Notre Dame Hospital is very old. Very old, and very big. The first thing we did was meet up with one of the transplant co-ordinators, who promptly extracted a bunch of blood and asked me to pee in a cup. I was happy knowing this was probably the last gigantic batch of bloodletting I would have to endure. I was then given requisitions for an ECG, and a chest x-ray, after which I was to meet with three doctors and a nurse.
Everyone from the transplant team was fantastic. I met with Dr. Paquette, he gave me the gloomy speech about everything that can go wrong, and explained which kidney they would take, and how it would be taken. He was very patient with all of my questions. I tend to ask a lot of questions, but I have always been told there is no such thing as a stupid question. Besides, when someone is about to take your kidney I figure you have the right to ask a million questions if you feel like that’s what you require to be in your comfort zone. Then I met with Julie, the nurse … also a fantastic person and super helpful. She guided me through being admitted to the hospital and informed me that Dr. Malaise would meet with me later on in the day, and the third doctor I would also meet later. I think I only met him once or twice and I can’t remember his name. I know I met him briefly, perhaps once or twice. It’s a bit of a blur. I remember him being very kind and having green glasses.
Since we had a bit of a break Dad and I got some lunch from a fantastic restaurant called “Dame Tartin”. If you are ever in Montreal, it’s on Ontario Street and it’s fabulous. I got the grilled veggie sandwich with home-made homefries, and a big pile of delicious salad. So good! Best last meal I could ever have asked for!
When we got back to the hospital I met with Doctor Malaise and then checked into my room for the night. They put me in a fancy green robe, and Dad and I sat and talked for a while.
Then they came in to put in my IV …
This was when I started to get scared. They had a hard time finding a vein, and ended up putting the IV in the inner fold of my arm (where blood is usually drawn). This meant I couldn’t bend my arm, and that really upset me. I don’t know if it was the pain, or my fear manifesting itself in this one thing, but I just started crying. I was scared. Later on Dr. Malaise and Julie checked in on me, and assured me that once they put me under they would do their best to put it in my hand instead. I spent the rest of the time between then and when they put me under making sure every single person I communicated with was aware of this fact.
That night it was difficult to sleep, but they gave me some Ativan to help and I drifted off. Dad came early the next morning, and before I knew it I was being wheeled off to the waiting area for the OR. I remember it feeling strange to be wheeled around, sort of a loss of control. You know where you’re going but you have a bunch of people around you who are bringing you there. Then all of a sudden you’re in a room with other people about to go in for surgery, and they’re being taken away one at a time. A couple of people came to talk with me and asked me all kinds of questions about who I was, and why I was there (I guess this is to make sure no one goes in for the wrong operation). When the anesthetist came to speak with me I made sure to tell her the doctor had said I could have my IV switched to my hand while I was under. She said she already knew. As luck would have it her husband was one of the surgeons, and he had told her the night before over dinner. How about that! It was so comforting to know that someone was looking out for me.
The rest of the time before the surgery is kind of foggy. I remember being wheeled in. I remember seeing a lot of faces staring down at me, and I remember getting a little panicky about the array of monitors and instruments. Luckily, I didn’t have time to worry too much. That was it, I guess. Lights out!
I think the morphine coupled with the anesthesia had a numbing affect on my brain, because I don’t remember waking up. My best friend, Megan (who is a fantastic human being), flew to Montreal to be there when I woke up and I could kick myself because all I remember of her visit is seeing her on her phone once. I also remember crying when she left. She tells me I was in and out of consciousness and I did a lot of falling asleep mid-sentence.
I don’t have any recollection of pain when I woke up. I remember looking at my stomach and being surprisingly calm about what I saw. (A long incision just above my bikini line in my lower abdomen, and four small ones in a square shape on the left side of my stomach.)
The only other thing I remember noticing was that they had managed to find a vein in my right hand for my IV. Hooray!
They must have had a hard time finding one. My arms were very bruised.
I guess I was pretty gonzo because the rest is blurry. My surgeons came to visit me, although I couldn’t tell you what time. Julie (the nurse) came as well. By the evening the morphine was starting to affect me in a very negative way. I started to get nauseous and they gave me gravol through my IV, but unfortunately it just wasn’t enough and I started vomiting. I threw up all night.
