After reading those last three blog posts one expects a semblance of a happy ending. Then I got better and we lived happily ever after.
I didn't.
I was home, struggling with everything. At the time I was running fevers daily but I didn't know because checking didn't matter to me. Feeding my new baby was tough because of my tender abdomen and nipples although not cracked were very painful for some reason. Also my milk supply was not the most inspiring. After the uneventful gynae check up I had lost hope. Basically he said you should be better, but I wasn't. I was sick and didnt know why. Didn't care why, I just wanted to get better. It had been 3 weeks and something still wasn't right.
Just to recap, I had had a cesarean section where a very angry appendicitis was found and removed during the same surgery. By a surgeon. This meant I had two doctors to review me. And this is what the gynae did. He sent me off to the general surgeon just to make sure there wasn't anything else missed after 3 weeks post surgery.
We realised how popular this surgeon was when we waited in a queue for half an afternoon. Even with my colleague privileges we had to wait for what seemed like a lifetime. Everytime you called him someone else would pick up the call and let you know he is in theatre somewhere out of town but will be there shortly. What was the point of appointments then, we wondered. Anyway, be grateful he is coming today.
As soon as he saw me he knew something was wrong. My heart was beating too fast and too hard (bounding ) , my abdomen was too tender and I was pale. I had been on all the antibiotics favoured by trigger happy doctors so it didn't make sense why I still had an infection. He ordered ultrasound scan and a Ct scan. I was secretly happy but deep down I felt it was overkill. I was thinking yeah, at least they can find any other things of 'interest'
Fast forward. It took about a week to get all these tests and results done because our glorious Zimbabwean system is so efficient. I wondered what women in the public sector go through. Actually I didn't have to wonder, I knew. The CT scan had a waiting period of 3 working days for a report. But what if it was an emergency? Apparently there was no such thing. When I finally got my results my whole world was shook from inside out. It was worse than I thought. Why would this happen to me? Well, it could be answered medically, but emotionally I was finished.
I had developed a pelvic abscess. In simple terms, the infected appendix that had been removed had infected free fluid in my abdomen and I eventually developed a big pocket of pus in my pelvis. This was what was causing fevers. This was why I wasn't getting better. Memories came flooding back of my internship days of women with pelvic abscesses dying in the ward because they came in when it was too late. I was gripped with fear. The treatment for this needed me to be readmitted to hospital. There was a high chance I needed yet another surgery. What was I going to do with my baby?
Why me? Why me? Why me?!?!
There's something about knowing your diagnosis. You start feeling as sick as it is. What I had been able to soldier through before was now too difficult. I had to take the shameful step of starting my baby on supplementary formula. It was so ironic as I thought back of all the times I reprimanded mums about breast is best for 6 months. All that went out the window. Rather, fed is best.
My surgeon didn't want to reopen me. He suggested we go see an interventional radiologist who could possibly drain the abscess using ultrasound scan as a guide and do the whole procedure laparoscopically. I would still have to be in a hospital set up. It would still involve needles, which by this time I was weary of. I would be on antibiotics and monitored afterwards. This was still a better option than surgery.
Organising the whole thing was a torrid affair. Involving medical aid companies who said everything is impossible, people's secretaries who said their boss is in theatre (forever) , hospitals that wanted their cheques from extensive previous stays. Superman hubby took over and up to now they know him. I'm proud but I'm also scared for the recipients.
I was readmitted to an HDU ward... Not because of my condition but because of limited bed space. My baby was not allowed here. He was was to go home with his gran and dad with some of my expressed milk and visit me twice a day for feeds. The condition of the other patients in that ward made me grateful but sad at the same time. It was then that I realised health is Not A Given. It's all grace. The whole thing. Our lives. Everything.
Fast forward again. They drained about 350mls of terrible looking pus for my pelvis. They left a drain for 24hrs and the stuff was still coming out. I was those people who walk around with a catheter bag, trying to hide its contents. I sympathised with all those prostate patients. Albeit them being elderly men I really understood now.
This time round I did not make friends with anyone in the ward. They eventually moved me to maternity ward with mothers who had just delivered. Congratulations I would say and that's the end of this friendliness. I just wanted to get better and get out of here. I was no longer shy to make my needs very clear to the nurses. I did not care how demanding they thought I was. This was Operation Get Home.
Meanwhile the real world was going on. Apparently as I lay in hospital Zimbabwe was going up in economic flames. I couldn't make sense of most of it. Fuel queues, panic buying. Something about 2%? My world was about getting out of here and getting better. Friends and family did not understand why I wasn't answering some calls. When could they come see the baby? It all didn't make sense to them. It had been four long weeks. And there were big events like my graduation for my masters degree. I was sadly going to miss that.
When I was discharged there were no celebrations. I just didn't know what other curveballs awaited me. Was this journey finally reaching its destination to good health? Surely this was the end right?
