You will survive

January 15, 2010

An exercise Dr. N recommended to help me deal with memories of the hospital:

There I am, hunched over, sitting on the edge of the pre-op gurney. This time I'm thin, without muscle mass. I see my legs dangling over the edge and am sickened by how fragile they are. I lay my head on the cool bedside table and they begin to insert the epidural into my back. There, hovering beside me like a hologram is survivor me, whispering into my ear, "You don't know it and you don't believe it, but you will get through this."

I am lying in my hospital bed, heavy with 100 pounds of fluid between my skin and my bones. The nurse is sitting on a chair next to my bed. Her needles are ready. Jeremy is leaning over me, holding my left hand. I focus so closely on the buttons on his shirt that they begin to blur. I breath deep into my stomach. She digs the thick needle into my wrist, searching, probing. She pulls it out. Didn't work. Just one more try - she promises. There again is survivor me, whispering into my ear, "You don't know it and you don't believe it, but one day there will be only a small scar on your wrist from this. You will get through this."

I am laying flat on my back in the operating room. Bright lights are over my head. Contraptions hang from the ceiling. People walk around talking with each other, joking, flirting, and I feel myself begin to fade before they cut open my stomach from three inches above my belly button to my pubic bone. There, hovering in my sleeping mind's eye is survivor me, whispering, "You will wake up. You will heal. All that will be left is a soft white line down the center of your stomach. You will get through this."

I am once again lying in my hospital bed. More tests needed that they can't perform on me because my body isn't cooperating. The nurse tells me she'll have to insert a catheter so they can collect urine. I spread my legs and Jeremy helps her as she guides the tube into the sore raw parts of me. And there is survivor me, whispering, "One day you'll laugh at this. It hurts now, and you're exhausted, but you will get through this."

Survivor me stands vigil beside my bed. She doesn't have to say much right now. Hospital me is trying hard to be brave, to laugh and joke so this doesn't hurt. The nurse explains how the tube will be inserted through my nose, down my throat, into my stomach so we can clear away the obstruction. All hospital me has to do is swallow - keep swallowing - don't fight it as the tube is inserted. "Like bonging a beer?" hospital me jokes. The younger nurse laughs. Yes. Like bonging a beer. And then they begin and tears flow. Survivor me whispers in my ear, "This too you will get through. I promise you."

The nurse came to my room to insert the first of four PIC lines. She pricks me and pushes the line up through my arm. She pushes so hard my entire upper arm turns dark blue and purple and stays that way for weeks. I feel light-headed when I look at it, wondering how much more my frail body can take. Survivor me sits beside my bed and holds my hand, whispering to me, "The bruises will fade. All that will be left are tiny scars on your arms. You will make it. These PIC lines will help you survive - and you will survive."

Survivor me is there every day for the numerous daily shots of insulin and heparin hospital me endures. Survivor me whispers, "All the bruises left by these needles, they aren't permanent. Your arms will gain muscle again. Your body will gain strength. You will get through this."

There survivor me is, the night hospital me panicked. The night hospital me sat on the edge of my bed, heart racing, hands sweating, mind whirling, sobbing that I could not go to sleep. Sobbing because I was jumping out of my own skin. Sobbing because I knew my mind was breaking on me. She whispered in my ear, "Your mind is stronger than you believe. Your mind will battle many demons and triumph. You will survive. You don't believe it, but I know it. You will survive."

Hospital me wakes from having passed out cold in the emergency room. A bedpan is under me and blood and feces are overflowing onto the bed, coming from my body, my body that is decaying and dying. I wish I could melt away and disappear into the sheets and forever be gone from the world. Survivor me whispers, "You aren't done yet Abby. You aren't done. You think this is the end, but it isn't. There's more for you. You will survive."

Hospital me hears the words "life and death situation." Everything else stops. Everyone else disappears. Survivor me squeezes my hand, "Life Abby. Life."

Hospital me lumbers as quickly as possible to the toilet. But not quickly enough. Shit drips from between my legs onto the floor. I'm too large to bend over and clean up after myself. Hospital me pulls the red chord next to the toilet. My head down, eyes that cannot make eye contact ask for someone to clean up the shit that I left behind. To clean up the shit on my gown. Sobs escape my body. Survivor me puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers, "This is not who you are. One day you will once again believe that you are more than a decaying body of shit, blood and guts. One day you will feel alive and vibrant. You will have ideas and hopes for the future. You will give to others and feel full in your life. You will survive this."

Hospital me swallows the white pasty drink. The pain in my body has me writhing and screaming for help. "It hurts! It hurts! Please help me!" I cry out. The radiation rays they bombard me with confirm that my insides are close to exploding. And other things are going wrong too. They infuse me with potassium that burns under my skin until I yell for help. More overflowing bedpans. More blood. More feces. Survivor me, who I have lost faith in whispers, "You don't have to believe me for it to be true: You will come through this. You are so afraid. And you are exhausted. But you have the gift of life flowing through you, and it is stronger than all of this sickness. You don't even have to try anymore. The life force in you will continue on because that's what is has to do. So let go sweet tired girl. Let go and trust that you will survive."

Hospital me pushes, because that's what the doctor tells me to do, though I wonder if I will live through it. She slides out of me, between my legs with one great push. Fourteen ounces of beautiful heartache, there in the doctor's hands. I hold her and love her before the night turns to fog in my mind. Hospital me feels my heart crumble inside me. I go numb. Survivor me whispers, "Your heart will gently be molded back together. It will be softer, it will be tender, but it will once again function for you. You will survive."