Post-Op
Title
Post-Op
Identifier
Document5_(1)
Creator
Jacob Schlitt
Description
"We are not out of the woods yet."
Date
2016-09-12
Coverage
2016
Format
application/pdf
Type
text
Text
POST-OP
We are not out of the woods yet. But I do see a dim light at the end of the tunnel. However, I suspect I will have to keep on keeping on, and maybe some day I will reach the promised land, where there will be birds and bees and cigarette trees, and a big rock candy mountain, even bigger than my prostate, and I will lay down my sword and shield and study war no more, and will no longer search the internet for information about BPH, transurethral resections, foley catheters, cystoscopies and resectoscopes.
It is Monday September 12, 2016. I have regaled you with my musings about the enlargement of my prostate, which required me to seek the attention of a urologist last June. The symptoms leading up to my visit was increasing difficulty urinating caused by the aforementioned enlarged prostate squeezing my poor urethra to the point that it was unable to serve as a conduit for my urine from my bladder to the toilet bowl. A condition called “urinary retention” and if you please, “fecal retention” due to my BPH.
On August 28, I was presented with a foley catheter, about which I have written. A week of discomfort in anticipation of surgery September 8. I tried to live my life as normally as possible, but it was difficult since most of the time I was concerned about “elimination” both urinary and fecal. That is no way to spend one’s days. Come, September 8, my troubles will be over.
Fran and I arrived at the Beth Israel hospital at 11 am, I was admitted to a room called pre-op, undressed, and had all my possessions put into a green plastic bag. I was told not to take anything, so I left my wallet, watch and keys at home. I had my hearing aids, glasses, and a half-charged cell phone. All kinds of nurses surrounded me. I had an IV inserted in my arm, I had my vital signs taken, I was asked my name and date of birth repeatedly, I met the anesthesiologist, and her assistant, I met my urologist’s assistant. I tried to remember their names, but couldn’t. The surgery was scheduled for 12. I was rolled into the operating room, shifted from my rolling bed to the operating table, the anesthesiologist put a mask over my nose and mouth and asked me to breath deeply, which I did, and that is the last thing I remember, until I woke up in a room called the recovery room and it around 3 pm.
I asked someone if it went well. She answered, it did. It is possible that the person had no idea, but always answered it went well, when asked. After a while, someone else showed up and wheeled me to the room I would be staying in overnight. (1262 Feldberg.) I discovered I had an even larger catheter with three ports, which was attached to two bags: one put water into me through one opening, and another received the urine mixed with the water into another receptacle. I am unclear about this. My urologist, Dr. Peter Steinberg, showed up. I asked him how it went. He answered it went well, just like the person in recovery. I asked him if I will be going home tomorrow. He said, I should. Great. I wasn’t feeling so great. Fran called, and I told her not to bother coming, and that everything went well, which is what Dr. Steinberg, told her after the surgery.
I met a new nurse, and the resident urologist. Both of them studied the color of the urine, which turned out to be very red. That was my blood coloring my pee. I was told not to worry. That is the way it looks after surgery. The color will lighten. In fact when it lightens to everyone’s satisfaction, I can go home. My nurse described the preferred color to “fruit punch.” (And the sizes of the enlarged prostate to lemon, orange and grapefruit. The citrus industry should object.) I had a liquid supper—broth, tea and jello.
The night crept along. I would half-doze when a person would appear and take my vital signs.
Daylight came. I apparently was not producing enough urine or something—a blood clot—so my nurse performed a procedure called an irrigation in which something like a huge plastic syringe was filled with water and forced up my penis. It was painful. I did not care for it at all. I had breakfast. I had breakfast. (The coffee was awful.) A few more hours passed. I asked about being discharged. The resident urologist, Dr. Chiang, came by and did a super irrigation, which was even more painful, but if that is what it takes to get me out of there, I will endure it. By 2:30 pm, I received my discharge papers (just like in the army.) I called Fran to pick me up in the front of the Feldberg Building, and the nurse put me in a wheelchair, to wait for her. I waited and waited. Not having my wallet or keys, I could not go home on my own. And since my cell phone died, and the hospital did not have a charger, I could not call a neighbor. I would just have to wait. Fran had been waiting at Shapiro until she remembered I had said Feldberg. She eventually showed up, I arrived home, and got into bed.
