I was not alert enough to feel the pain. I could only hear a woman yelling, "Give me a phone! I've gotta get out of here!" Her voice came from across the room and to my right. I supposed there must be several beds in the recovery room. I remembered nothing of this part of previous hospital stays. Already I did not want to remember this one.
A nurse tried to explain to the woman that she could not leave. "You've been in a car accident, ma'am," she said. "You have a broken leg."
"I've gotta get out of here," the woman insisted.
I drifted off to sleep again, thinking how horrible it was that a person could not suffer her physical traumas alone in peace and quiet and hoping that the poor woman with the broken leg was not my roommate.
When I awoke again a couple of hours later,. I was in my own room. My mother was sitting beside me, and she was talking with an elderly lady in the next bed. I needed to go to the bathroom. I made several unsuccessful attempts to communicate with Mom. My voice was gone, probably from being intubated during the surgery-- and I was still very weak. I had not eaten in over twenty-four hours.
Finally, I succeed in getting Mom's attention. "Bathroom," I whispered, expecting her to call the nurse to bring a bed pan.
Instead, she got up and helped me out of bed and to the bathroom, pulling my IV pole along behind me.
By this time, I had begun to be aware of the patch over my right eye and the annoying, indescribable itching behind it. I climbed back into my bed. I wanted to read my Braille magazine, but I was too weak and restless to concentrate. I wiggled around into a more comfortable position on my left side. As I was falling asleep, a nurse came in.
"Are you having any pain?" she asked. "Do you need more Morphine?"
Morphine? I thought other medications were used after eye surgery--things like Vicodin. Two scenes flashed quickly through my mind. I remembered watching an episode of "Little House on the Prairie" in which Albert was addicted to Morphine. His addiction was discovered after he had begun to be hostile and fall asleep in school. I remembered the scenes depicting his violent illness during withdrawal. Then I remembered my grandmother's last few weeks of life. She had been given Morphine to ease the pain from the cancer which had invaded her body. I remembered standing at her bedside as her breathing slowed until it was no more. I wasn't sure what morphine would do to me, and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out. I wasn't even sure whether to call the annoying scratchy sensation pain.
"I'll just give you a little bit," the nurse said kindly. "It's about time for another dose."
Oh, what was this? Was there some schedule for doling out Morphine? I opened my braille watch and checked the time. It was 11:00 PM, two hours after I had supposedly come into my room. What would Morphine do to me, anyway?
Mom was reading a magazine. My roommate asked for some Vicodin, and the nurse left. I rolled over onto my left side, too tired to read my braille magazine but too anxious to rest. Did I have this surgery in vain? If my small amount of vision was restored, what would things look like?
Suddenly, the scratchy feeling behind the patch was gone. Before I had much time to marvel over this, I fell into a blissful sleep. ... Morphine!
I awoke again about two hours later. The annoying sensation was back, but I was too groggy to tell anyone. It was tolerable, so I just turned over and tried to sleep on my back. I was restless. I pushed the button at the side of the bed to raise my head slightly.
I had assumed the nurse would come in soon to see if I needed more Morphine. It was probably about time for another dose, if my calculation was right. I supposed I was being given Morphine every two hours as needed.
I was right. I nodded when she asked if I wanted the Morphine. Soon I felt the sleepiness coming and the scratchy feeling subsiding. As I drifted off, I thought of the coming morning when the patch would be removed and my eye would be examined. Mom had said the surgery went well. But what did that mean? Fleeting thoughts of articles describing surgeries resulting in retinal reattachment but no return of vision passed through my mind. What if I became a subject of one of those articles? What if my vision didn't return? Had I done the right thing? Was I feeling this strange sensation for no good reason?
I was glad to have the surgery over after so many months of waiting and planning. A doctor had recommended it eight months earlier, but I had put it off because my family was in the midst of a cross-country move. After the move, I had waited several months before seeing Dr. Trese, who agreed to evaluate my retina during surgery and perform a vitrectomy, if possible, to reattach any detached portions. At the least, I would have a cornea transplant.
The doctors had not been able estimate the potential benefits of the surgery. In fact, the cornea specialist was not at all positive and stressed the fact that I would need to follow his instructions during the recovery period, even if the surgery failed.
The decision had been a difficult one to make. Did I really want to go through this kind of pain and discomfort if I wouldn't get any benefit out of it? I finally decided that I would rather have the surgery and know for sure that there was no chance of regaining the vision I had lost than to always wonder if anything could have been done. Now, eight long months of searching and waiting had come to an end. The surgery would fail or succeed, and no one could control it. Either way, it would soon be time to move on to a new phase of my life.
Early in the morning, another nurse came to give me eye drops. I had never liked eye drops, and this time was no exception. My eye would not open on its own. Most of the medicine ran down my cheek instead of into my eye. ... And the scratchy feeling was actually painful now.
I ate a big breakfast of eggs, biscuits, and bacon; and the nurse removed my IV. Then I dressed and walked with Mom to the examining room where the ophthalmologist was waiting. The gauze had been removed from my patch, and through the holes in the shield I could see blurry shapes in the hallway.
The doctor examined me briefly. I tried hard not to squint against the tiny, piercing light which told me that perhaps the surgery had been successful. He explained that things would look very blurry for a while during the recovery process and that I would experience changes in my vision for several months.
Mom took me back to my room, and I prepared to leave. A nurse gave me a plastic box with gauze pads, several rolls of tape, and several bottles of eye drops to take home. I would be using drops several times a day for over a year. The nurse also told me that I must wear a shield while I slept, and during the day I must wear the shield or my glasses to prevent anything from bumping or getting into my eye.
Soon we were on our way home. I slept soundly during the five- hour drive. I would need that sleep; for a fascinating and emotional journey lay ahead.
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