Skip to Content

Crackers And Percocet Are My New Favorite Meal

This post may contain affiliate links and/or codes. You won’t pay anything extra, but I might make a commission.

New Post: Fancy Baked Ziti

That’s fine, Nurse KitKat, I’m done with that toast

My last post about gallbladder surgery left off the night before the surgery, just as I was starting my surgery-day fast. I was supposed to stop eating and drinking at midnight, but I think I actually stretched that until after 1am. Since my surgery wasn’t scheduled until 2pm, I knew I had some leeway.

I was most afraid of having a caffeine-withdrawal headache the next day, not being able to have a Diet Dr Pepper. I remembered those from when I’d giving up caffeine both times I was pregnant. At least then I could take some Tylenol. This time I wouldn’t be able to take anything.

I went through my morning constantly reminding myself not to grab a can, not to make any toast. Eating and drinking are just so automatic that it took constant thought to not do either one!

Finally it was time to leave for the hospital. I brought only my phone and wallet, and pjs. My husband and I walked to the subway, and it felt weird to be walking around with him during the daytime on a Monday, like we were playing hooky. It was nice.

At the hospital there were more forms to fill out, and then more waiting. There was a big screen where I could see how many people were already lined up for my operating room, number 4. I had a feeling that things would be running late.

Someone came to get me to bring me to the post-op area about 90 minutes before my scheduled surgery. I said “OK” and just left. Didn’t say goodbye to my husband. I knew that after I changed and talked to some people he’d be coming back to see me again before I went in, but still – I just walked away and didn’t realize it until a few minutes later. I was really nervous.

I was taken to a long room lined with curtained stalls. My vitals were taken, and I was given a gown and robe to change into. Then I waited some more. I’d brought a newspaper to read, but mostly I listened. And that was the really disturbing part. I heard conversations between doctors and patients and family members that I’d always imagined happened only in private, in the doctor’s office I guess. I don’t know why. Because that’s how it happens on TV?

But to the left of me was a woman being told that she had cancer, and then there was a long discussion about how to proceed. She was alone and seemed very calm.

On my right was a woman who had to decide how much of her reproductive system the doctor was going to remove. She had family with her, but at one point the doctor had to ask the mother to leave, because she was being too emotional. There was a lot of talk about which parts of the reproductive system were easier to take out without removing others. Decisions were finally made. And the a man (husband? Father?) started a prayer that went on for a long time. I felt like I was intruding. I was just a few feet from them. But I had nowhere to go.

A couple stalls to my left was a woman I’d seen in the waiting room who was there alone. I’d had a lot of discussions with my husband about him staying with me. He hadn’t wanted to at first. As he understood it, it was only necessary for him to come pick me up when I was discharged. But I needed him there. I felt bad for this woman who was alone. Maybe she really didn’t need anybody there. Or maybe she did but her husband didn’t want to stay. Maybe she hadn’t laid it all out for him like I had with my husband, and insisted. She called him and told him when she would be done and when he should pick her up.

Also to my left was a man who’d been there all day. I don’t know what the delay was, but he was not happy about it. I could imagine. I’d been fasting for the same amount of time that he was. The caffeine headache was finally starting to creep up my neck to the back of my head. I wanted time to hurry up.

Omer was allowed to come back and wait with me. But my surgery time came and went, and he had to leave to get on another work call. And I insisted he get some lunch. He felt guilty. I’ve never understood why two people should be miserable when only one had to be. It’s not like him eating somehow meant that I couldn’t.

Finally things started moving. I spoke with the anesthesiologist. I told her that I was supposed to sing on Thursday, and she said she’d use a smaller breathing tube. I spoke with my surgeon. I told her that my mom, an OR nurse in Buffalo, actually knew her from when she’d been at my mom’s hospital for a month, a long time ago. Small world. I spoke with a coupe of nurses who would be in the OR. Omer came back and we said our goodbyes. I think it was around 4:30.

Then, I walked into the OR. That was weird. For some reason (TV again?) I though that I would be knocked out someplace else, and be wheeled into the OR. I didn’t expect to just walk in, but that’s how it’s done. I hopped up on the bed, my dehydrated, decaffeinated head pounding. But still, I talked and joked and laughed. I wanted the doctors and nurses to like me.

I was strapped down by my wrists and ankles to the OR table – another thing I hadn’t expected. An IV was put in. They confirmed my name and my surgery again. And the last thing I heard was the anesthesiologist’s voice from behind me say, “Here comes the good stuff.” And then, very quickly, black.

