I Love/Hate Percocet

I've been meaning to update my posts for the past few days, to let everyone know that I survived surgery and all, but I've had a hard time pulling together enough energy. And for once, that's not just a lame excuse.

My surgery was on Monday at 9:05 am, which meant I had to be at the hospital at 7:00 am. I was allowed nothing to eat or drink after midnight the previous evening. I know seven hours isn't a long time to fast, but anyone who knows me is more than quite aware of the fact that I am not a morning person. Myo at 5:45 am in lots of pain with very little sleep and no caffeine? Not a pretty picture. (Especially when I'm nervous on top of of that.)

After being shown to a small pre-op room and changing out of my street clothes and into a hospital gown, I was visited by a non-stop parade of hospital personnel who inserted IVs (on the first try!), explained the upcoming precedure, gave me more Versed to calm me down, and finally wheeled me down to the operating room. The last thing I remember was seeing a bottle of Diet Coke in the window above the scrub sinks as the anesthesiologist adjusted the oxygen mask over my face and injected whatever it was that it would make me sleep into my IV. Two thoughts crossed my mind: huh, the sleepy drugs kind of burn and I would do practically anything for that Diet Coke right now.

The next thing I knew I was in recovery with a nasal cannula stuck in my nose. Apparently, I was having a hard time waking up from the anesthesia, because they kept reminding me to take deep breaths through my nose. I glanced over at the screen recording my vitals. My respirations were 8? My oxygen saturation was 86%? Not good. I was too tired to panic, though.

Of course, not being able to wake up just made me panic more.

I finally was sent up to my room, where they kept me heavily dosed with more Percocet and informed me that they had placed 8 screws in my ankle. (And I even got an X ray of it. You can't see the little Craftsman logo on my ankle, though.) Everything had apparently gone smoothly and I would be allowed to have a dinner tray that evening (hooray!) of chicken broth and jello (boo!). The hot tea was nice, though. My throat was incredibly sore from the anesthesia. The nurse also managed to scrounge up a Diet Coke for me. I immediately proclaimed it the best Diet Coke I've ever had.

I was kept overnight for observation, as expected. The overnight stay sucked. I was in extreme pain, which was kept in control by the steady stream of Percocet brought to me by my nurses. Unfortunately they were giving me so much that speaking without slurring or getting up to go to the bathroom was a challenge. (They were giving me two pills every three hours in the hospital; at home I'm allowed one every four to six hours. You do the math.)

I had a semi-private room, which meant I had a roommate. I can only assume she was there for the insertion of a personality, since all I know about her was that she had her TV on twice as loud as mine and went outside every chance she got to smoke. (Actually she must have been in a lot of pain, since she was on morphine, but I doubt that running outside to suck down a few full-flavor cigarettes was doing her body any favors.)

My mother brought me back to her house Tuesday afternoon. Since then I've been alternating between short bouts of drug induced sleep, watching entirely too much TV, eating, and hopping from room to room on my crutches (and collapsing in sheer exhaustion once I reach my destination). My computer time has been severely curtailed, since the computer is in the basement and I have to butt-scoot down the steps to get there. (As my niece put it the other night, "Can Aunt Myo come downstairs with her butt?")

I'm supposed to be going home tomorrow afternoon. I'm a little apprehensive, since it means I will be completely on my own and at this point I can't carry a drink into another room. I will be glad to get home though. I miss my cats terribly; I got to see them briefly last Friday night when my parents and I stopped by to pick up clothes and other necessities. (Zappagirl's been checking in on them, and says they're fine.)

I hate being so helpless. I can't even wash my own hair or get my own coffee at this point. I almost dropped from exhaustion after going down three aisles at Walgreens yesterday. Thankfully I have an incredibly supportive group of family and friends who have kept me sane and sent cards, flowers, good thoughts, chocolate and ice cream. Mucho thanks to Mom, Dad, Sydney (and Allison and Amanda), Roger Mexico, Rosencrantz, Zappagirl, Jooles, Mary and Lee, Doris and Jerry, and everyone from work. I appreciate everything you've done for me.

Ugh. My ankle is throbbing now, telling me I need to drag myself back up the steps. My life is no longer measured in coffee spoons; it's now measured in icepacks and class 2 narcotic dosages. How unpoetic.