Oh if only you could see me now- shoulders arched over to support my lower abdomen which was... operated on just last week.
I can barely believe it myself...
I started out the week, incredible new nannying job (which seemed to be going just swimmingly entering its second week) when what should occur Tuesday afternoon but intense pains to stomach like never before experienced.
Talking myself into believing it was merely 'something I ate' I continued going about duties of playing with (young Swedish baby) Hector and preparing him for bedtime.
Looking back, it was rather peculiar that I somewhat passed out whilst reading in bed Tuesday night. Initially, I put it down to exhaustion from the day's activities, yet in hindsight, nothing too strenuous of any nature was carried out.
So, walking Hector to daycare the following morning, I was somewhat scared when I found myself feeling rather dizzy, broken out in a cold sweat and unable to even speak to young Hector.
All I could mange was some deep breathing and a few steps between park benches (thankfully they are plentiful).
I got Hector to day-care, just. He had fallen asleep in the pram- perhaps it had taken so long for me to walk him that he simply tired of the exercise and drifted off, unaware his nanny was in desperate need of medical attention. I politely enquired to the staff at the day-care centre the whereabouts of the nearest doctor- I dare not lead on I was feeling tremendously ill- and made my way to the nearest bus stop.
*Is it not humorous, to a degree, that you simply DO NOT CARE what one thinks of you when you feel your ability to function expiring with every breath you take? It's not that I take great effort in normal situations to appeal to every passer-by yet there is always a certain... level of decorum one maintains when going about their daily activities.
Not on this day.
I remember the woman at the bus stop staring at me as I rocked myself back and forward thinking somehow this would relieve me of the pain I was in. I remember her glancing back to make a study of me as I made my way onto the bus after her, and I remember her every so often looking up at me from her newspaper, in disgust almost- as if I were a young citizen of today lost to the world of drugs, under the influence or just mentally insane- as I swayed in my seat, head in my hands, hands on my stomach...
I made my way to the doctors surgery on the fifth floor of a large shopping complex. Desperate, they took me in to ask me of my plight. I explained the severe pain I was experiencing, as if someone had inflated my stomach with so much air it was ready to burst and of my head so light I could see stars. They could not tend to me. I was a foreigner, with no passport on my person and they did not seem to want to help me despite sympathising with my apparent pain. The woman wrote on a piece of paper the name of the nearest hospital.
I walked out confused as to what to do and decided I would make my way to Handen, a suburb 40minutes away by train where the sister I have been boarding with could assist me in seeking medical help. I got onto the train, phoned her and humbly explained I "may need to see a doctor" that afternoon. She was out in field service but said she could meet me later if I was still feeling unwell- clearly unaware of the scope of my predicament. The conversation ended. I decided then and there, I was not going to make it to Handen.
I made my way off the train, upstairs to the nearest taxi rank. To the first taxi I see: "Do you Speak English?"
"A little" was his reply. (They all say that here, but they all speak English perfectly, they just cant say Yes with confidence for fear of coming across too... self-confident. Its a nice trait to have, if you can call it humility, but I see it as something else, this 'playing it cool' thing the Swedes do where you can't be proud of your ability to say or do something- an observation of Swedish culture in my first month or so since arriving).
"Can you take me here please?" (handing him the piece of paper)
"Yes but you can walk to this hospital from here, it is only..."
"I can't walk. Can you please take me?"
"Sure."
I can feel the driver puzzled at my choosing to take a taxi instead of walking on this fine summers day in Stockholm, (despite experiencing some really wonderful days above 25 degrees celsius since arriving, it seems a typical summers day in Sweden is one that is generally wet, not much sun light and likely not above 20 degrees celsius).
The distance, a credit to the taxi driver's judgement, was really not that far away, probably a five to seven minute walk, but by this stage it has been about one hour and a half since onset of ludicrous pain and the melting point of this rainbow coloured, organic beeswax candle (self-appointed description of oneself) was exceeded some time ago.
Really, it must have been a sight for that first woman at the emergency desk to see.
It would have taken not more than two or three minutes for me to be laying in a bed in the emergency department waiting for a doctor to come. Now that is service!
The doctor though, took a little longer- about eight minutes I think I counted on the clock, as I cried out loud, throwing my head backwards and forward, side to side, my hands up to my face to cover the light, down to my stomach to try and suppress the pain- from laying flat on my back all stretched out, to curled in a ball in the foetal position. At one point I remember pulling at my hair...
