Surgery 5 (The Second Procedure)

The second operation was scheduled for a week after my shoulder operation. This wasn't on purpose--it just happened that way. The procedure was supposed to be a minor one called a Urolift. (You can Google it if you want details.)  Because my urologist stressed it's a simple, easy, painless procedure, I decided to go through with it, even though my shoulder was still recovering.  It made sense, actually.  The two procedures were completely unrelated, so the one wouldn't exacerbate the other, and I wouldn't have to take yet more time off work if I bundled the two operations together. Additionally, I was worried that the pandemic would overwhelm the hospital and shut down "elective" operations if I put mine off, so it was a good idea to get it done now.

 

I did ask the urologist if me being in a sling would pose a problem for the operation, and he said it wouldn't.  He also said that there was about a 20% chance that they would have to put me on a catheter when the procedure was finished, but it would only need to stay in for 24 hours.  I wasn't worried. 

 

I should have been.

 

So on another Monday, Darwin drove me to the hospital in Wherever.  My usual anxiety was blunted by the painkillers I was still taking for my shoulder.  The pre-op nurse seemed surprised that I had the sling, though I had told the hospital about it when I scheduled and when they called with the pre-op instructions. I told the nurse that under no circumstances could they remove my sling while I was sleeping--the threshold for detecting damage to my shoulder was pain, you see. Feel pain? Stop the movement immediately or you could tear something.  Under anesthesia, however, I wouldn't feel any pain and wouldn't be able to tell someone to stop moving my arm. So the sling HAD to stay in place at all times.  The nurse seemed a little hesitant, but finally agreed.

 

The pre-op stuff was becoming routine for me.  I had my recorder taped to my finger again, and this time, no one seemed to even notice it.  SPOILER: When I listened to it later, there was nothing untoward. The worst of it was overhearing the staff talk about their favorite TV shows while they were draping me.  During the operation itself, there was almost no talk at all.  No complaints.

 

Then I woke up.  In terrible pain.  Awful, horrible, screaming pain.  But I was groggy from the anesthetic, so I could barely talk.  As the anesthetic wore off, the pain continued.  My entire pelvis was wracked with it.

 

I was wearing a catheter.  The nurse said the doctor spotted some blood and had put me on it.  The catheter, though, was causing the pain.  A catheter shouldn't hurt, but oh, this one did.  I was thrashing and moaning, and demanding help.  And Darwin wasn't there to advocate for me.  The pain grew worse and worse and I was crying and shouting.  And over in another section of the recovery room, some staff members were singing Happy Birthday to someone.  It was surreal.

 

Finally, my screams convinced the nurse that I needed painkillers.  She gave me a slow dose ("We have to inject it slowly so it doesn't hit you all at once").  It did absolutely nothing.  I kept screaming.  I was half delirious now, and had only a vague idea where I was and what was happening.  When I listened to it all on the recorder, I realized I remembered less than half of what I said.  The nurse, who seemed exasperated, finally gave me another med, and the pain at last faded.  It didn't disappear; I just wasn't screaming with it.

 

And then they dressed me and sent me home with Darwin.  I was to return to the urologist the next day to have the catheter removed.

 

At home, I sat dazed on the couch, my arm in a sling and a catheter taped to my leg, wondering what the hell was going on with my life.  I didn't have the concentration to do anything except sit and rest, which was all I needed to do anyway.

 

An hour later, the hospital's painkillers wore off, and the pain came thundering back.

 

I started shouting again.  It was horrible, debilitating pain.  It came in waves.  Every time the catheter drained a little, I screamed with it.  Poor Darwin was completely unnerved.  I told him to call the urologist's emergency number.  He did, and in a few minutes, the urologist called me back.

 

"How are you doing?" he said cheerfully.

 

"Shitty," I said through clenched teeth, then cried out as more pain ripped through me.  "This catheter needs to come out now."

 

"That's probably not a good idea," he said.

 

More pain, more screaming.  Then I said, "I'm taking it out.  I know how.  Just cut the balloon drain and pull."

 

"That may not work," he said cautiously.  "Sometimes it doesn't drain all the way.  You need to have it done at a facility."

 

I hung up on him and Darwin got me into the car for a drive to the emergency room.  I considered calling an ambulance, but figured it would be faster if Darwin just took me.  Every bump and jolt on the road made me howl again.  Darwin's hands were white on the steering wheel.

 

The ER in Clarkston is weird.  The entrance, clearly labeled EMERGENCY, actually puts you in the pharmacy.  I had to limp past a staring pharmacist, holding the catheter bag and trying not to scream again. Through another door was the actual ER.  The nurse wanted to do all the paperwork before helping me, but another wave of pain crashed over me and I howled until she brought me back into a room.

 

Another nurse came in and I explained what was going on.  "I need the catheter taken out NOW," I finished.

 

The nurse didn't argue.  He drained the anchoring balloon with a syringe--another pain wave--and then said, "On three."

 

I remember thinking to myself two things at that moment.  The first was that I didn't want him to count to three.  I wanted him to just pull the fucking thing out.  My second thought, hard on the first, was that he wasn't going to count to three.  It was a ruse to stop me from tensing up, and he was indeed going to pull it right away.

 

(Things get a little gross here. Just warning you.)

 

I was right.  The nurse pulled the catheter out.  I actually fainted for a few seconds.  Then I was pissing full-on blood, and that almost made me faint again.  I stayed in the ER until I wasn't bleeding anymore, and they sent me home.

 

Was the pain over?  No.  It wasn't steady, but every time I went to the bathroom, I buried my face in a towel so I could scream without upsetting Darwin.

 

In the morning, I demanded an emergency appointment with the urologist, but the best they could do was for me to see the PA.  Darwin brought me in--he's clocking an impressive number of miles as my medical chauffeur--and I had a heated, pissed-off conversation with said PA.  She said she didn't understand why I was having such problems, but she gave me some anti-spasmodics that were more powerful than the ones I had before and said the pain should fade "soon."

 

It went on for days, actually.  After two days, the pain faded to something that only made me wince, but it still hung around.  Yesterday was the first day I've been able to go to the bathroom without noticing any pain.

 

I have a follow-up with the urologist in two weeks, and I'll be demanding some answers.  This operation was supposed to be easy and pain free, even if there was a catheter.  I want to know what the hell happened.  The hospital should have admitted me rather than send me home. They should have realized that, once the pain meds wore off, the pain would come back.  I needed observation, but they just shoved me out the door, and I wasn't clear-headed enough to tell them I needed to stay.

 

So this procedure was its own source of hell.  At least the pain has cleared up.  But it was days and days of needless torture.  If I had known this was even a remote possibility, I wouldn't have had the procedure done.  The urologist has a lot to answer for, and I'm going to make him answer for it.

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