Round one of the two-part surgery ends. As I wake up from the ICU, I’m being moved to the room that I heard about staying in with 3 other people on the rolling bed. My head feels heavy as can be. It’s aching. My eyes slowly open, and nurse after assistant after another nurse and another continually coming up to me. Waking up is a confusion. One nurse takes my blood, another gives me pillows, another takes my temperature, a clip goes on my finger, another comes in wrapping my arm for blood pressure. I’m overwhelmed. I’m panicked.
My feelings were coming out. Moaning, crying, saying no. I need to go to the bathroom, as a catheter was just taken out. An assistant closes my curtain and passes a bedpan. I refuse. I don’t use that, I can’t. My moaning and frustration is clear and it’s the only thoughts in my head. Too many people at once, I can hardly move without a thought of pain and a 100 pound head, and I must use the bathroom.
One of my surgeon’s close nurse practitioner keeps the curtain closed and rids my small quarters of all other people working on my body. She drags over the portable toilet right next to the bed. The confident NP grips my two shoulders with her firm hands. Immediately it grabs my attention, I snap into reality. In a strong, stern voice she says to me, “Chelsey, you are going to get through this.”
That was all I needed. I am out of the first surgery. I survived it. She helped me out of bed onto the portable toilet. I did what I needed to do, she helped me back in bed, held my hand and said, “You’ve got this. Are you ready now?”
“Thank you. Let’s do this.”