wasn't even what it took to notice the change.
Immediately, I didn't need to chew ice anymore.
Immediately, my blood pressure (which was 189/118 the last time I dared to go without drugs, some 15 years ago) dropped into normal ranges without medication.
Immediately, my mouth didn't taste like the bottom of a birdcage.
And save for a couple incision-jolting full-body cramps, my calcium level seems to be recovering -- no more cramps and twitches!
I haven't seen a change in energy yet -- recovering from surgery will do that to you -- but I'm sure it's to come.
Boy, am I glad it's not a week ago. A week ago tonight, I woke up in the step-down unit to see a rather damp Randy, who immediately got up to stand next to the bed and hold my hand. "It's OK, honey -- you should sit down," I told him. Finally convinced him to pull up a chair.
Two fabulous nurses, Jay and Lydia, came in and out of my field of vision to check vitals and refill icewater. There was pain, but there was also the security blanket of the self-administered pain pump. I really don't know if there's anything on the other end of that line but a quiet "beep," but at the time it seems like you're in control.
Going backward, I recall waking up in the recovery room and being wheeled into an elevator. . . being awake for a few moments in the operating room. . . and before that lying on a gurney in the pre-op suite with the anesthetist saying "We'll just give you something for anxiety here" as she depressed the plunger on a syringe. Although that's the last I remember before the operating room, Randy tells me I was awake after this: "You were really sweet when I got weepy saying goodbye to you in the hall." He doesn't think he would have reacted so dramatically if the anesthetist, a non-native English speaker, hadn't announced that this particular intersection was "the goodbye corner."
"I got mugged by my emotions a couple times," he told Cheryl the next day.
Cheryl's kidney is one of the faves of the U team this week, it seems -- "You've got a great little kidney there," my coordinator told me on the phone today. It apparently realized immediately it was doing the work of two. After a couple days of loading up on IV fluids, they began cutting me down -- and I was unable to keep up my fluid levels sufficiently. A few more IV bags and we seem to be reaching an equilibrium.
Cheryl's doing well -- we compare notes by phone daily and are enjoying having permission to take afternoon naps. And sometimes morning naps. And, in rare cases, evening.
It hasn't all been peaches and cream. I had two hellish nights in which I couldn't sleep due to the steroids. Picture yourself on two nights without sleep -- immediately after being discharged from the hospital. My eyes watered constantly from fatigue, although I lay in bed with every limb vibrating like a cell phone on mute.
I've diagnosed and treated my own nausea at 11 p.m. and I've finally figured out the only place I can sleep comfortably is on the futon on our three-season porch; thank goodness we didn't do this in February!
There've been a lot of desperate prayers sent up -- and answered.
George, our newsroom wag, wrote on the office card, "I hope you and your new kidney form a long-lasting relationship." He's closer than he may realize -- I'm in what they call the honeymoon period, when both the kidney and I are well-protected by high med levels. As these are tapered off to a balance I can better sustain over the long haul, there will be bumps in the road -- complications, illnesses, rejection episodes. So I have to pay close attention to everything from temperature to blood pressure to liquid intake, keeping track of small signals to prevent bigger problems.
But we're off to a good, good start.