The doctor came, I remember her asking me to lie still. I really must have looked quite ridiculous, moving about like a half squished insect refusing to give up on life but so desperate for the pain of its squashed insides now on the outer to be over, all the while covered in sweat. I recall them walking me to another room, down the end of the hall- maybe to muffle the sounds of my cries of intense pain whilst I waited for a nurse to come with, what I now like to refer to as one of my closest friends in the world... morphine. Ah, that sweet, magical liquid, injected into the (needle-type thing now permanently lodged in my right arm which connects directly to the) vein that trickled its warm little way through my being so fast, I felt only small tugs and twitches and light headed nothingness.
It must have been about 10:00am at that point on Wednesday morning. From then on the day was a breeze. I was wheeled from the emergency ward to the gynaecology ward: blood tests, urine samples, ultrasounds, pressing my stomach on this side and that, questions fired regarding my "cycle", recounts of my last 24 hours requested by doctors and nurses a plenty. All the while, with every complaint of pain increasing, injected with more morphine.
It was at about 5:00pm that afternoon, after three separate ultrasounds in different departments and two urine samples, three blood tests, they ruled out any severe condition of my uterus, ovaries or appendix. They stripped me of my clothes, dressed me in a white nightgown bearing the hospital's logo, tagged me, admitted me and told me I would be monitored over night.
The Doctor also said the needle device that was inserted into my arm when I first arrived in the morning, would not be removed- it would continue to 'feed me' as well as serve the purpose of place in which to inject pain killers. It was not very comfortable to say the least, but as long as pain relief was to be administered, I could tolerate it a little longer.
I was placed in a room with three other women- two elderly and the other middle-aged.
At three o'clock on Thursday morning the pain returned, I buzzed the nurse. She injected me once more with morphine and left me to sleep. I was woken by the doctor at about 9:00am with two nurses by his side watching his every movement, hanging on every word he spoke. "Your pain continues?" After some more pressing on my stomach he informs me: "You will have CT scan. You cannot eat." The doctor left, the two nurses trailing behind him. One of the nurses returned a little while later with a large jug of water marked with millimetre/ litre measurements and a sheet of paper. I was required to drink a certain amount of water every half hour for three hours until the scan.
It was at this point I decided to let someone back home- 20, 000 kilometres away, know I was in hospital.
I thought maybe Anna. Surely she would understand if it turned out to be nothing, but would never the less appreciate my letting her know.
I was surprised that within one hour or so of my speaking with Anna- in Australia, laying in bed with tears in my eyes, upset at the sight of an older lady in the bed next to me being transfused with blood, that a brother from the Hospital Liason Committee (HLC) came to my bedside to visit me. Anna had told a friend, who had called a friend, who had made a call and then next thing you know there I am in hospital, in Stockholm, Sweden, with an older brother sitting by my side, ensuring I was okay. He stayed about half an hour I am guessing... the morphine was free flowing at this stage so my judgement of time at that point is somewhat cloudy.
I had my CT scan, the results came back. Inflammation of the appendix- appendicitis. A nurse gave me clothes for surgery and showed me the way to the shower to wash my hair with special shampoo and wash my body with disinfectant. "You cannot eat or drink."
I could barely stand let alone shower but you just have to do what you need to do in these situations. Its not like my parents could come and help me to shower. At that point they didn't even know I was in hospital. I left that job to Anna- my head couldn't handle phoning home and letting the 15+ members of my immediate family know of the predicament I found myself in at that point.
My hair was so knotted, I didn't have anything with which to brush it out, it stayed matted and messy. I cannot tell you how bad I looked at this point, skin dehydrated, every blemish visible, dark bags under my eyes, wet, knotted hair.
My doctor came once more, he pulled down my bed covers, pulled up my night gown and found my stomach. "I will make mark on your stomach." He was to the point, there was no beating around the bush with this doctor. He pressed to the right of my stomach, I inhaled deeply, he drew one line with a thick, black marker, pulled back the covers, and left.
I've got to say I felt pretty lonely in that hospital room waiting for my operation. No exact time was given me, I just needed to shower and be ready for when they came to collect me. There was no a lot of dialogue either- no 'this is what is going to happen, this is how long the procedure takes, this is why it happened, you should recover in this amount of time.'
I was so, so thirsty... my mouth was incredibly dry. If only I had put that red tube of paw paw cream in my bag the morning before...
The brother from the HLC who had visited earlier in the day, had informed a brother in my (new) congregation in Stockholm of my situation and by that afternoon I had visits from an elder, Styrbjörn, two sisters (Elaine& Susanna) who were out witnessing, a mother and daughter (Sissi & Lynn) and my housemate Malin. She is such a sweet girl, she stayed and waved at me as they wheeled me out that evening with her sweet smile on her face...
