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post-surgery wrap-up

Nina?

Nina, can you hear me?

You’re out of surgery. You did just fine.

The first thing I remember was the light. I squinted against the Bright green fluorescents.

Hell on my complexion. I tried to form a word, but my face was numb and heavy.

The nurse slathers some Blistex on my lips.

You’re out of surgery. You’re just going to sit in here for awhile until you can suction yourself.

Just the words every girl wants to hear.

The nurse hands me a wand attached to a machine. This is a suction device. Here, see if you can do it.

I grasp the wand in my hand and move it to where I think my mouth is.

I hit myself in the eye.

She laughs and guides it toward my mouth. I have no sense of where things are on my face. I feel like a Picasso painting.

Do you want to use a mirror? she asks, as if reading my mind.

I try to shake my head. I’ve just been cracked open like Humpty Dumpty and put back together again. If I look how I feel, then my skull from my eyes to my chin is the size of a basketball, with my lips looking like a collagen-injection-gone-wrong. I have no desire to see myself.

Suit yourself. We’ll sit here for an hour or so, and then we’ll wheel you to your room.

What seems like ten minutes later, I’m pushed into a private room and hooked up to a morphine drip. I want to yell I’m not ready! But I can’t speak. The nurse hands me the control for my drugs. I press the button, and I can feel the warm sensation of morphine shooting through my I.V.

Okay, this I could get used to.

You’ve got some people here to see you, the nurse tells me. A., Older SlackBrother J., and my friend S., whose house I’ll be recovering at once I leave the hospital, file into the room. They look scared, but upon seeing me, their faces relax.

You look amazing, says S.

I motion toward my bookbag. A. hands it to me and I grab my wipeboard and start writing.

You’re a liar, I write.

No, you look really good, adds J.

I scribble on my wipeboard: Should I see it?

A. nods his head. I pull the tray over my bed and flip up the mirror.

I look at the reflection as if it’s a stranger.

She has cheekbones. I always had cheekbones, but now, well, I have cheekbones.

And a chin. I have a chin. I never had a chin. Okay, that’s a lie, I had a chin, but it was tucked under my sliding profile.

I have a chin.

My lips, however, look just how they feel. Angelina’s got nothing on me. I’m a plastic surgery disaster. They’re grossly swollen as a result of being stretched open for four hours during surgery, as everything was done inside my mouth.

Check out my lips, I write.

That’ll go away, everyone tells me.

I have A. take pictures.

Day one: down pat.

I sleep fitfully all night. Nurses come in every couple of hours to take my vitals, and the resulting phlegm from the tube that ran from my nose into my throat during surgery makes it hard to get more than a twenty minute nap at most. A. dozes on a cot in the corner. The morning nurse brings me juice and tea and water and ginger ale. The first two weeks you’ll be eating particle-free, she tells me. Everything must be strained. No blended foods. I have a plastic syringe that I fill with liquid and shoot into my mouth. I manage about a syringeful every thirty minutes.

Before you leave, the morning nurse tells me, we’d like you to have two cups of liquid.

I look at the syringe and then at her.

Just try.

A few hours later I finish my ginger ale and pee on my own. I’m ready to head out into the great wide world. Well, the great wide world with a stop at the surgeon’s office and ending at my friend S.’s house. But it’s a start.

The surgeon takes follow up X-Rays. You look great, he tells me. Everything looks great. He shows me the before and after X-Rays. Some patients feel like they can’t breathe after the procedure, he tells me, because their teeth and tongue are in a different position. But we’ve increased the area about threefold. You could be a sword swallower. I wink at A.

We leave, and A. drives me to S.’s house. I crawl in bed, but I’m not very sleepy. I scribble on my wipeboard. This is a cinch.

Day two: no problem.

Day three I wake up. My face feels heavier, if that’s possible. I check myself out in the mirror. I’m a bit more swollen. My tongue feels furry. I’ve got a cough. Everything’s sore. My jaw feels like it’s gold-plated and the size of Jay Leno’s chin. I’ve moved on to sippy cups for my nutrient needs, except that half the contents end up on my shirt. I have no feeling in my lips.

I don’t want to eat, I can’t sleep, and I drool more than a ten-month old.

Day three: Ugh.

Day four, I’ve gotten no sleep. My ear is killing me. A. calls the surgeon and discovers that the ear pain is really in my joints, and ear drops will be useless. I have to sit it out. I’m more swollen, if that’s possible. I want to take a shower. I want to brush my teeth. I want a cheeseburger. I manage a bath with A. assisting. I spill half my Ensure down my shirt. And instead of brushing my teeth, I get eight mouth rinses with salt water. My friend S. mixes up my antibiotics and my pain meds (both liquid), ruining the pain meds. Except for the ear issue, I’m not really in a tremendous amount of pain. I’m just horrifically uncomfortable. I want to go home. I want to get some sleep. I want this to be over.

Day four: What have I done?

Day five, the swelling comes down. I manage about six hours sleep. I take a shower. I start to get the hang of drinking and only spill a quarter of the contents down my shirt. Sure, all of my meals are taken in front of the bathroom mirror so I can watch myself and make sure I hit my mouth, but it’s a small price to pay. Right?

Day five: And so it begins.

I’m two and a half weeks post op. I can now have pureed food, like protein shakes and blended fruit and a tomato soup. I’m up to a whopping 750 calories a day, which puts two of the fifteen pounds I’ve lost in the past two weeks back on me. Feeling is coming back to my face in fits in starts. I can now change my own elastics that keep my jaws banded together, so twice a day I can brush my teeth. While the swelling can last up to six months, it’s mostly gone. I can do light exercise, so ten minutes a day I ride the recumbent bike. The drooling is getting better, although looking down at the wet spot on my robe I realize I have to concentrate on not drooling.

Two weeks down.



Fourteen more to go.