The Tale of Two Nurses or How I Ended Up With a Double Colostomy, Part III

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.

The Tale of Two Nurses or How I Ended Up With a Double Colostomy

Subtitle: The Art of Being a Healing Presence, Part 1 

(I began reading this assigned book last night. It brought forth the following memories.)

"If you'd have walked after your surgery, you wouldn't be in this condition." Those were the unbelievably sharp words coming from the mouth of my nurse, who was "helping" me circle the nurses' station while I used my I.V. pole as a support. I was much too sick to respond and defend myself.

There I'd been, 30 years young, lying in a hospital bed in all manner of unexplainable pain, with morphine dripping into my vein. My father had pulled his chair up to my bedside, turned to my mother and said, "What do you want me to do?" She gently and encouragingly said, "Just hold her hand." I hadn't held my father's hand for a very long time, but now it meant everything to me, as my world was crashing down and there didn't seem to be anything I could do to stop it.

It was the fall of 1990 and I'd had a minor same-day surgery, the exact surgery I'd had 6 years earlier. Back in 1984, I had been struggling with secondary infertility and my doctor wanted to "take a look around" at my nether parts to see if he could find anything obvious that would explain my inability to become pregnant again. I'd had my first child in 1981 and, by this time, we were plenty eager to have another. The surgery didn't reveal any obvious signs other than some minor scar tissue, but it was successful in two ways. One, it was a not-so-happy trigger for my irritable bowel symptoms that had been well under control for quite some time, and two, I conceived the very next month. WAHOO!!

So here I was again, exactly 6 years later, same surgery. Now, though, there was an even more glaring gap because our "baby" was well into her 6th year of life. However, this time I was prepared so that the surgery would not trigger those nasty IBS symptoms. And you know what? I was successful at that! In fact, I felt so fantastic that I offered to have the missionaries over for dinner less than a week later. I cleaned, I shopped, I cooked. I was incredibly delighted that things were remarkably better than the first go-round.

But then. And that is a really big THEN.

My doctor had called two days earlier to check up on me, letting me know he was leaving town. He was nearly as pleased as I was that I was feeling so well and that I hadn't had the same unhappy reaction to the surgery that I'd had years before. All was well and off he went.

Two days later, I was writhing in pain, completely clueless as to what could be wrong.

In the afternoon, my husband arrived home from work, scurried around packing his bag and hunting for his camping gear. He was a Boy Scout leader and he and the boys, who were running around wildly right outside my bedroom window, were taking off for an overnight camp out. Finally, after observing me and hearing my explanation of this horrid pain, he decided he shouldn't go. (Very good thinking, Mike!) We called my doctor's partner, Dr. M., for advice. He gave a simplistic explanation, telling me to take some Advil.

It. Did. Not. Help.

By midnight, the pain became bigger than me and we decided that a trip to the ER was in order. I could barely walk, but I managed to get myself out to the car and my husband drove carefully to avoid as many bumps as possible. Lucky for me, it was a slow night at the ER. Unlucky for me, they were less than helpful. They seemed bent on quizzing me about "what my husband had done" and continually wanted him to leave my side so that they could get the "straight truth" from me. I couldn't think of anything worse than for them to send my only comfort away from me. Somehow I convinced them that he had done nothing, that I had been recovering from surgery and something seemed to have gone haywire. Really haywire.

They took some blood, poked around a little, asked some questions, and finally gave me a pain pill. I laid on the hard narrow gurney, inquiring as to when the pain pill should kick in because I was getting no relief at all. "Oh, maybe 30 minutes." It had already been more than 30 minutes. They decided there was nothing else to be done, it was time for me to go home. By now, I couldn't walk, so I crawled out of the hospital. As we made our way along, my husband noticed the ER doctor sitting casually with his feet propped up on the desk, the newspaper spread out in front of his face. That image is forever burned into his memory.

I somehow made it back into the car and we drove home. It was now after 2 a.m. and I was back in bed. My husband decided that a call to my mom was in order. I will always remember the moment that she arrived, came into my room in the middle of the night, smelling like her favorite Victoria's Secret hand lotion, wearing one of her soft blue silk shirts with big flowers on it, and leaned down to give me a mother hug while we both cried. No mother wants to see her child in pain; they may as well be the one with the illness or injury because they feel the pain just as keenly.

She sat at my side, wiping my brow and wringing her hands until morning, when my husband called the Dr. M. once again, telling him that he needed to see me. He said fine, bring her over. By now the pain was so incredibly intense that not only could I not walk, but I did not want to be touched at all. My brother in law came over and devised a plan. They would bring one of our wooden kitchen chairs to my bedside and allow me as much time as I needed to get myself onto it. Eventually I did, and then he and my husband grabbed onto the legs and carried me through the house, down the stairs and out to the door of the car, all the while NOT touching me. It was brilliant, but it was awful. I'd like to say that "everything was awesome", but in truth, everything was AWFUL.

We made our way to the doctor's office, which was conveniently located right next door to the hospital. It was 9 a.m on a Saturday. My husband went inside, asking Dr. M. if he could come out to the car. The response was to have me come in, to which my mild-mannered husband replied, with a fist slam on the doctor's desk, "She cannot come in. She needs to go the hospital." With a roll of the eyes, the Dr. M. said, "Okay, take her over there."

I was admitted, gowned up, and put on morphine. My slim body was now misshapen with a protruding belly that seemed to grow larger by the hour. No one knew what was wrong and no one was doing anything to find out, thanks to a doctor that did not know me and seemed to believe I was making this all up. The hospital staff acted accordingly.

After a few hours, my nurse came into the room and, with a less than sympathetic voice, said, "Let's get you up. You need to walk."


To be continued . . .