I think I woke up for a few seconds in the recovery room, but I went right back to sleep. I woke up again when Omer came in. I tried to talk but my throat was killing me.

My stomach hurt. Not my stomach, but where my gallbladder used to be. I guess the OR drugs were wearing off. I begged for some medicine. Omer went to get somebody. The nurse gave me Fentanyl in my IV and I felt fine very fast. She followed it with some Zofran so that I wouldn’t get nauseous. I really liked her. More time passed. I have no idea how much. Omer left to get my prescriptions filled.

I was supposed to rest. It was getting late,  close to nine. The kids would be going to bed soon. I asked Omer to call and check on them, let them know that we would see them in the morning. But I couldn’t rest. Somebody’s breathing alarm kept going off every fifteen seconds or so. There were tons of people in the room. I just wanted to be in my own bed. I asked Omer to find out what I had to do to get out of there.

I was supposed to pee. And walk around a bit. Neither of which seemed like things I could possibly do. But I really wanted to go home. At first the nurse seemed to think that it was Omer who wanted to go home, but after talking to me she realized that it was coming 100% from me. She helped me into a wheelchair and wheeled me into the bathroom. She warned me that I might feel nauseous or dizzy when I stood up. I took it slowly and I was OK.

Back in the wheelchair though, on my way back to my bed, I suddenly felt nauseous. She grabbed a pink bucket for me to hold on to. I climbed back into bed. The nausea passed.

After a while I told her I thought I was OK. She had me get up and walked around a bit more. I was still clutching the bucket. She gave me the OK to leave and removed my IV. She and Omer helped me changed into the pjs I’d brought.

Someone else wheeled me to the entrance while Omer called a car. In the car I was positive I was going to throw up, and every bump was excruciating. But I made it home, and collapsed onto my couch. I asked Omer to get me a list of things – water, ginger ale, straw, Percocet, crackers, move my bucket closer please. I asked him to check the half dozen electronics charging nearby to make sure none of them would make noise. He tried to convince me to come up to our bed, but I wanted to be near a bathroom – there isn’t one on the same floor as our bedroom. Besides, two flights of stairs at that moment might as well have been two hundred.

And he left. And I rested…for a little while. I woke up at about two in the morning in extreme pain. Not in my stomach, but in my shoulders. I’d been warned about this. When they operate on you laparoscopically they pump you full of CO2 gas. They inflate you like a balloon so that they can see what they’re doing. But they’re not able to get it all out, it just has to dissipate over time. (Note: A lot of people tried to give me advice for this pain that had to do with farting, Gas-X, and other things associated with normal gas, which was frustrating. This gas is not in the digestive system. It can’t be farted or burped out.)

I managed to choke down half a cracker and sip some ginger ale, then I took two Percocets. They took a long time to work. I tried to read in the meantime, but I couldn’t concentrate. Finally I fell back asleep, and was woken up a couple hours later by my kids getting ready for school.

The next day—Tuesday—was pretty awful. I was like a junkie waiting for my next fix. My entire world revolved around six hours passing so that I could eat another cracker and take another two Percocets. It would take about an hour for them to have any affect on me (man, I missed those IV drugs), and then I’d have about three good hours where I could drift in and out of sleep in relative peace, and then I’d have two more bad hours.

How bad? Screaming and sobbing bad. The pain in my shoulders and collarbone area was as bad or worse than the gallstone attack that started this whole journey in motion a month ago. I’d gotten into one good position, lying on my left side in a ball, and if I tried to turn over or sit up, I would scream and retreat back my side.

People on Facebook were telling me, though, that the only way to get the gas to leave was to move around. When the hospital called, the nurse said the same thing. I had to time getting up to pee for those good hours in the middle of each Percocet dose. I’d slowly make my way to the bathroom, first with Omer’s help (he worked from home that day), then later in the day on my own, clutching each wall and piece of furniture as I passed.

By noon I was able to sit up, with pillows propped on both sides of me. But then when I tried to lie down again to take a nap, I couldn’t. The gas had shifted, and now lying on my side wasn’t a possibility. I slept sitting up that afternoon and night. I had to have a pillow on my stomach all the time, because my cat kept walking across my lap, which was painful.

Then Omer had to leave to go to a concert Jake was in. He left me in Fiona’s care. Fiona ignored me the entire time. The one time I needed her I croaked out her name (my throat was still really really bad) and she called back “What?” and then waited. I wanted to kill her. Finally she wandered over and I explained to her that she needed to jump up and RUN to my side if I said her name. She didn’t seem too concerned.

