Day 3: January 18, 2024

I asked what day it was and was shocked to hear it was Wednesday. I remembered nothing about day 1 or 2 and couldn’t recall the names of my care staff. The one I called “Lexus” may or may not have been correctly identified on my part. A woman came into my room, claiming to be my god daughter. I did not recognize her, blaming it on the surgical cap she was wearing. The nurse said that she worked for the hospital but didn’t know who she was while my wife claimed that she had simply wandered into the wrong room. It would be hours later, that seemed like days to me, before the mystery was solved. In that timeframe, I was focused on my friend from Indianapolis whose daughter called me “The Godfather.” However, she was not in a medical work role, but her sister was, adding to my confusion. I also thought they had left me in the hallway and forgotten me, but instead I was still in my same Intensive care room with doors open and curtains pulled back. More confusion! An attendant gave me my first shave and shampoo so I would be ready for guests. I vaguely remember my wife being there before she left for the first time after three long days to drive back home and my son came to visit, clarifying the whole “Godfather” episode. The mysterious visitor was indeed my ex-wife’s sister’s daughter that I hadn’t seen since she was about two years old. We had a nice visit. At the same time, I do remember feeling obsessively upset and helpless once my wife told me about the Westin room screw -up. They then got me on my feet for the first time.

The first night of consciousness was filled with annoying monitor beeps, probing nurses, and what I thought was a loud party that went on for hours. I couldn’t believe how disruptive they were or that no one came to check on me. I could not sleep, eat, or feel anything but touched my chest for the first time, thinking of the potholders I used to weave as a child. Untrimmed threads of yarn were protruding from my wounds and I certainly didn’t want to look. Tubes of various sizes ran out through my neck and ear areas, closest to the carotid artery. There remained a soreness in my throat from the breathing tubes that were removed just after surgery.

Nurses and doctors were concerned that I had yet to poop and began to fill me with laxatives. The pain drugs were causing the constipation, although my wife was convinced it was all the cookies I consumed the previous weekend, worried they might be my last. One health professional jokingly mentioned “Mount Vesuvius” and I was worried about making a mess for days. I was already humiliated by flashing everyone with my loose-fitting gown. I didn’t want them to have to wipe my butt, as well, after removing the smelly diaper. I kept calling for a commode but nothing was happening. Fortunately, I was wearing a catheter, so I didn’t have to also worry about peeing the bed.

The catheter was a surprising relief, after trying to imagine the discomfort of a tube up my shriveled penis. With prostrate problems and months of getting out of bed nearly every two hours, it was a savior in the first few days of recovery, although at times it felt like I was soaking the sheets. A man in the next room moaned and prayed for hours. I tried to watch basketball but the players moved like molasses. A few days later the football playoffs were on but I couldn’t find the right channel. Thankfully, I couldn’t watch two IU basketball losses to Purdue and Wisconsin. 

I was convinced that they quickly moved me out of Intensive care on Wednesday eve because they didn’t want to deal with the stench of Vesuvius. I vaguely recall being uncomfortably positioned on a table in a room full of monitors with a pan under my butt. They were monitoring my Afib and I was surrounded by students and visiting physicians asking questions, hoping that my angry bowels wouldn’t explode. I felt like I was on display as a specimen to the medical world. An attendant brought me dinner but I had no interest. I just wanted to poop. I also remember being moved to another area where it seemed like they were painfully pressing BBs into my neck muscles. This combined with the bowel discomfort was unbearable. Neck pains became my greatest discomfort going forward, applying Lidocaine patches to ease the strain. Finally, I was wheeled to my hospital  room where they said was a real toilet but I was wired to get only to the commode next to my bed. My wife settled into the chair beside me after returning from home for another long night of beeping and poking.