It was a small bump above my belly button. I found myself playing with it, pushing it in and watching it pop back out. I finally asked my husband, “what do you think this is?” Without a beat, he declared with his full medical knowledge: “that looks like a hernia!” To be fair, he has had two, so he does have some hernia knowledge.

I thought that was ridiculous. Don’t hernias only occur in the groin area? And, if they do happen around the belly button or elsewhere, don’t they hurt like hell, since your guts are falling out? Wouldn’t I know if I had a hernia?

Turns out, not necessarily. After weeks of pondering this bump, I finally asked my OB/GYN during a routine annual exam. She took a look, agreed with my husband’s prognosis and recommended me to a surgeon to take a qualified assessment.

I saw the surgeon, and she confirmed I had an umbilical (ventral) hernia. (See diagram on left)

In other words, a tear in the tissue above my belly button, with a bit of intestines sticking out. Two tears from what she could feel.

I scheduled the surgery a few weeks out, taking pamphlets explaining the procedure with me.

I figured it was no big deal. My husband had hernia surgery, and he seemed to recover quickly.

In my naive bliss of having never gone under the knife or been under general anesthesia, I had no idea what I was going to experience.

When non-invasive hernia surgery feels very invasive

The surgery was, frankly, a terrifying experience. Although I should add that nothing bad happened. My surgeon and anesthesiologist were awesome. But it was still terrifying.

It began like all great hospital visits, getting naked and wearing that ever-attractive paper gown, tied in the back. The nurses took my vitals. I was repeatedly asked my full name and date of birth. I took some Tylenol. Easy peasy.

Then, it went downhill. I was to receive two IVs. Not one. Two.

This was because I was getting laparoscopic surgery with a robotic arm. In case one IV got in the way or something happened, they wanted to make sure there was a backup. Somehow this seemed perfectly logical to everyone in the room except the person getting two IV’s shoved into her arm.

I found it ironic that laparoscopic surgery is known as NON-invasive. All these IVs felt very invasive to me!

When your veins don’t cooperate

You see, I have a vein problem. For as long as I can remember, giving blood or getting an IV has been an adventure of “where in the world can I find a good vein on Margaret’s arm?”

The irony is I have that traditional translucent white Irish skin with blue vein lines all over the place. I can see my fucking veins everywhere. I’ve had old lady skin since I was 12. But clearly not the type or point of the vein they need for serious things, like sticking needles in to take blood or insert vital fluids to keep me hydrated during surgery.

Instead of one of my two assigned nurses doing it, they called in an IV expert who happened to be roaming around. This turned out to be a mistake. After missing the right spot TWICE in my left arm, she finally just dug around until it worked and got that baby going. Another two misses on my right arm, and she and I were both done. She waved the white flag and called in one of my two nurses, named Sara.

Turns out Sara just transferred to the OR from 10 years in the emergency room, where putting an IV in is a matter of life and death. You have to do it in a matter of seconds. She looked at my arm, didn’t see the issue, and put the tourniquet on. I pumped my fist, and she stuck that needle right in and got it working. I officially love Sara.

Don’t have a colonoscopy the same week as surgery

I should probably stop here to mention that I had already experienced one painful IV experience earlier this same week, when I had my first ever colonoscopy. Yeah, let’s not even attempt to understand my perfect logic of having two major medical procedures in one week. Both of which involved being put under and having medical instruments stuck in both my arms and other cavities of my body. It made sense at the time I made the appointments.

As I told my surgeon: “Hey, I had a colonoscopy earlier this week so I’m all cleaned up for you to make your work easier.” She did not laugh. I thought it was hysterical. But then, I often laugh at my own jokes.

Before my colonoscopy, the nurse dug around my right arm, and finally struck blood. But she told me my veins were too deep, and it was a big problem. It’s bad enough we are to feel shamed for everything, but for my veins being too deep. Really?

So here i am lying basically naked with IVs in both arms, and the rest of my lower arms looking like models for a heroin addict marketing campaign. Doctor comes in and explains everything. Anesthesiologist comes in and explains everything.

And before he leaves, he asks me if I want something to calm me before surgery. And I’m thinking, I’m perfectly calm, what kind of whacko needs drugs to calm them before they get drugs?

A really smart whacko, that’s who!

I should have taken the drugs

I’m wheeled into the OR, where I am assaulted with the coldest, brightest lit, overwhelming room with machines everywhere that I’ve ever experienced. Cold, blinding, metal.

I shuffle my bumm over to the operating table from my rolling bed, and then the fun really starts. My feet are strapped down. My arms are put out to the side and strapped down. And then the anesthesiologist puts a round cup of some kind over my mouth and nose.

And I start to panic.

I am trying to say that I don’t like the sheet around my neck, and I can’t breathe, and my arms hurt, and . . . All I hear is, “let’s get you some liquid sunshine.”