At around nine she woke me up to tell me that she was going to bed. And then she ran upstairs. She didn’t even give me a chance to ask her for a few more things, like more water. On the one hand, I’m glad that seeing me incapacitated on the couch after surgery hasn’t seemed to scar her. On the other hand, it didn’t seem to affect her AT ALL. Which is weird for her. She’s normally very caring and concerned. I’m going to chalk it up to this being her way of coping with seeing me in pain.

That first day was just terrible. Omer tried to convince me to cancel the Fresh Direct order I had coming on Thursday for Christmas dinner. As bad as I felt, I was really hoping it wouldn’t be bad for long. From everything I’d read, it’s the anesthesia that you have to get over, not the surgery itself. Once that happens, things get better fast.

The next day, Wednesday, Omer really had to go into work. He offered to stay, but I knew it would be bad for him if he did. It was his last day of work before taking the rest of the year off, and he hadn’t been in to work since Friday. My shoulders and collarbone area felt a lot better. I told him I’d be fine.

I managed to make myself some dry toast and eat a few bites of it. I stepped down to one Percocet at a time. I was able to sit up or lie down with only a little pain and moaning each time. I did manage to do about an hour of work that had to be done, but I slept most of the day.

By Thursday, Christmas Eve, I was a lot better. The improvement really was that fast. Unfortunately I still couldn’t really talk, so I had to tell my choir director that I couldn’t sing at Christmas Eve service. That was a big bummer. But I was able to wrap some presents and eat some more toast, and that afternoon I even put a little peanut butter on it.

Later in the afternoon I found myself starving. I hadn’t even really been hungry at all since the surgery, and suddenly I was starving. I stuck to peanut butter toast since that seemed to be going down OK. And as I finished my 8-pack of ginger ale, I switched back to Diet Dr Pepper.

By Thursday evening I was feeling good enough to make some cinnamon buns for Christmas morning. Between baking and drinking Diet Dr Pepper I pretty much felt like I was back. Then around 2:30 in the morning I took a shower and changed out of the pjs that I’d been wearing since the recovery room. That felt great.

The kids woke us up at 6 for presents on Christmas morning, and after breakfast I went back to bed for four hours. I spent the afternoon cooking Christmas dinner. I was so happy I was able to do that. And even better, I was able to eat!!

And then? I pooped. If you’ve ever had surgery you know what a big deal that is.

Since then everything’s been pretty much back to normal. I’m eating whatever and feeling fine. I’m moving a bit more slowly than usual. Bending down still isn’t all that comfortable. And occasionally I have trouble getting deep breaths in. Coughing and laughing hurt. But I’m on Tylenol now, no more Percocet.

So after hearing recovery stories that ranged from a few hours to a few weeks, I guess I fall in the middle. Day one post surgery was a total loss. Day two wasn’t too bad. By Day three I was at about 70%, 85% or so by day four, but could’ve faked 95% if I’d had to.

And that’s it! As long as my four incisions heal up OK, I think this saga is officially over with.

HTML tags are not allowed.

131,101 Spambots Blocked by Simple Comments

Kelli

Tuesday 2nd of January 2024

Hi I’m dealing with gallbladder issues and terrified of surgery. I just came across your page and I love the detailed account of everything. I see it’s been years for you now. I just wondered long term do you still feel happy about your decision to get it out?

Amy Oztan

Tuesday 2nd of January 2024

Hi! No regrets. I usually have a bit of diarrhea in the morning (a common side effect, since nothing is regulating the release of bile anymore), although that's gone since I'm on a few different medications that can cause constipation—they seem to be balancing each other out.

But just note that some people don't have as easy a time, and have to change their diets. I was lucky. Still, better than the crippling pain!

Toni

Monday 28th of December 2015

I've never walked into the OR, or seen anyone else do that. That seems super weird to me. But when in Rome!

I'm glad you're on the road of recovery, though I hope you remember what I said about not pushing yourself TOO hard this week. You're better, but you want to stay that way.

Any good Percocet dreams?

Amy Oztan

Monday 28th of December 2015

No weird dreams at all! I feel totally shorted by the whole drug thing. I don't understand how someone would get addicted to it either, because it's not like there was any kind of "high" involved. I would be in pain, I would take it, and eventually the pain would start to go away. I wanted another one when the pain came back. What's the difference between being addicted and honestly being in need of getting rid of pain? Or maybe some people have a different reaction, something I didn't feel?

Privacy Policy ~ Full Disclosure ~ Disclaimer