
Spoil a patient endlessly as they're recovering. Friends will ask when they can move in, too.
Whenever your beloved is having a hard time not being independent, lean over them and whisper "for better or worse, in sickness and in health." Reassure them that they are never, ever a burden.
Take care of yourself so you can take care of others. You can't pour from an empty cup.
Insisting on watching the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe during recuperation will earn you accolades for years.
Thanks for reading!
~ Christy
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