Brother Styrbjörn was really lovely too- he was so empathetic and considerate and apologetic. He said a really nice prayer with me before he left which left big tears rolling down my cheeks... I've met the guy all but once prior to this occasion but he acted as though it was his own family member going in for surgery. It was very touching.
I met so many medical personnel on the way to the operating theatre. I love that they all introduce themselves to you so politely all the while knowing that in literally under five minutes you will be out cold- with no recollection of their faces, names, positions in the medical world or the role they played in removing an organ from your body which is (apparently) not needed, yet exists.
The last thing I recall is a woman holding a mask over my face and telling me to think of a beautiful, relaxing location- a beach perhaps. My thoughts, automatically, turned to Wharton beach- I imagined myself swimming in the cold, crystal blue water. Diving down and swimming for as long as I could hold my breathe and then re-surfacing, the warm sun on my face- then diving back down to do it all over again...
I woke to an intense pain in my lower stomach. It was throbbing, there was so much pressure building.
My blurred vision is becoming clearer. I can see three nurses over there by the counter, they are all talking- the one behind the counter can probably see me but the other two- facing her, are obstructing her view.
Oh it hurts so, so much.
Whatever is up my noes is making me feel nauseous. Its air of some sort but there's this plastic, chemical-type smell to it and I feel faint.
Oh that pain is so bad, I have to say something but the words aren't coming out. I want to wave my hands in the air but I cant put them up. What to do... Aha! I can moan!
Breathe in, breathe out and moan. Breathe in, breathe out and moan.
No, they cant hear me. Oh the pain... I'll keep doing it until they can.
Breathe in, breathe out and Moan... Breathe in, breathe out and MOan. Breathe in, breathe out and MOAn.
Oh, one of them looked over!
Breathe in, breathe out and MOAN.
Excellent. She's walking over here.
"Hello Amy. Are you in pain?"
Right here is where I'm going to spare you the details of the fact that I was informed I needed to relieve the intense pressure by urinating into a pan, yet I had absolutely no control over my bodily functions and, try as I may, I could not. They allowed me the decency of about ten minutes to try, all the while my body experiencing pain worse than when I initially entered the emergency ward two days before.
-Insert catheter here.-
Note: While the drugs still had a level of control over my ability to function, they did not mask the fact I could feel... everything.
Yet once it was in...
Ah sweet relief. The pain, almost gone in an instant.
For those of you still with me, I am going to fast forward to now- Tuesday night, four nights since the operation (12.07.2011).
I am out of hospital- they don't have the beds to keep you in longer than you need to be, so I was shipped out on Friday afternoon with a prescription for some strong pain killers. (They indeed work, but are responsible for some incredibly awful, colourful dreams bordering on nightmares with lots of colours and psychedelic swirls but not the fun sort. To be honest I am scared to go to sleep each night).
The recovery though, is going well. I am settled at my (new) home, the one where I will be for the next eleven months nannying for Hector. Andreas and Maria have been just incredible. They are cooking for me and call me to eat, then send me straight back to bed.
I have spent three full days sleeping and doing not much else, some personal study and reading, though today I had a small batch of visitors. It was great to see them- Swedish brothers and sisters I've made friends with since arriving.
After attempting to reach for a new roll of toilet paper in a cupboard high above me on Sunday, I now appreciate the medical staff informing me of the importance of bed rest. I think I felt my insides trying to escape through my stitches as I stretched to reach it. Oh the regret choosing to carry out that (seemingly) insignificant task.
And of course, these past few days, I have constructed this recount of my experience.
I am aware I am not the only person to have ever had her appendix removed, nor have I just given birth to a baby as my wonderful friend Chloe just has (and with circumstances that make my situation seem like a walk in the park) but I have two weeks bed rest ahead with a large imagination, a vocal ability which cannot be exercised as you are all mostly 20, 000 plus kilometres from me and really, being so far from home, it was quite the traumatic ordeal for me!
I insert photos to make the story a little more appealing- I realise many of you will have scrolled through them already.
Nicola phoned pre-surgery and encouraged me to document the occasion to which I surprisingly pulled off (despite level of pain experienced and amount of pain killers consumed). You will observe even one of me- unsure how the photo was taken looking back or even taking it at all, but it's there none the less.
Thanks for reading- I had intended my first Swedish update to be a little more "having a blast, wish you were here!" and I assure you, that is coming too. I just wanted to get this one out of the way first as it is... fresh in mind.
I'd like to give a brief nodd to Keturah who emailed me and said something to the effect of:
"Sweden will always have a piece of you now."
Indeed they will.
With love..xx