Right?
I didn't.
I was home, struggling with everything. At the time I was running fevers daily but I didn't know because checking didn't matter to me. Feeding my new baby was tough because of my tender abdomen and nipples although not cracked were very painful for some reason. Also my milk supply was not the most inspiring. After the uneventful gynae check up I had lost hope. Basically he said you should be better, but I wasn't. I was sick and didnt know why. Didn't care why, I just wanted to get better. It had been 3 weeks and something still wasn't right.
Just to recap, I had had a cesarean section where a very angry appendicitis was found and removed during the same surgery. By a surgeon. This meant I had two doctors to review me. And this is what the gynae did. He sent me off to the general surgeon just to make sure there wasn't anything else missed after 3 weeks post surgery.
We realised how popular this surgeon was when we waited in a queue for half an afternoon. Even with my colleague privileges we had to wait for what seemed like a lifetime. Everytime you called him someone else would pick up the call and let you know he is in theatre somewhere out of town but will be there shortly. What was the point of appointments then, we wondered. Anyway, be grateful he is coming today.
As soon as he saw me he knew something was wrong. My heart was beating too fast and too hard (bounding ) , my abdomen was too tender and I was pale. I had been on all the antibiotics favoured by trigger happy doctors so it didn't make sense why I still had an infection. He ordered ultrasound scan and a Ct scan. I was secretly happy but deep down I felt it was overkill. I was thinking yeah, at least they can find any other things of 'interest'
Fast forward. It took about a week to get all these tests and results done because our glorious Zimbabwean system is so efficient. I wondered what women in the public sector go through. Actually I didn't have to wonder, I knew. The CT scan had a waiting period of 3 working days for a report. But what if it was an emergency? Apparently there was no such thing. When I finally got my results my whole world was shook from inside out. It was worse than I thought. Why would this happen to me? Well, it could be answered medically, but emotionally I was finished.
I had developed a pelvic abscess. In simple terms, the infected appendix that had been removed had infected free fluid in my abdomen and I eventually developed a big pocket of pus in my pelvis. This was what was causing fevers. This was why I wasn't getting better. Memories came flooding back of my internship days of women with pelvic abscesses dying in the ward because they came in when it was too late. I was gripped with fear. The treatment for this needed me to be readmitted to hospital. There was a high chance I needed yet another surgery. What was I going to do with my baby?
Why me? Why me? Why me?!?!
There's something about knowing your diagnosis. You start feeling as sick as it is. What I had been able to soldier through before was now too difficult. I had to take the shameful step of starting my baby on supplementary formula. It was so ironic as I thought back of all the times I reprimanded mums about breast is best for 6 months. All that went out the window. Rather, fed is best.
My surgeon didn't want to reopen me. He suggested we go see an interventional radiologist who could possibly drain the abscess using ultrasound scan as a guide and do the whole procedure laparoscopically. I would still have to be in a hospital set up. It would still involve needles, which by this time I was weary of. I would be on antibiotics and monitored afterwards. This was still a better option than surgery.
Organising the whole thing was a torrid affair. Involving medical aid companies who said everything is impossible, people's secretaries who said their boss is in theatre (forever) , hospitals that wanted their cheques from extensive previous stays. Superman hubby took over and up to now they know him. I'm proud but I'm also scared for the recipients.
I was readmitted to an HDU ward... Not because of my condition but because of limited bed space. My baby was not allowed here. He was was to go home with his gran and dad with some of my expressed milk and visit me twice a day for feeds. The condition of the other patients in that ward made me grateful but sad at the same time. It was then that I realised health is Not A Given. It's all grace. The whole thing. Our lives. Everything.
Fast forward again. They drained about 350mls of terrible looking pus for my pelvis. They left a drain for 24hrs and the stuff was still coming out. I was those people who walk around with a catheter bag, trying to hide its contents. I sympathised with all those prostate patients. Albeit them being elderly men I really understood now.
This time round I did not make friends with anyone in the ward. They eventually moved me to maternity ward with mothers who had just delivered. Congratulations I would say and that's the end of this friendliness. I just wanted to get better and get out of here. I was no longer shy to make my needs very clear to the nurses. I did not care how demanding they thought I was. This was Operation Get Home.
Meanwhile the real world was going on. Apparently as I lay in hospital Zimbabwe was going up in economic flames. I couldn't make sense of most of it. Fuel queues, panic buying. Something about 2%? My world was about getting out of here and getting better. Friends and family did not understand why I wasn't answering some calls. When could they come see the baby? It all didn't make sense to them. It had been four long weeks. And there were big events like my graduation for my masters degree. I was sadly going to miss that.
When I was discharged there were no celebrations. I just didn't know what other curveballs awaited me. Was this journey finally reaching its destination to good health? Surely this was the end right?
Right?
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