Post-Surgery Blues
The aches and pains continue…
I lost my dialysis graft in my upper left arm, after nearly six years of use.
It clogged up on my birthday, at the end of January, and needed to be cleared out at the vascular access clinic.
The next week, it clogged up again, and needed to be cleared out.
And again the next week. This time, though, they didn’t clear it out.
Instead, they left the dialysis graft alone to die its final death, and they installed a catheter in my neck, so that we could use that to dialyze me at the clinic.
They told me that they’d set me up with a vascular surgeon, since the one who had installed my graft had since retired.
I waited to hear from my new surgeon, setting a date for an initial consultation.
I waited for two weeks. Then I called up the vascular access clinic and asked what was going on.
They didn’t know.
I waited another week, then turned the problem over to my dialysis clinic nurse. She said she’d make some calls.
A few days later, I got a call from my new vascular surgeon, setting up an appointment for a few weeks later.
At my appointment, I met the new vascular surgeon. I liked him; he was very personable.
He explained that my veins and arteries in both arms were somewhat small, but he thought he could place the next access in either arm.
I told him I wanted it in my right arm, this time, because they can’t get an IV in my right arm anymore, after using only my right arm for IVs for eight years, and I wanted to be able to give them my left arm for IVs for a while.
He laughed a bit and said that was a good idea, then sent me for an ultrasound vein mapping of both my upper arms.
Afterward, he said that it looked good for my right arm, and to go ahead and save that arm for the surgery.
That means no IVs, no lab draws, and no blood pressure cuffs on that arm, so that the blood vessels will not be damaged any more than they have been.
A few weeks later, I got a call scheduling my surgery.
On the day of the surgery, just two days ago as I write this, my sister drove me in to the hospital early in the morning.
After an interminable time in the pre-op room, where they pulled a lot of blood for tests, set an IV for meds, and gave me some pre-op pills with a whole ounce of water to wash them down, I finally met my anesthesiologist.
He was cool! He quoted Monty Python! I felt inordinately reassured by this, and agreed to all the anesthesia I would need for the surgery. I know, it’s absurd to feel reassured of a doctor’s skills by his skill in quoting Monty Python, but that’s just me, I guess.
They wheeled me in to surgery, then I woke up. That’s what it felt like to me. In real life, I had spent an hour and a half under the anesthesia, but to me, it was instantaneous.
I’ve heard of people who dream under anesthesia. I’m not one of them. Which is sad, because when I know I’ve dreamt, that means I know I’ve slept, that means I don’t feel cheated!
So I lay there in the recovery room, feeling sore and cheated, while I came more to my senses. They offered me a Tylenol for my pain, but at least they gave me a container of grape juice to wash it down, instead of the pre-op ounce of water.
Eventually, they let my sister in with my clothes. I was feeling lucid again, though though I was very sore and tired. The anesthesia they used was mostly gas, which means you wake up almost as soon as they turn it off.
There was some IV sedation as well, though, so I was still feeling a little wobbly when we got home. The hospital gave me a pillow for resting my arm on, as well as a pretty green canvas bag, just for having surgery with them.
Then, the next day, I had dialysis. I had to be wheeled in for my treatment, and wheeled out again afterward, to the car, though I walked from the car to the house when we got home.
Now, it’s the second day after my surgery. I still need to prop my arm on a pillow to get a restful angle for it, and it aches and gets tired and wants to go to bed, and I still feel dizzy and a bit wobbly, but I have things to do!
I have to go in for a second surgery on my fistula soon, as they perform Stage Two. I believe that is when they lift the fistula up to the top of the muscles, just under the skin, so that it’s easy to find and use.
Yay. More surgery. Whee.
However, if my fistula matures enough to use, and doesn’t clot up like my first fistula did in my other arm, then it should last me for decades! My six-year-old graft was getting surprisingly ancient, it turns out.
I’m still on my catheter in my neck for until all the surgeries are over, and then for months afterward, for the fistula to mature. Then the catheter comes out!
If you enjoyed this piece, please clap! And feel free to comment!
I write slice-of-life stories, fiction, advice, and short essays. Find me on Twitter, or Facebook.
Copyright 2018 Tammy J Rizzo
