Post-Op

       Sung to the tune of, “It was fascination. . . .”

     It was constipation, I know.  That’s what made my poor belly grow. . . .

     To put things into perspective, when you are worried about constipation, you are not worried about other things, such as pain or infection.  Constipation has been the result of every surgery I have ever had.  It happened again.

      So far, the post-op has been eat, sleep, visit the terlet.  Some of the challenges:  getting out of bed.  That hurts, Babbitt.  I have to pick my leg up and  hold it up as I roll over and sit up.  I have been pushing fluids to try to loosen things up, so I have to get out of bed two or three times at night.

      Getting my support hose on and off.  I still have trouble reaching my toes.  I have to wear the socks for two weeks to help stave off blood clots.  The socks run from my toes to my crotch.   After eight to ten hours, they have worn out their welcome.

     Negotiating the shower.  The caution besides blood clots is falling—Don’t fall!  I feel most vulnerable in the shower, wet feet, wet deck.  So far, so good, however.  The wound is covered with a plastic bandage that has a water-tight seal.  I protect it as well as I can.

      I have a nearly constant companion—an ice bag.  I carry it wherever I go.  When I am sitting, it rests between the waste band and the top of my trouser leg.  In bed, it leans over against my thigh or sits on top of my thigh.  It feels good and so far, I have no swelling to speak of.

      I have a check up two weeks after surgery.  At that point, I can stop wearing the hose and the doctor is supposed to remove the bandage.

      When I went in for my pre-op with the doctor, I saw all these guys in pajama bottoms cruising along the hallway with their walkers, proud as they could be.  I said, “That’s the first time in my life I ever envied a guy in pajama bottoms using a walker.”  My turn is coming.

      Independence.  I have independence wandering about the house.  I don’t do so well when it comes to cooking.  I can’t carry much and handle the walker, too.  The bread machine is out of the question.

      I moved things I thought of, such as shaver and toothbrush, favorite bathroom magazine (to an upstairs bathroom), walker (to the garage where I could get a hold of it when I returned from the hospital).  But I forgot some of life’s essentials.

      Like my beer supply.  I am cut off.  The cold ones are in the garage refrigerator (2 steps down), the not-so-cold ones in the basement (12 steps down). My carrying capacity is much diminished.  I am totally dependent on help to indulge that habit.  Dependence.

           I was able to step out (and down 2 steps) to get the newspaper the last couple of mornings, and today, I kerchunk-clunked with the walker all the way to the mail box and back.  I am progressing. 

     Now I look for ways to keep boredom away as the healing progresses.

         My new hip, an X-ray taken while I was still unconscious in the OR.  I think I will set the bells clanging when I step through a metal detector from here on out.