Emergency Surgery II

I was wheeled out of surgery approximately one hour later, woozy from the general anesthesia and with three large metal staples in my stomach from the laproscopic proceedure.  Because of lack of bed space in the surgical ward, I was sent to Urology, where my room mates were an Arab woman who had just had a birth followed by a hysterectomy;  and an Israel woman, a spokes person for the JNF, in hospital for the last week because of a kidney stone that would not pass.  The Arab woman snored like a saw, and it gave me so much comfort because Raphaela makes all sorts of noises at night, and I missed her terribly.

I had no appetite, though the next day I was given persmission to eat and drink, and damnit, they wouldn't give me any more Morphine (Lovely Morphine) for the pain. Every time a new group of nurses or students would arrive for rounds, they would introduce me as, "This is Ms. Leeder, she is a Chiropractor and has undergone an emergency appendectomy."  IE She has a medical background so if there is something you don't want her to know about her condition, don't presume that medical-ese will do the trick.

The constant anti-biotics make me feel nauseaus, and the anti-nausea medication does not alleviate it.  I cannot even turn in bed without ringing for the nurse or one of the National Volunteer girls to help me.  This recovery is already ten times worse than my natural birth with Raphaela.

Rachael continues to perform miracles, getting my mother (who is not all that spontaneous a person to begin with) to grab a last minute flight so she can help me with my life and with Raphaela, whom I am not allowed to lift for the next week.  The Nursery School couple continue to perform miracles, telling me that Raphaela is happy and healthy and has barely noticed that I did not pick her up from school yesterday.  They bring her to the hospital to visit me and it plays out like a soap opera:  Happy Reunion, Tearful Separation.  They must drag Raphaela away crying, while I sit in a wheel chair bawling myself, and while everyone watching the scene cannot stop their own tears.

Damn these robes are awful, I trade them in for trendy pink Shaarei Zedek patient pajamas.  I attempt a shower but still have no appetite.  I also realize that de facto, I am no longer breast feeding.  Almost three days away from Raphaela and milk has dried up;  even if I could, the doctors tell me I am not allowed, because my daughter must not be exposed to all the medications and inflammation running through my body.

The surgeon says that I can be release in the afternoon on Friday, assuming there are no complications.  They had feared internal bleeding the first night I spent after the surgery, and that Thank G-d has passed.

After being re-routed through Cyprus because of a gasoline problem, my mother arrived from Boston at my house in Jerusalem very late Thursday night, but will be able to help me get home on Friday.

I am not 85 years old, I am 42 years old and I cannot go to the bathroom without help.