This was probably the worst pain I felt through the entire ordeal. I have to say I have never felt anything like that before, and I hope to never experience anything like that again. I can definitely say now that this experience was worth the pain. This was only one small part of my experience, and I would do it all again if I had the choice. But man … that sucked.
I begged to be taken off the morphine. I refused to press my pain pump button. The nurses would come in and press it for me, and I would end up throwing up again. I can’t exactly recall when they made the decision to take it away but they did … and then I got Tylenol. Much better!
When they wanted to take my catheter out I had a major freakout. I was so worried I wouldn’t be able to make it to the washroom. I couldn’t get up on my own and I was terrified that I would pee myself. It also weirded me out to a pretty high degree that there was a tube going into my bladder. I didn’t really know how to handle that. When they finally did take it out it didn’t hurt at all, and I just ended up having to pee around once an hour. I got used to the routine. Ring bell for nurse -get help out of bed - pee in weird toilet pee catcher thing - ring bell - get help back to bed - repeat in one hour.
My Dad stayed with me all night for the first couple of nights. He is amazing. I don’t know what I would have done without him. Sleeping in one of those torturous hospital chairs that I swear they design to make you as uncomfortable as possible ALL NIGHT. I love my Dad so much.
The nights when Dad wasn’t there were the most difficult. I had a hard time sleeping. I would wake up most nights every couple of hours drenched in sweat, but I would be freezing cold. I think my body was having a hard time regulating its temperature. Eventually I got sick of waiting for the nurse when I had to pee in the middle of the night. I figured out how to elevate the bed, scootch my legs over the side and stand up. I could get to the washroom and pee, then I would ring the nurse bell in the washroom and by the time I got back to the bed someone would be there to help me back in. It seemed like they came a lot faster when you rang the bell in the washroom. I guess they figure if you need help in there you might be in some real trouble, you don’t just need a pillow adjusted or something.
I had to get up and walk a lot. It was so hard. I could only make it to the nurse’s station and back most of the time, but I knew it was good for me and would make me stronger so I kept at it. Laying around just makes you stiff and your muscles start to atrophy. Dad was a great cheerleader and he reminded me when I hadn’t been up for a while. I also had a little breathing apparatus that was supposed to help me breathe deeply. Most of the time I just tried to breathe deeply anyhow so I wouldn’t have to taste the plastic. I was terrified of getting pneumonia. My “roommate” was doing a lot of coughing so I was extra diligent with my breathing exercises. They assured me she was not contagious. (I wasn’t about to take any chances, though)
Things progressed and soon I got real food to eat. Dad would get me food from restaurants so I didn’t have to eat hospital food all of the time. This lifted my spirits immeasurably. I would try to watch TV but my mind couldn’t concentrate long enough. Usually five minutes or so and I was ready for a nap.
One afternoon a nurse came and washed my hair for me. The process was a little scary, because it meant I had to lay almost flat in the bed, but afterwards I felt fantastic. The lady in the bed beside mine had her hair washed too, and we both smiled at eachother and said things like “Oooh, tres belle!” Funny how a little thing like having clean hair can make you feel so much better.
On my last night in the hospital I woke up at around 4am and peeked at my belly (something I did regularly, when I was feeling brave enough) and noticed a blister next to one of my incisions. I panicked. I rang the bell and this very sweet nurse came to help me. I had met him before, his name was Inga. A tall, calm man with kind eyes; he was from Brazil and didn’t speak English … only French. I had done pretty well with my elementary French vocabulary up until now, but this situation required more communication skills than I could muster. In retrospect I’m a little embarrassed about just how upset I was, because despite his telling me it was no big deal (and it really was no big deal) I was pretty close to being hysterical. I was supposed to go home in the morning and I was so excited to be leaving the hospital. I was terrified that something may be happening that would keep me there for one minute longer than was absolutely necessary. A couple of hours later they got the head nurse (who spoke English fluently) to come in and speak with me. She answered all of my questions, and assured me I was still going home that day. Turns out this kind of thing happens all of the time. My skin was reacting to the glue that the steri-strips were held on with in that one spot, for some reason. Eventually it would either burst and dry up, or be re-absorbed into my body. Gross – I know but that’s the reality of surgery. Gross stuff happens. She put a clear plastic bandage over it to make sure it survived the trip home. I apologized to Inga for freaking out. He smiled and said it was ok.
