(You can read part one of this story here)

One of my earliest memories from my first day after surgery is a nurse telling me that if I was able to pee on my own, they wouldn’t need to give me a catheter. I found that extremely motivating.

Between pill deliveries and vitals checks and my dad bringing flowers, an occupational therapist came to help me figure out how best to get in and out of bed and waddle to the bathroom without knocking over my chest tube drainage receptacle.

This device was my constant companion, ever-present on the floor to the left of my bed, one cord plugged into a suction mechanism in the wall, another plugged into me. It was essentially a blue plastic briefcase with windows showing thin tubes that slowly filled with a generally red fluid. Numbers ran up and down along the tubes to help nurses gauge how much drainage was draining. It was like a big plastic, multi-lane thermometer with a handle so a parent can hold it while you shuffle through the halls trying to re-inflate your lung.

I made it to the bathroom early on that first day and, with a great sense of victory, found that that part of my internal system had shaken off the anesthesia enough to do its business. I would discover in the coming days that other parts would take much longer to come back online. (I had an extended layover at Constipation Station, if you know what I mean.)

I ended up staying in the hospital for a whole week. Typically, they can discharge someone with my kind of operation after a few days, but as the surgical team did their research and came up with a plan to tackle the now for sure for sure inter-lung located mass, they suggested the best thing to do would be to go ahead and tackle it as soon as possible. I agreed with that proposal—the idea of going through surgery and then struggling to recovery only to slide right back to the bottom of the hill did not appeal. Take Two was scheduled for the following Friday. By Tuesday or Wednesday they decided it would be best for me to just stay in the hospital until then so they wouldn’t have to take out and then re-insert my BFF the chest tube.

So over the next few days I slowly gained more energy and consciousness and my parents learned how to plug and unplug me from the many and varied medical accouterments attached to my person while we waited.

***

After a few days, I started to write short notes on my phone to capture odd moments and observations. The first was mid-week when I finally noticed the cartoon cactus on the  “Pleur-Evac Chest Drainage System” aka thermometer briefcase. Why a cactus? Were they trying to bring some levity to me while I pant on a toilet, twisting the smallest degree possible to reach the toilet paper that is hung behind me on the side where I just had surgery? There are mysteries we may never understand.

The notes paint a scattered but true picture of my time there:

The green stain on my gown isn’t phlegm, it’s avocado from the bagel sandwich from the bougie bagel place my pastor brought me

Emaciated couple going on slow walks around the halls, only ever seen together holding hands, can’t tell who the patient it, both wearing masks

Lady who brought my breakfast, asked for my date of birth. “Leo’s run the world. It’s our tiiime!” with way too much enthusiasm.

No art on the walls. Except that one signed photo of a panda (signed by the photographer, not the panda). Found out that the whole wing is going to be remodeled next week which explains a lot.

Watching just the most French Open. Can’t tell if it paired well with my post-anesthesia fatigue or made it worse.

Need some more Jesus in this room. Remember reading scripture to grandma in the nursing home, now I get why she’d ask for that.

Every morning an X-Ray technician woke me up between five and seven. They’d wedge a hard board behind my back and swing the arm of the machine into the room, snapping their picture while they stepped back into the hall.

Nurses or techs came by every four hours or so, to draw blood from the back of my hand or the inside of my elbow, hand me pills to swallow to relax my muscles and prevent nerve pain, or give me a shot to prevent blood clots. I got one of those every eight hours.

Meals came three times a day. I didn’t mind the food at first, but after a few days with no fresh air and my general discomfort catching up with me (as did constipation), my appetite shrunk and my antipathy towards the meals delivered to me grew. On maybe the third or fourth day, a kind staff person knocked on the door and started to ask what I wanted for dinner. I was sitting up in the recliner (milestone), smiling politely, when a fast-moving wave of nausea hit me and I barfed into a bag before she could finish reading the menu.

She lowered her iPad, “…I’ll come back in a bit.”

My main homework was to get up and walk as much as possible. My parents started recording each walk and how far I went on the whiteboard, down to one-thirds of a lap, because we’re a data-driven family. Walks were an ordeal though because my dear briefcase had to remain on suction (they tried turning it off early on and my lung wilted a bit too much). They brought out a portable suction machine from some closet that allowed me to get out of my room. It whirred like a generator so everybody knew I was coming.

I had wonderful friends and family come to visit—they brought me dry shampoo and homemade cookies and a giant thermos of tea. My mom slept over every night for the whole week, doing her best to fall asleep in the trim recliner in the corner of my small, windowless room, helping to assemble the incredible and specific construct of pillows and blankets needed for me to get comfortable.

The biggest milestone of the week (other than when she played the Michigan fight song to celebrate my first poop) was day five or six when my mom secured permission to wheel me into the outdoors. It took a few tries because the generator kept running out of battery, but we persevered and she got me down several halls and elevators and onto a heavenly brick patio, parking me next to some bushes. There was classical music playing over speakers, and I was eating Flavor Blasted Extra-Cheddar Goldfish while basking in the sun and having the best moment of my week. On a low brick wall a few yards away, a man in a DC Rugby t-shirt sat next to his dad and called his sister to tell her about their mom’s dire cancer prognosis.

***

On Thursday afternoon I signed a consent form for them to take out a chunk of my lung (a “lobectomy,” ooh la la) and to give me a blood transfusion and/or perform other life-saving measures if need be.

I ate my last bit of food before 11 p.m. and tried to feel calm enough to fall asleep.

Around midnight, the surgical resident knocked on the door. She informed us that my surgical team had been called in for an emergency operation earlier that evening and that they weren’t likely to finish until the small hours of the morning. Given the lack of sleep they’d be working with, they weren’t going to be able to safely proceed with my surgery.

We asked a few questions, confirming that I would be discharged in the morning. She apologized profusely. We told her we understood and thanked her for letting us know.

After she left, my mom let out a groan and I just started laughing. Truly, all I could do was laugh. Mom asked how I was feeling. I think I said something about the whole situation being out of my hands anyways and looking forward to going home at least. Then I asked permission to throw a goldfish against the wall. She laughed and said, “Go for it—you have the right to be much angrier than that!”

I chucked one cracker against the wall, and it did feel good.

***

I did in fact get discharged the next day. Before I left the hospital, they scheduled my next surgery for six weeks later (“If you miss the one-week window, then it’s best to just wait until you’re fully recovered”).

Over the next few weeks I graduated from walking the length of the hallway, to the block in front of my building, to across the street. My parents went home. People from my church who I had never met brought me dinner. I weaned myself off pain meds and definitely didn’t do all of the breathing exercises I was supposed to do. Three weeks later I was able to stand up (and dance) at my friend’s wedding.

I was looking forward to wrapping up this story nicely. By now, I should be a week or so into my recovery from Surgery: Take Two. But a few weeks ago I got a voicemail from the hospital informing me that my surgery had been postponed once more, to the end of August.

So, I’m afraid I must leave you with another cliffhanger. But don’t worry about me in the meantime, it is all going to work out.

Christina Ribbens

Christina Ribbens (’19) studied history, studio art, and data science at Calvin and public humanities at Georgetown. She now lives in the part of Virginia that’s almost Washington, DC where she helps award grants to arts nonprofits. She takes a lot of walks to admire the landscaping in peoples’ front yards, mostly listens to British comedians’ podcasts, and likes to make friends via sports.