After early-morning bloodwork and a CT scan, the word is in: no surprises in my chemistry, no new passengers on board. This means we slow my visits from twice a year to once a year, and my chances of recurrence have dropped again. Good news we all needed on a Monday after a long, hard weekend.
Yesterday I got behind on my pain meds and found out just how much they are helping. My epidural bag went empty so my nurse got all of the other stuff sorted out and then went to put an order in for a replacement. I waited patiently for an hour, watching SPECTRE, and fell asleep for another hour or so. When I woke up the incision was throbbing and the hole in my side where the drain comes out was angry and tender to the touch. I called the nurse’s station and they hurried over with the new bag and a shot of Dilaudid to get me back on top of things. I’ve been very pleasant with all of my nurses, even the brusque ones (Dugan’s rule: you are ALWAYS pleasant with cops, teachers, waitresses, and nurses–anyone who has the power to throw you in jail, yank on your pee-pee, or spit in your food) but I admit to being frosty with her after that.
At about 7:30, when the night nurse and I were just getting up to speed, the cramping in my guts produced one mighty bed-rumbling fart and we both celebrated with a high-five. This means I move to what they call a clear liquid diet, which is beef broth and jell-o mostly, and as exciting as tax returns. I’ve been living on sugar-enhanced saline since the surgery, and while my blood sugar is right where it should be, there’s a gaping maw in my stomach where a cheeseburger needs to be. It also means the IV drip in my hand comes out, which leaves just one connection to the pole: the epidural drip.
Still no word on when I’m getting out of here.