I wake up suddently, and my whole body is shaking, including my jaw, which I didn’t know could shake. I’m in the most incredible pain I’ve ever felt, other than when I delivered naturally a nearly 10 pound baby. But it was right up there with birth pain. A nurse is asking me to rate the level of pain from zero to ten. I say “eight”. I mean, it was probably a ten, but who ever actually picks the absolute highest number on those scales.

She calmly says, “let’s get that down to a 3 or 4”. And I’m thinking, let’s get this down to zero. I say to her that I can’t believe the pain. So much pain. And why is my jaw shaking so violently?

“Well what did you think? You just had major surgery,” the nurse says.

What do I think? I think I want to punch you in the face, only my arms are not taking the signal from my brain.

Finally, the pain gets to the point where I’m not completely consumed by it, and the nurse rolls me into the recovery room. At that moment I realize I’m wearing a completely different paper gown.

Now, I have this incredible image of myself with arms and legs strapped down on a table where I am butt naked with robot arms roaming inside me. I pray there was no video.

Don’t put off hernia surgery

My husband comes in and goes through what the doctor told him. She said I did very well in surgery, he explains. I’m not sure how I could have misbehaved, seeing that I was drugged, naked, and at the mercy of a robot. The pain? Well, turns out I didn’t have 2 hernias, I had SIX! Yes, six tears. As in half a dozen.

Because of the severity of the tears, the surgery was a bit more complex and took longer. At some point, I noticed that instead of one slice on my side, I actually have three incision points. Must have been part of that more complex side.

So boys and girls, the learning here is don’t put off surgery, which I might have done for a while due to work stuff and travel.

Now that I have the scoop and am awake, everybody seems ready to get me up, moving and out of there. I just want more sleepy drugs and to go back to sleep, like, forever. I’m numb, and in pain, and confused.

“Let’s get up and go pee, then get you in a wheelchair and to the car.”

What a great idea.

I may be exaggerating a little, and I should again emphasize the nurses and everyone at this hospital were amazing. I mean really really nice. At some point they gave me that really good orange jello and called me sweetie. They were that nice.

But it didn’t really matter, because their niceness did not stop the pain.

Thank god for ice packs & applesauce cups

At home, my naive journey to hell continues. Pain is my constant companion. As is my ice pack, which numbs the pain enough to sleep a little. Which means I have to crank up the heating blanket, because the ice makes me freeze all over. It’s a constant battle.

All I can think about is how soon I can take my next dose of crack. (okay, it is not literally crack but one of those pharmaceuticals in the family of legal Opioids). Also, each time I take my medicine, I get to eat one of those little applesauce cups to curb the nausea. I love those things, almost as much as orange jello.

I have read a lot about addiction, and am terrified of these drugs. However, you wouldn’t know it from how lovingly I am holding these little white pills. As soon as I check off a dose on my medicine schedule chart, I begin dreaming about the next dose.

And then the hospital calls to see how I am doing. I mention the pain is still really bad, and the nurse tells me I can also take ibuprofen in between doses of crack to help with the swelling. WHAT? Bring on the ibuprofin. This is nothing short of miraculous.

Get off the drugs and start moving

Day four. I am shuffling around at the speed of Tim Conway’s old man character from the Carol Burnett show. My swollen belly resembles a well-formed 5 or 6 month baby bump, complete with the need to pee or fart every 30 to 60 seconds.

But I am up and moving. 

Importantly, I am off the Hydrocodone and just taking Extra Strength Tylenol with the occassional 2 Advils. The pain is manageable – especially if I don’t move from bed. I can now sit up without screaming.

Oh, and did I mention I can even poop without feeling like I’m ripping a new hernia? Major accomplishment.

I call my son. The nearly 10 pounder. Whose birth is that of legend and a broken pelvis. I tell him he’s been replaced. His childbirth is no longer the most painful experience of my life. Of course, it’s amazing the pain we can withstand when someone puts a beautiful baby in our arms after it all. In this case, all I have to show for it is three ugly scars and a deeper fear of needles.

Oh, and I guess my intensines are no longer falling out. So that’s good.

In summary: 7 tips for surgery recovery

Next time, I will be ready. And hopefully, after reading my story, so will you.

But just in case, I’ve summarized 7 easy tips to remember next time you are faced with major surgery.

1. Take the meds. All the meds they offer, when they offer them.
2. Get off the meds. As soon as possible.
3. Ice is your best friend. Use ice wraps as much as you can. Ideally with a heated blanket, because you’ll be freezing.
4. Eat all the jello, pudding and applesauce you want. I recommend the little cups, because you won’t be that hungry, and there’s something comforting about going back to being a 5 year old.
5. Take an extra week off than you think you need. You will need it. Maybe two weeks.
6. Just stay in bed as much as you can (while still getting up every couple hours to walk around).
7. Ask for help. A lot. Do nothing. Have someone bring you hot tea, water, drugs, applesauce, ice packs, etc.

Finally, hope for the best and assume the worst, so you don’t walk into surgery like you are walking into the hair salon.

YOUR BODY IS BEING CUT OPEN. Do you hear me?

And now, I need to go eat another applesauce cup.