Send to KindleI ended the last post in the ICU. While recovery starts there (from the minute you’re wheeled out of surgery), the longer term recovery really starts at home.
In the ICU, you’re told what to do and monitored to see that you’re doing it. Also, you’re not in your own habitat with your own routines, so it’s easier to comply with directions.
I had only one real fear in recovering at home: would the rheumatoid arthritis (RA) rear it’s ugly head and stop me from doing the things I needed to do to recover (including simply getting out of bed).
That turned out to be unwarranted, which I’ll explain in the next post. It was the thing that I should have been afraid of but wasn’t, that really got me.
I’ve already mentioned that the nurse on the last day didn’t want to release me due to my full bladder. I also mentioned that the other end was full as well, and that I was 100% convinced that they were pressing against each other, complicating the release of either.
Our friend from VA had to leave the day before (she stayed with Lois for five nights) and another friend from VA came up to take her place. That friend made a heroic effort (and succeeded) since early flights from VA were canceled due to snow in NYC. She took a 5am Amtrak and arrived a couple of hours after the first friend departed.
I was released the next day, so Lois, our friend and I piled into a cab to head back to the apartment. I had to hug a heart pillow given to me by the ICU, in case there were any sudden stops. In fact, we were going to need to stay in NYC for 4-6 weeks (minimum), since you’re not permitted to drive for that long after open heart surgery.
It has nothing to do with your ability to drive, but rather that if you end up in an accident, the air bag could literally kill you, given the state of your breast bone (and heart). For that reason, you’re not even allowed to be in the passenger seat of a car, though you are permitted to be in the back seat (it would have been really hard to get home otherwise).
Since Lois doesn’t drive, we were going to be in NYC for the first part of the recovery. Multiple friends offered to come up from VA on a bus/train/plane and drive us back in our car (so it would be home with us), but as I pointed out, then we’d be stuck in the house, since I still couldn’t drive, and neither does Lois. Being in Manhattan made sense all around and worked out well.
When we first stepped into the apartment, I was convinced that I could prove that I was right about pushing so hard to be released from the ICU. In other words, I headed straight for the bathroom.
One thing I haven’t mentioned before, is that a giant complicating factor in getting your bowels moving post surgery is the strongest admonition to not… bear… down… when you’re trying to go.
It’s not something you forget for long, because if you even consider it for a millisecond, your chest reminds you that it’s not going to play along.
Well, the older you get, the harder it is to go under the best of circumstances without bearing down. Throw in the effect of the drugs, the lingering effects of the anesthesia and the general stoppage already described, and it was not a pleasant experience to even attempt a movement.
Still, I knew I had to, and my first try yielded a modicum of success. I was sure that it would be smooth sailing from that point on, and was convinced that I made the right decision to come home.
That was Tuesday afternoon.
I did not have another successful movement the rest of the week (through Friday night). Worse, largely because of that, and whatever other psychological issues were likely floating around related to that, I barely could get the bladder working either. It was still dribbles, like it was in the ICU.
It felt like complete torture to me (though I certainly don’t want to equate it to actual torture). There were two additional problems that made it so bad: 1) the feeling of needing to go was constant and 2) getting in and out of bed and trying to sit and stand at the toilet was itself extremely difficult.
The fact that it was practically every five minutes (rarely more than 15!) between tries, all unsuccessful, is what turned an extremely difficult situation into perceived torture.
I left out an additional admonition to the driving. For the first month of recovery, I wasn’t to lift any weight greater than 5 pounds. For the second month, 15 pounds. For the third month, 25 pounds. After that, all restrictions would be lifted.
It’s not as simple as lifting. You are not to put the equivalent amount of pressure on your arms/chest (and therefore *hands), that would be like lifting a 5 pound weight.
That means that you can’t get out of bed by putting your hands on the mattress and pushing up, because I can assure you that it is more than 5 pounds of pressure, and you’ll feel it in your chest instantly. So, getting out of bed (and in for that matter), means sitting on the edge, and leaning forward a drop, and then very carefully lifting entirely with your legs.
The same goes for lowering yourself on the toilet, and getting back up from there. So, going multiple times every hour (without success no less!), was torture.
Most unfortunately, that continued throughout the night as well, so I was also operating on nearly zero sleep.
The consequence to all of this is that even though I’m generally disciplined, and fully expected to follow all of the orders/admonitions while recovering at home, a couple of the most important ones fell by the wayside (nearly completely).
Those two were: 1) use an Incentive Spirometer 10 times an hour (or roughly every 6 minutes!) and 2) walk the halls in the building (or preferably outside if the winter weather cooperated), at least twice a day for 45 minutes minimum.
I barely used the Incentive Spirometer (even though I knew how important it was) and I walked for 15-20 minutes occasionally, not every day.
I knew it was very bad to avoid those things, but I was practically going out of my mind. Of course, I didn’t want to return to the ICU for catheterization either, which is why I was spending all of my energy on relieving myself (as yet, unsuccessfully).
I know that this is an unpleasant topic (which I’m doing my best to handle euphemistically), so I’ll end this post here and continue with the recovery (which, spoiler, has a happy ending) in the next post.
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