Surgery Went Well

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Hey all out there!

First off- Happy Thanksgiving! I'm with a bunch of Americans who tell me that Canadian thanksgiving isn't 'proper Thanksgiving'-- but the three of us here and banding together and will figure out some equivalent of turkey-- pigeon, anyone?

Anyway, I apologize for the lack of updates after the last rather dismal one. It's been an interesting three weeks, to say the least.

As per the last post, yes, scalding coffee got upturned on my lap in class. It was still blistering four hours later, excruciating pain, yadda yadda.

I found out that I was able to walk the entire next day, no problem, because the damage was so extensive that the nerves in my legs were completely shot.

My doctor told me that the left leg had the worst of it, and that they were second degree burns. I don't know why I'm recapping- just see the last post!

Anyway, this was multiple weeks ago. Since then, I have spent many a bedridden day, eaten many a piece of cheesecake, had two surgeries, yelled at my fair share of nurses and what I hope were only apprentice doctors (they were too incompetent to be anything else, I swear), popped multiple pills, and had my mom visit.

The first surgery I had was exactly two weeks ago:

I called my doctor at 8 am, as he told me to come to the hospital at 9am sharp, and come fasting. I wanted to know if I was allowed water and my pain meds. He was sleeping.

He tells me to come to the hospital at 10-1030, as my surgery will probably be pushed back to noon. I'm not that impressed, already.

I'm pretty excited to get into a cab- the past week had been spent entirely going crazy in my apartment, minus the one (also exciting) trip to the doctor's, where the nurse is adorable, and I'm bound to hobble out in worse shape than when I hobbled in. I was bedridden, and excited to (what I thought) get it all over with.

I get to the hospital- and go to the clinic section of it, the only part I know. After being processed for 20 minutes, I'm told that the doctor isn't even there. I was in the wrong part of the hospital entirely. I hobble over to the other genuine hospital, about a block away, where I'm shown into a room that wasn't apparently the standard I was supposed to get, and shoved in there for the next couple of hours.

Random nurses would pop in and administer me things. Each time I had to ask them what exactly it was that they were injecting me with. I trusted them, but I figured it would be nice to know exactly if I was getting HIV directly through my IV.

Tick tock. Still haven't seen my doctor. Some guys come in to change the window-the actual Window- in my room. My doctor thankfully makes an appearance at this point; I make it pretty clear that I'm not too happy, and he shoos the other guys out.

I'm finally transferred to a wheelie stretcher. It was kind of cool actually! I mean, how many TV shows/movies have I seen where you see the patient get pushed along to surgery. It wasn't in the most dramatic sense, but I think first surgery ever in Cairo would get pretty interested viewers. Anyway, I'm taken down to the basement/surgical room, and left in a room with all these people yammering incomprehensible Arabic to each other, all in lunch lady caps. I had to ask what I can only guess now as the anaesthesiolist what it was they were giving me- ten seconds later, I know. Sweet sweet sedative.

I'm woken up for what could be a few minutes or a few weeks later- really REALLY out of it. the barely living definition of out of it, actually! I remember snippets of conversations- it was kind of like, again, in the movies, where the person gets hit by a car and they can only hear people tell them not to go toward the lights-- all shadowy and blurry and vague and ridiculous.

I did NOT spend a pleasant rest of the day. In fact, my roommate has said that that was the worst day of the whole endeavour. All I wanted to do was SLEEP. And nothing gets a person in a worse mood than having to deal with ridiculous incompetence INSTEAD of sleeping. I wanted painkillers- I pulled the cord- the nurses came- the nurses went. Did the painkillers come? My persistent tugging on that freaking cord and eventual outpour of frustration 45 minutes later can maybe attest to the lack thereof. I slept intermittently. At one point I remember someone coming and asking me if I wanted more sedative. But wait- aren't I supposed to be discharged? What time is it? did my surgery even go well? Where the Hell is my Doctor? What is Going On?

I was not pleased. After a couple emotional, frustrated calls, I just really wanted to go back home. My former prison became my emotional haven. Finally, this other doctor comes along, an 'associate' of my doctor.

