Well, here I am. Back home, minus a uterus. I like to think of it as the new, improved version. Heather 2.0, if you will.
I have been struck, utterly overwhelmed, completely awed by the outpouring of love and support from family and friends this week. I don’t know what I have ever done to merit such affection and devotion but I have been so thankful for the kindnesses bestowed upon me of late.
I woke very early Tuesday morning so to be at the hospital by 6:30. I moved about my bedroom by the warm light of a red-shaded bedside lamp, making sure I’d gathered all that I would need during my hospital stay. My husband watched me from his snug and warm place in the bed before stretching his hand out. I perched next to him and looked down, playing with his fingers. He leaned up and brushed away a rogue tear that had slipped down my cheek. “You scared?” I nodded. “It’s okay to be scared, baby.”
I called Brenda on the way to the hospital. I’d slept like a baby the night before the surgery and she’d slept not at all, watching my surgery in her dreams every time she nodded off. The day before, I’d made a joke that I was feeling confident about the surgery because Brenda would be there watching over me. “If I die when Brenda’s there, God really wants me. Because only God could stand up to Brenda and win. And even then, He might lose.”
My stepfather was waiting for me at the hospital. He’d gotten there before me despite the fact that it’s only a 10 minute drive for me and a 1 1/2 hour drive for him. And yet, I was not surprised that he beat me there in the least. He was that determined to be there for me.
The frantic flurry of activity that preceded the surgery is a blur to me. My parents and my husband’s parents were there. Brenda was there. My parents all behaved the same way they acted when I was in the hospital when I was twelve: My father stepped out of the room when the IV was started because he couldn’t bear it. My stepfather bravely looked on but told the nurse, “You have to be careful with her. She has teeny-tiny, fragile, little veins.”
A nurse slipped a pair of thigh high TED stockings on my legs after I’d shed all of my clothing and been enveloped in the voluminous, breezy hospital gown. Sharon called to ask how I was doing and I groused that I’d never felt so ugly and un-sexy in my life. She quipped, “You’re wearing thigh highs without any panties. What could be sexier than that?”
My doctor and scrub nurse popped through the curtain to wave and answer questions. The respiratory therapist gave me a breathing treatment and asked me several questions which I answered only to have her snap, “Don’t talk! Breathe!” My anesthesiologist, well-liked and personally chosen by me, introduced himself to my family and smiled down at me before pushing something into my IV. The last thing I remember was reaching out to my husband and feeling his warm hand clasp mine tightly.
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Through the murky haze of sedation, I could hear Brenda order, “Heather! Wake up!” She says I was lying there looking half-dead one moment, occluding my airway and white as a sheet, and bolting upright the next moment and rubbing my head. Like, rubbing my head really hard with the palms of my hands. And fighting with my hair, causing it to tangle and mat.
When I woke up enough to be aware, my hair was neatly french-braided. That’s the type of friend Brenda is to me. She gently braids my hair for me when I am too sedated to appreciate it because she knows it will hurt to brush out the tangles later.
I wish I could remember more about those first several hours. I know that Brenda never left my side and neither did Brad, once he was permitted to see me. I know that I insisted on speaking with Sharon when I heard Brad or Brenda giving her updates on my condition and that I drunk-dialed her at least once. I know that my father and stepmother, inlaws, and my step-father all waited until they could see my face and be reassured I was okay before leaving the hospital. I know my husband and my mother stayed by my side until I was awake.
I remember my friend Angie calling me very soon after I was out of surgery but I don’t remember anything she said to me. Jellyhead called me bright and early Aussie-time and I’d been out of surgery for a couple of hours by then yet I still don’t remember anything she said, either. It doesn’t matter. What I remember is feeling loved. Very, very loved.
I received seven bouquets of flowers. I received several cards and phone calls. After my father called yesterday morning and I was crying because I was in pain and tired and the doctor was keeping me an extra day, I was the recipient of a soft, plushy stuffed animal with bright balloons tied to his ear. When my stepfather heard I’d been crying, he nearly drove the 90 mile stretch over here just to sit beside me. He told me to “just say the word.” The word I said was, “No.” I was okay. I really was.
The outpouring of love and support has only continued since I’ve been home. My mother, who was an invaluable help to me this week bought me some soft, feminine pajamas and some fuzzy slipper-socks to wear while I am recuperating. The woman who’s worked for us for years declared on Monday that she was going to take very good care of me and she has — she has come over every day at 1:30 when she gets off of her other job and she’s cleaned and done laundry and picked my children up from school. I tried to thank her today and she shushed me, “You do so much for me too, Heather. I am doing this for you now.”
I may have gone into the hospital for a hysterectomy but it’s my heart that’s been most affected. This feeling of being absolutely, unequivocally, and unconditionally loved has been the loveliest side effect I’ve ever experienced.
