During our race across Stockholm by ambulance in the wee hours of the morning from our gorgeous waterfront hotel to the hospital, all I could think about is how we were supposed to be in France by noon that day to start the weekend wedding celebration for my husband’s best friend. Actually, that’s not true. I could think of NOTHING except vomiting and pain until the morphine and anti-nausea meds the EMT gave me kicked in. The first relief I’d had in 36-straight hours, girlfriend
My stomachache had hit suddenly on Wednesday afternoon, but by 1:30am on Friday I knew I needed more than over the counter meds to deal with the fireball-shrieking-pain-demon raging inside my tummy. I was still hoping that when we got to the ER they could give me some kind of stomach acid relief meds and we could still make the flight (maybe I’d just had too much European espressos??), with a great story to tell as we joined the party only a little worse for wear.
Five hours later, with a white blood cell count indicating major infection and an abdominal CT scan revealing appendicitis, it was clear I wasn’t going anywhere except straight to surgery. I guess if it was going to happen, I was extremely grateful to be in Sweden. Excellent health care and pretty much everyone speaks English, so I could communicate. In the moment, that worked for me.
The surgeon suspected my appendix was ruptured, so now everything started to happen quickly. I didn’t really notice when I was admitted (I think I filled out some paperwork, crazy how that detail escapes me), quickly showered and changed into the hospital clothing they handed me, and got back on the gurney to be wheeled down to the surgery wing.
Now things started to go a little haywire. The two staff members driving my gurney went to the wrong floor. They looked at each other, exchanging confused glances. I was wondering how in the world they could NOT know where the surgery floor is located if their job is to escort patients to their scheduled procedure. IT’S THE SURGERY DEPARTMENT. We got back on the elevator and went to a different floor, where they took me to the wrong OR bay. No one had my name listed on their paperwork. My morphine was starting to wear off, and my anxiety was going through the roof. They wheeled me around the corner and yes, they had me on that list. Thank the Lord! I answered more questions, tried to calm my breathing, and felt the waves of fire pain return. I watched the digital clock high up on the wall flip number after number. Every time I looked up, I was shocked to find it had only been one more minute because it felt like forever.
Sweden was supposed to be a short 2 ½-day stop on our trip itinerary that was squeezed in between visiting my husband’s friends in Norway and the glorious wedding in France. Wrong. So wrong.
When the OR nurses rapidly fired questions at me in Swedish, I started my spiel about how sorry I am that I only speak English, knowing that the little bit of Spanish I do speak didn’t help at all. They asked me if the surgeon drew the “map” on my stomach to explain what it would look like if it was the “easy way” (laparoscopy) or the “hard way” (full open abdominal cut). Yep, I confirmed. I told them I was hoping it would be the easy way, but that I knew they wouldn’t wake me up mid-surgery to let me know if they have to do the full enchilada. Either way, I knew I would be buying some new sexy one-pieces for all future beach vacations. I think maybe one of the intended outcomes of all of their questions was to distract me from the pain and anxiety, and while thinking about new swimsuits may not actually be helping, the distraction was an impressive effort on their part.
My body couldn’t stop shaking, frankly from just pure shock at this point. I saw the anesthesiologist’s clear blue eyes above her mask, looking straight into mine, as she told me that she was giving me something right now to put me under and the pain willlll sooooon ….
I woke up and they moved me to a coed, 4-person wardroom. Wait, what? But since everyone in Sweden is so nice, it was like being at a grownup sleep away camp except we were all sick and looked like a mess and had our curtains pulled around each of our cubicles like tents. Apparently in Swedish hospitals you bring your own clothes to wear — who knew? So everyone else was in loungewear and I was wearing what looked like hospital prison-issued boxers with a matching long button-up t-shirt down to my knees.
We were all a little awkward around each other – obviously not properly introduced, no one feeling good, and trying to maintain some semblance of privacy and decorum while we four adult strangers shared a room. And a bathroom. While in pain. Sometimes crying out or moaning. Feeling very vulnerable.
My husband arrived to see me and got kicked out shortly after because visiting hours were already over (who knew??). Quick goodnight kiss. Things seemed upside down, and we were in a foreign country together but separately now. Still, we were both relieved the surgery was over and I sent him off with a smile. Things shut down early, lights were low, and the soft reading lights glowed above each bed. I felt like I was in some kind of amazing (because I was alive and safe) but bizarre dream state.
Despite my initial reaction – and heartbreak over missing the wedding completely – over the next seven days I discovered how grateful I was for that shared room. I would have been completely alone and isolated in a single, with only my own thoughts and anxieties to keep me company. The positives of the comraderie all of the patients shared far outweighed the noisy nights and lack of privacy. We looked out for each other, chatted and shared about ourselves and our families. We were able to be afraid and in pain, and knew someone understood exactly how we were feeling. We had someone to eat breakfast and lunch with every day, just like little kids at school. I felt supported by this stranger-connection in a crazy good way. I am absolutely positive the communal nature of the recovery ward sped up the healing process. I flew home ten days after my surgery without a single complication. Grateful.
And you know what, girlfriends? I grew to love my white hospital jammies – probably because I associate them now with live-saving, heartfelt care – so much that I stole a pair and brought them home. The label “Hospital Capio St. Joran” makes me smile every time I see them in my drawer, and I know my life is forever connected to Sweden and those kind souls.