Dr. Amgad: "so... you want be to discharged?"
Me: "....aren't YOU supposed to tell me?"
Dr. Amgad: "..."
Me: "yeah, ok, sure. I want to go home"
Dr. : "ok, follow same pills as before..."
Me: "oh, actually. dr. wilson told me that if the painkillers weren't enough, he'd prescribe something stronger"
Dr.: "no. old pills enough"
Me: "umm.. noo... the old pills were NOT enough. I was and still am in pain"
Dr.: "no, pain will go away."
Me: "WTF"

That was about the part where I started to get REALLY frustrated. He did not understand that I was in pain. That I needed stronger painkillers. He asked me if I wanted another pain injection, I yessed, he said he would give me one before I left, he didn't. He, also getting flustered and angry at being the object of my wrath, started asking me if I wanted any injections to bring home.

"I'm sorry- what? do i Know how to administer pain injections to myself? no!"
"...so you don't want it"

It just went downhill from there. And it was already pretty low. He asked me if I had a roommate- what the hell does that have to do with anything? my roommate is not a nurse! I asked him, ok, I'll take the injections. But do I put it in a vein, or just randomly stab myself? No answer, no answer. He finally told me that he'd give me one, in extreme cases. I did not WANT an extreme case painkiller, that I didn't know how to administer, I wanted regular, tablet, swallow with some water, one every 8 hours, kind of painkiller. What an incompetent ass.

He finally stormed out, and I angrily dialed my doctor, who told me that he would take care of it. I got a sheet of the tablets as I left the hospital.

(ok, so I feel a little unfair to this guy. But honestly, he wasn't listening to me at all, I was exhausted, I just got surgery and still had no idea how it went and what was going on, and he Was an idiot.)

So I get back to my apartment hours after expected, and in a far worse mood than I possibly could have expected. My doctor told me that I should have been able to go to class that evening- the most optimistic thought imaginable. I wallowed in the fact that everyone else would be off gallivanting across the Middle East and the Mediterranean for Eid (the break after Ramadan), and that I would be stuck in my apartment, in Cairo, alone and immobile as always.

Pretty depressing stuff.

The next day looked up, despite not being able to go to either of my classes where I had presentations. I also found out that my frustrated phone call home led to my Mom booking a flight out to Cairo. I had mixed feelings about this; I would really appreciate the company, but me sleeping in the apartment the entire time, again immobile, wasn't exactly how I pictured her visit.

She came out and it reminded me of how great it is having someone around that knows you through and through. I was excited- after the surgery I was feeling much much better, and the doctor even took off my bandages to let the burns heal in fresh air (well, as fresh as air can be in Cairo- the most polluted of all cities). (oh, on that note, the bronchitis is gone. whoot!)

The first couple days had us walking around and exploring; going to go see the mummies at the Egyptian museum and observing the mob at City Stars (their equivalent of West Ed). Unfortunately, it wasn't anything that I hadn't seen before, and I was left exhausted.

Thankfully Mom was jetlagged, as I was sleeping 12 hours a night, and we both were waking up at noon the entire week+ she was here.

The rest of the week proved not so active- my left leg wasn't healing, and I was just tired. We played many a card game in the meanwhile. Finally, I found out on my Monday appointment that it was as my doctor feared- it was a third degree burn, and he needed to do a skin graft.

Tuesday morning, I was in the hospital. This is why I say that it's almost a better thing that it happened here in Egypt than in Canada-- I go to the hospital, I'm seen in 10 minutes. My doctor is able to see me at his clinic in the middle of the night. Surgeries are scheduled with only 12 hours notice.

This time went much smoother, as it was my second time round. Unfortunately, it was early; I was cranky. But I knew not to have to deal with anything, just to sleep. Which I did, plentifully.

My anesthesiologist was kind enough to inform me that I was going to be asleep soon, this time!

Unfortunately, this time, I was woken up by being repeatedly slapped across the face, having a gas mask shoved on my mouth, severe, crippling pain, and some young apprentice doctor talking about how he thought the Toronto Raptor's mascot looked like Barney.

I was seriously displeased. But I slept; my doctor actually came in this time, and prescribed me the GOOD drugs, and we avoided the whole 'stacey yells at the young idiot doctor' scenario. Mom and I kept playing cards (apparently that is quite taboo to do in public here, Mom!) and everything went fairly swimmingly.

Since then, it's just been same old, same old. I really shouldn't be walking around but I do anyway because there is no way I can justify the slow descent into insanity that has been my recovery apartment captivity. I got the staples out (OW), most of the bandage off (OW), and now I have this crazy bizarre scab where the skin graft was put on. The place that they took skin from is actually way worse than the grafted skin.

I am wearing new pants today! (I've worn the same pair for what? 3 and a half weeks now?) Still haven't been able to shower though...

Yeah, I know. It's disgusting.

Stacey

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