Chapter Six – Sunday, May 5, 2024
It was Cinco de Mayo. A day I usually celebrate with tacos and Margaritas but not this time. Today, the big deal was that I got the first look at my back. The nurse changed the bandages, and Leslie took a photo with my phone. The incision was about 12 inches long. It started at the top of my back about the same height as my shoulders and went down to the middle of my back, centered between my shoulder blades. I had had my share of skinned knees and minor procedures to remove benign skin cancers and blemishes, but this was serious shit.
Everyone who saw it said it “looked beautiful. Very clean.”
To me it looked angry and horrible. The neurosurgeon said the scar would be minimal. I couldn’t imagine that. It was so long. He said the angry red/purple color was the glue they used on the top layer. The stitches were underneath the skin. There were two layers of internal stitches. One that stitched together the muscle and the other that stitched together the lower layers of skin. The glue was the last layer of protection that kept everything intact. The stitches would dissolve, and the glue would eventually wash off when I started showering without the bandage.
An added bonus was that I also had a tube stuck into my left shoulder that connected to a suction cup that drained the blood from the surgery site. It was Frankenstein-creepy the way a tube was stitched into my back. The drain container had to come with me wherever I went. The nurses drained the blood and measured it every day. The more mobile I became, the more I hated that thing. Eventually we named it Urakov, after my neurosurgeon. It was a reminder that despite the inconvenience of having it, it was instrumental in saving my life.
Dr. Urakov would visit every day at different times. I later found out that he did his rounds in between surgeries and teaching. He chatted with me and then looked at the drain. He didn’t even hold it in his hands. He knew what he was looking for from afar. I was always happy to see him even when I wasn’t happy. I saw him as a symbol of hope. Yet as nice as he was and as pleasant as he was to talk to, he was all business. He wouldn’t budge on the pain meds or the time the drain stayed attached to me. Each day, I greeted him hopefully. I held up the drain, asking if it could be detached, and every day he stood at the foot of my bed, arms folded and said, “One more day. It’s not the right color.”
Still, as days in the hospital went, this was a decent day. I was stuck with Urakov (the drain) at least one more day, but I had the catheter out. I had the back brace and the walker. I was able to move around more and getting better at it. The next order of business was to get a shower and wash my hair. I also had to ditch that hospital gown! It made me feel worse than I was. Well, emotionally, anyway.
Throughout my stay, I refused sponge baths. They were too much of an invasion of my privacy. If anyone was going to wipe me down, it would have been Leslie, and I would rather have died than leave him with that memory. I was resigned to be dirty and waited to shower on my own.
Now that I was pseudo-mobile, I decided it was time. I didn’t ask for permission. I refused to be denied. I just asked Leslie to help me get set up. I wore the brace over the gown and used the walker to get to the bathroom. The bathroom was handicapped accessible so there were handrails everywhere. There also was a portable medical shower chair already in the shower.
Leslie had consulted with the nurse to learn how to tape up my back with plastic so the dressing wouldn’t get wet. It was like a 12” x 12” see-through, waterproof plastic sheet that adhered at every side. It felt weird every time I had to get taped up, but nothing was going to spoil my mood. I was taking my first shower in five days!
Leslie had raised two boys, so he hadn’t had any practice washing a woman’s hair. But now was his chance to learn. I will add that by the time I no longer needed his help to shower, he had gotten really good at washing my hair. He could have opened his own salon.
Here’s what my first shower was like. I had the vest on and made my way with the walker into the bathroom. The bathroom was a decent size, but with the rails that guarded the toilet and navigating with the walker, it was a tight squeeze for two people. Every move had to be choreographed. We started in the shower. The shower head was attached to the back wall. We placed the seat toward the front of the shower. The plan was for Leslie to be behind me with the shower head and direct him with it while I cleaned myself. We lined the seat with the pre-soaked Hibiclens wipes so I wouldn’t have to sit directly on the seat. It was like putting toilet paper down before sitting in a public restroom. Gross! We placed the shampoo and conditioner on the rail next to the seat so I could reach it. Now we were ready to begin.
We fit the walker around the sink. We lined the floor with towels so I wouldn’t slip. Slipping was the major fear for both of us. Leslie helped me take off the back brace and balanced it on top of the sink. I took off the gown and happily tossed it underhand onto the floor under the sink. I slowly made my way around the seat to the front of the shower and carefully sat down. Leslie was behind me for support. He took the showerhead off the wall, held it down and turned on the water. He checked the temperature then handed it to me. The warm water was glorious! I soaped up and rinsed. I wet my hair and handed him the shampoo. He washed it and I rinsed.
Leslie had to take care of my hair because I couldn’t reach my arms up very well. It pulled the incision on my back and hurt. The muscles on my back were also very sore. Plus, I had Urakov, the drain, that I had to hold in one hand. The tube wasn’t long enough to lay on the floor and when it slipped it would pull on the stitches, so I only had one hand to wash with. The whole process was very slow and methodical. After I rinsed my hair, I handed Leslie the conditioner. As he massaged it in, I started to feel human again. My first shower took a long time. We took every movement very slowly. We both were deathly afraid of me twisting or bending in any way so every movement was well thought out, discussed and intentional.
Finally, I was clean! My hair was washed. It felt great. And the best part? I put on my own clothes. Fuck that dreadful, ugly, ill-fitting gown with the back ass-side opened. I was almost a whole person again.
We reversed the process of getting into the bathroom to get out. First, I put on clothes, then we fastened the brace and then I stepped into the center of the walker. Leslie picked up the towels on the floor and I steered myself out.
However, I still had to dry my hair. First, we had to find a place to put Urakov, the drain, so at least I could attempt to use both hands. We discovered that it fit tucked into front of the brace. It was secure there. But I still had trouble raising my arms to reach my head to comb my hair and then blow dry it. The first time was clumsy, painful and I didn’t dry it completely. But still, I was clean! That was the main thing. And whatever hardship I had to overcome to be clean I would do it repeatedly every day. Feeling human was an attitude changer.
Now that I was clean and pseudo-mobile, I started sitting in the chair more with the brace of course, my constant companion. At least it was much smaller than the other. It closed at the waist and had front and back support where I needed it. The point of it was to prevent me from the three no-nos of post-spine surgery. No bending, lifting or twisting, also known by the BLT acronym to remember.
That night, Leslie and I had a very civilized dinner. It was hospital food, but it wasn’t awful. We wheeled both stands that hover over the bed face to face and it felt like we were across from each other at a restaurant. We had pasta and meatballs with a garden salad. Not too bad for a post-op day five.
The Reddy Life 