Botched Surgery Without Anesthesia, Part 2: The Corrective Surgery

Mom pretty much never leaves my side in the hospital, so you can bet being kicked out by a hurricane didn't sit well with her.

Mom pretty much never leaves my side in the hospital, so you can bet being kicked out by a hurricane didn’t sit well with her.

 

[Not sure what the hell I’m talking about in this post? Catch up on my recent, insane hospital visit where they preformed a surgery without anesthesia here.]

The storm had come and gone leaving almost no damage in it’s path. But as far as the events that occurred during it? It was exactly my worst nightmare. Surgery with no anesthesia. Alone in the hospital. I thought the worst had passed. Nothing could possibly suck MORE than that, right?

My body found a new way to prove me wrong.

Over the next day my incision area started to look—as an infectious disease doctor would soon put it “funky.” And as soon as they left the room after palpitating the wound—it started to swell. Then blister. Then…leak all down my chest.

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GROSS. Oh god. I was so grossed out. I don’t think I’ve been more grossed out by anything happening to my body as I was during that moment. And I’ve been through some pretty fucked up shit.

We called in all the doctors again. There were a lot of faces made. A lot of comments. And I’m just sitting there, holding wet gauze to my chest thinking: EW. EW. EW. EW. EW. GET IT OFF ME.

My doctor had already consulted with a general surgeon after my first surgery. He asked, Is that how this is normally done? That they don’t use general anesthesia?

The surgeon was of course like: No. Are you fucking joking? This isn’t some hole-in-the-wall hospital in the Bronx operating on homeless people. Was this interventional radiologist a sadist?

He ended up being the surgeon we went with for the corrective surgery. Because yes—after my ridiculous, no-anesthesia, rip-out-my-port-and-all-the-tissue-connected-to-it surgery—I needed a second surgery to fix the infection-filled MESS that was my incision site.

“So tell me about the surgery,” the surgeon asked me during the consult. I told him the whole story.

“She said she didn’t SEE an infection?” He asked. “But you were having the port removed for an infection…?”

“Yes. She said she didn’t see any puss or anything, so she closed it back up.”

He stared. “You can’t see an infection. It can be microscopic. You were on antibiotics for an infection. Your blood results showed an infection.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sew up an infected wound,” he said. He looked puzzled, but at this point I was just like where is the verasaid? Where is the propofol? Are you going to be knocking me out soon? I’d really like to be knocked out soon. I’m going to have to pee again if you don’t knock me out soon.

Like anyone with a medical degree who wasn’t a complete fucking idiot would, he instructed the anesthesiologist to knock me out.

I woke up from the surgery in agony. My chest was burning. I was also in that half-awake, half-asleep state where one second you think you’re totally fine to get up and pee and the next you’re being pushed back into bed and being told they’ll bring you a bedpan and then you’re like, I’m not an invalid. I’m not using a bedpan.

And then you start crying because you have to pee so bad, but then you fall back asleep and forget about it for a while.

When I finally woke up, ages later, I realized that my chest didn’t hurt so bad. Or maybe it was the IV dillauded they were continuously pumping into me.

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Whatever. At this point I was high as a kite, had NO IDEA what my chest looked like underneath that bandage and found myself asking a hulking nurse named Craig if he could please, please microwave some popcorn for me at three in the morning.

But I was in for a hell of a surprise the next day when the doctor came into to clean my “wound.” Now this was a new experience for me. For as many surgeries as I’ve had over the years—I’ve never really had what one would call a “wound.” It makes me think of like a war hero. Or a shark bite. But nothing could prepare for the ice-cream scooper sized HOLE IN MY CHEST.

Like, holy fucking shit. If I wasn’t already laying down I would have passed out just from glancing at it.

“Oh god. Oh god. What IS that? Why does it look like that? What…???”

The surgeon explained that they’d had to pull out a lot of infected tissue and then they’d had to clean the rest out the infection out. He’d explained it all to me before the surgery but having a GIANT HOLE IN MY CHEST was not something I could visualize until it was actually there. And by the way—when he so much as poked it with a q-tip, I felt like a giant knife was being shoved through my heart.

*NOTE: So at this point in my coverage of this newsworthy event I want to let you know that I will probably not be posting pictures of my GIANT CHEST HOLE within my entries because it really was that disgusting and shocking and continues to shock and disgust me to this very day. I might make a NSFW post later on down the line if some of you sick fucks actually want to see that hot mess. But for now, please allow me to spare you.

Over the next few days we found new ways to style my bandages.

Like this sexy one-shouldered piece.

Like this sexy one-shouldered piece.

 

And I started to get tight with a lot of the hospital staff. Some days it felt like I was really just living there.

I'm pretty sure Ryan and I had an intense but agreeable political conversation at 4 in the morning while he took my blood.

I’m pretty sure Ryan and I had an intense but agreeable political conversation at 4 in the morning while he took my blood.

 

My mom even requested a therapy dog be sent to my room because I was missing Happy so much.

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R.J brought me sushi a few times.

And wore silly hats.

And wore silly hats.

More bandages were applied.

I call this one my "holiday surprise" look!

I call this one my “holiday surprise” look!

But again—this was far from the end of the story of this hospital visit. After all, a lot can happen in 11 days.

Stay tuned for more gross events, how the hospital reacted to my mom’s requests after the botched surgery, and exactly how much popcorn I could and did eat during this time period.

Comments

comments

  • I like the “fix it” surgeon’s response of “you don’t do that.” Um… Obviously not if this is what happens! And how that first surgeon passed medical school while thinking infections were all only visible is beyond me.
    I am so sorry you had to experience this. I look forward to (maybe not the ideal phrase, but it’s intense and i want to know what happens!) the next part of your saga, and I will be skipping over any NSFW posts that come about.

    Wishing you powerful healing thoughts! (And very glad to see, on Instagram, that you finally got released!)