Subtitle: The Art of Being a Healing Presence
(Read part 1 here. Read part 2 here.)
"Well, we had to do a lot more than we thought. You have two colostomies." I was drugged up but not so much that I wasn't able to understand what Dr. B. was telling me and my family. I went in believing that they'd fix everything all up, I'd heal and the nightmare would be over. It was shocking news and I was stunned.
"Your transverse colon had fallen into the mess, so we had to remove 12 inches of it. Then we had to clean out the massive infection and repair the hole, which was located very low." I didn't know what the ramifications of all that were, but I held onto the fact that I was alive, and that was a very good thing.
I had a large meandering vertical incision that was held together by many large staples. It was approximately 12 inches long. It seemed to wander along the middle of my belly because said belly had been so swollen with infection that slicing into it did not create a straight line. I had a colostomy on either side of the incision (although one was technically called a mucous fistula). And I had an incision lower on one side that was hooked to a drain. Doctor B. would later joke that I didn't need a Halloween costume that year, all I'd have to do was flash my belly and I'd cause an immense amount of fright to anyone unfortunate enough to get a glimpse. And it was the absolute truth.
I'd like to say that healing went quickly, that each day was an improvement until I was able to return home. But then I'd be lying. Healing was like a roller coaster ride. I wasn't able to eat until certain criteria had been met, and that took some time. My mouth was dry and that nasty NG tube was in place again. At least this time it had been done while I was deeply sedated. But when I'd turn my head, it would rub against my throat and cause me to gag. It dug a permanent notch into the outer edge of my nostril. I don't expect anyone to look closely enough to find that, but it is there for the rest of my mortality.
Eventually I was able to eat. And one day my mom said, "What would you REALLY like to eat?" I said I'd love some Chinese food. So they brought a large bag of take-out and someone rolled me down to a little gathering area where we feasted. How wonderful to taste something so "normal" after no food for several weeks! But still, healing was hard.
Every morning they'd bring in one of my three I.V. antibiotics, then space the others out by several hours. And every morning I'd look at my husband and parents and say, "I feel nauseous. I think I'm going to throw up." Sure enough, the next thing I knew, I was vomiting. Heaving under the most normal of circumstances is unpleasant, to say the least. But retching when you have a foot-long wound with staples has got to be the worst. It added insult to injury. However you want to describe it, it was absolute misery.
After a number of days, my mother finally put two and two together. When the nurse came in with the little antibiotic bag, ready to plug it into my port, my mom said, "That medication is making her so sick that she vomits." They had been giving me an anti-nausea medicine every day, and it made me so woozy that I didn't want to take it. But now I really didn't want to have any more of the antibiotic. So, they switched it to something else and at least it stopped the every-morning-I-vomit cycle.
I was "dying" to go home (that term took on new meaning to me then!) Every day, Dr. B. and I would discuss whether or not I might be able to go home the next day. Every day he'd say it would probably be a few more days. I was trying so hard to be a good girl, a model patient, do everything that was asked of me (including blowing into the little tube to keep the ball suspended in the air. It hurt like heck; my belly hurt so, so much.) I missed my kids, but they were able to come visit a little more often now without so much fright. And I missed my dog.
One day my husband called and said that I should meet him at a certain door down the hall. Mom got me into the wheelchair and off we went. We pushed open the door marked "Stairs" and found my husband with my big yellow Lab, Brandy, on a leash. Brandy was getting up there in years, she had some disc problems in her spine and wasn't able to navigate many stairs, so my sweet husband carried that big girl up three flights of outside stairs so that her sweet spirit could help me heal. I'm not sure who was the most excited about this reunification - her or me! What a big difference something like that can make to a struggling patient. I was so grateful.
And the nurse. How I wish that I could remember her name. She was close to my age and she took the time to talk to me and hear my story. She learned that this whole mess came about because I wanted another baby. Several days later, on a Saturday (which happened to be her day off), she came into my room. In her arms was her 6 month old daughter. She reached over and gently placed the baby on my lap in the hospital bed. Even as I type that sentence, the tears begin streaming down my face. What a Christlike gesture, one that I will remember forever. That is the very definition of "being a healing presence." She listened to me and to her mother heart, and then she acted. It was a healing moment for me, and evidence of God's love through the hands of another. An angel in the form of a nurse.
After nearly three weeks, two colostomies, one drain, one long meandering incision, two nasty NG tubes, several fainting episodes, numerous priesthood blessings, many visitors and acts of service and kindness, I finally got the green light to go home. OH. HAPPY. DAY.
It took me hours to get dressed in normal clothes (although my wardrobe would have to change to accommodate the colostomy business, but I still remember exactly what I wore home, even 25 years later), and I had a lot of flowers, knickknacks, pictures and hospital gear to pack up and bring along. And on that warm October morning, I was heading back to my home. Nothing seemed like it would ever be normal again, but at least I'd be home in my own bed, with my husband and children, my dog and cats, the fall breeze and flowers, the sound of piano keys as the girls practiced, and the smell of cut grass on weekends. Many sisters from the Relief Society had come to make our home sparkling clean and welcoming. But my own sister was the only one I had allowed to navigate the horrors of a fridge left unattended for three weeks! She claimed that it hadn't been that bad, but I knew better.
Life was challenging but it was worth fighting for. My colostomy was very active and noisy, therefore extremely embarrassing. It caused me to change what kinds of settings I'd allow myself to be part of. But it taught me a lot of compassion for others. And thankfully, after six months, I was able to have the colostomy reversed. (And boy is there another story to tell about all that happened due to that "little" reversal. But that's a story for another time.)
The experience isn't something I'd wish on any other human being. But it isn't an experience that I would wish to not have had, now that I can see how much learning I gained by going through it. It was one part of my "school of hard knocks" lessons that I needed. Some folks get their learning in more mild ways. Me? I apparently need the nasty stuff. But it was precisely that sort of nasty stuff that has given birth to compassion, patience, understanding, and a desire to be a healing presence for others.
I am a changed being.
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