Strength

I was so weak when I woke up. I had things, tubes and such, taped to my face. They itched and I would raise my right hand (my husband was holding my left) and the hand would make it maybe halfway towards my nose, and then I would scratch the air.

I was so thirsty, but I wasn't allowed to drink anything. Because I had been intubated for so long I would need to learn how to use the muscles in my neck properly, essentially learn how to swallow again. If some liquid went down the wrong pipe, I would aspirate and that would just not be good for my lungs at all. So all I was allowed were ice chips, teeny tiny ice chips. My husband had a glass full of them and a long plastic spoon. He made sure they were small enough and spoon fed me the ice.

I tried to talk, but all that came out were squeaks and rasps. My husband had to put his ear almost on top of my mouth in order to hear anything, and more often than not, he didn't hear what I was saying. That was so odd to me, because I sounded fine to myself, I could hear my own voice in my head. He was so extremely patient with me, I could see how angry he was with himself not to be able to understand me, but he tried his best and usually, if he couldn't understand me, he'd just feed me some more ice chips. Which was fine, even if I hadn't asked for it :) At one point I mimed for a piece of paper and a pen, thinking I'd just write down what I wanted to say. I grabbed the pen and started writing... except what came out were not words at all, there was just a funky line. I was too weak to write. At times this infuriated me, I was awake and I needed to talk, to converse with real people, to communicate, and I couldn't. Everyone was very nice and smiled and asked me if I needed anything or told me something and asked if I understood them, and all I could do was just nod, yes or no. At least I had that.

There was a big clock in my room, an analog clock, you know the one with the hands that show the time, not a digital one. And it took me many days to learn how to tell time again. I saw the clock and knew that it could tell me the time of day or night, but I couldn't piece together the numbers and the hands and what they meant. So I kept asking what time is it, to hear it said and connect it to where the hands were on the clock. I got it eventually and then it felt silly not having been able to do that before.

My body was fed intravenously, my stomach was empty and had been for over three weeks. And let me tell you something, even though your body is getting the nutrients it needs to function, if the stomach is empty, you are hungry. That's where the hunger comes from, an empty tummy. I was so hungry, ravenous even, and I wasn't even allowed to sip water. I begged for food, my nurses felt bad telling me no. It was awful, and of course the TV seemed to only be advertising food, food food, glorious food, and fizzy drinks.

I had to endure the hunger for almost a week I think. And you get used to the hunger pains fairly quickly. That was alarming to me, I wondered if anorexic people were that way. It becomes a sensation that is just a part of you, just a sort of background noise in your body. Much later when I was able to take small bites of pre approved foods and the hunger abated, I missed it. I actually missed feeling hungry. That was a scary feeling, I almost mourned the loss of the sensation of hunger.


I was so weak I couldn't sit up, but I could scootch down in my bed so my feet were on top of the end of the bed. The nurses had a technique where they would pull me up using sheets underneath me, but it seemed I was down again in no time. They had to do a lot of pulling. I also liked to hook my left leg out of the bed, letting it dangle in the air, moving it back and forth. A nurse would come in and tuck it under the blankets again, asking me where I thought I was going, with a smile on her face. As soon as she left, I'd let the leg dangle again, it felt good to be able to move something.


Suddenly I felt like peeing, and told my husband I needed to go to the bathroom. He got a funny look on his face and said ''Uh, sweetie, you have a catheter, so you just have to... you know, let it go...'' I was stunned, I had not noticed I had a catheter at all, but there it was, a tube, running from my urinary tract, taped to my right thigh, running down the side of the bed, where it ended in a little clear pouch. So I just let it go, weird feeling doing that while laying down in bed, and I could watch the trip it took, down the tube into the pouch. A pouch the nurses would examine each time they came in the room, for color and volume. It's funny how when you are so utterly helpless and need help with absolutely everything, how not embarrassed I was. I just counted myself lucky that there were people there, qualified people, caring people, helping me get through this, helping me to get better. I was never ashamed of my urine, as a matter of fact I was kind of proud anytime I got a comment on what a good color it was that morning or some such :)


To be continued...