Never Say Never: the Fourth Drain

We stopped the last blog post with me laying septic in the hospital bed, almost a week after my gallbladder surgery. 

After the infectious disease doctor met with us to let me know that the source of infection in my body was an abscess at the site of my gallbladder surgery, I told Chris that night that I felt another drain placement coming on. I couldn't fathom what else they'd want to do to empty an abscess other than a drain or another surgery. 

You have to understand that by this point it had been eight weeks of living with drains - longer than that (all year) being sick/weak. I had been through eight weeks of limited physical contact with my pets, husband, and children. I was completely depleted. My body was wrung out like a rag, with my emotions all over the map. A survivor of nearly fatal depression in the past, I have been struggling all year not to spiral down into a dark place. That is no easy feat.

The next morning Dr. M came in and confirmed that he wanted I.R. to place a drain into the abscess. Tears hit my eyes immediately and I told him how the last drain that the I.R. department had placed not only went as badly as the first, but I had been treated horribly throughout the procedure. I told him, told my nurse, and told anyone who would listen that they will not treat me like a person. They will treat me like a problem. 

Hubs was supposed to return to work that morning, but called in. Here our week of being together while I recovered was over and then some, and all of it was spent in the hospital except one uninterrupted 24 hour day at home. I cried on and off through the morning and as the day went on. My nurse - that same beautiful blonde who had taken care of me five weeks earlier - had been with me all day every day this time around. She was peppy and sweet, great at her job, and is sincerely a wonderful person. She promised me that she was advocating for me. She had talked to my attending, and both of them had talked to the nurses and doctor downstairs in I.R. 

My dad stopped by to pray with me. A retired pastor from my church did too. That meant a lot to me. My Granny, family, and bestie prayed so hard from a distance that I could feel it. Still, my stomach was sick all day long as I waited.

This time, I was more hopeless and sad than scared. I was resigned to having the new drain, because I thought it would only be for a day or two. Still, I panicked off and on and freaked out once, begging hubs in sobs not to make me get back in the bed. I was keenly aware that I'd been shut in buildings for most of the year - that I had no access to the outside or fresh air in around a week. I was grieving that my nursing Koala would never get to have mommy milk again (I was dried up from all of this), and that my nursing had already been reduced to sitting side-by-side. 

I swear, I went through all of the stages of grief that day, ending at a sad, sick, acceptance. When they took me downstairs we politely discussed with them how I simply do not respond to the meds. They promised to go slowly and try to give me a chance for them to kick in. 

It didn't work. I was wide awake and alert. Last time, I fell asleep after and stayed gorked out for nine hours. This time I never even felt slightly drowsy or loopy. Nada. This was my third surgeon for this procedure, and I found him impressive. He jerked perceptibly when I asked him what the three pops were (the needle punching through the layers of my skin). I think that was the moment he realized that I was not lying or exaggerating about feeling it. He went slowly and talked to me through the procedure. It hurt, but it was not the traumatic experience of the other two times.

I praised the Lord so hard and so fully from my heart. It wasn't good, but it was great, comparitively. "I did it!!" I had to let everyone know. God was gracious, and I got through!

(Continued on the next blog post.)