We did not bother with Friday night dinner. I had some chicken broth and crackers, making believe it was chicken soup and challah. Now to deal with post-op. No fun. I had been prescribed oxycodone for pain and docusate sodium for the constipation caused by the oxycodone. The next day I was told that bacteria was found in my urine following surgery so I should take an antibiotic for that. I was told to continue finasteride, but not to take baby aspirin. When it turned out that the docusate was not dealing with the constipation, we moved onto milk of magnesia and finally an enema. And it turned out that the catheter was leaking constantly. I ran through all my underwear and was putting new folded sheets on the bed to avoid wetting the mattress. (All the gory details.)
It took me three days to figure out that I should put the catheter bag lower on my thigh so the tube lies straighter. The loop in the tube may have been responsible for much of the leakage. It was a lousy three days. I am grateful for everyone’s concern and calls. For the first two days, I was in no condition to talk to anyone. I was a terrible burden to Fran. Being in pain does make one irritable. I slept a little better last night. I called Dr. Steinberg this morning and he plans to remove the catheter tomorrow. I have a special pill, ciproflaxacin, to be taken the morning of the “procedure.” I have never taken so many pills in my life. I did not read, or watch TV. For the most part, I just lay in bed for three days. I refused to do that today. I got up, dressed, had breakfast, and sat down at my computer and wrote this.
I am not sure what tomorrow will bring. (No one is.) I hope things will go well. (I notice I have been saying “I have my fingers crossed,” and assume it is related to “you know what,” so I am going to try to avoid say it.) We will see. It seems I will not be up for the trip, which creates problems. That’s it for now.
9-12-16
We are not out of the woods yet. But I do see a dim light at the end of the tunnel. However, I suspect I will have to keep on keeping on, and maybe some day I will reach the promised land, where there will be birds and bees and cigarette trees, and a big rock candy mountain, even bigger than my prostate, and I will lay down my sword and shield and study war no more, and will no longer search the internet for information about BPH, transurethral resections, foley catheters, cystoscopies and resectoscopes.
It is Monday September 12, 2016. I have regaled you with my musings about the enlargement of my prostate, which required me to seek the attention of a urologist last June. The symptoms leading up to my visit was increasing difficulty urinating caused by the aforementioned enlarged prostate squeezing my poor urethra to the point that it was unable to serve as a conduit for my urine from my bladder to the toilet bowl. A condition called “urinary retention” and if you please, “fecal retention” due to my BPH.
On August 28, I was presented with a foley catheter, about which I have written. A week of discomfort in anticipation of surgery September 8. I tried to live my life as normally as possible, but it was difficult since most of the time I was concerned about “elimination” both urinary and fecal. That is no way to spend one’s days. Come, September 8, my troubles will be over.
Fran and I arrived at the Beth Israel hospital at 11 am, I was admitted to a room called pre-op, undressed, and had all my possessions put into a green plastic bag. I was told not to take anything, so I left my wallet, watch and keys at home. I had my hearing aids, glasses, and a half-charged cell phone. All kinds of nurses surrounded me. I had an IV inserted in my arm, I had my vital signs taken, I was asked my name and date of birth repeatedly, I met the anesthesiologist, and her assistant, I met my urologist’s assistant. I tried to remember their names, but couldn’t. The surgery was scheduled for 12. I was rolled into the operating room, shifted from my rolling bed to the operating table, the anesthesiologist put a mask over my nose and mouth and asked me to breath deeply, which I did, and that is the last thing I remember, until I woke up in a room called the recovery room and it around 3 pm.
I asked someone if it went well. She answered, it did. It is possible that the person had no idea, but always answered it went well, when asked. After a while, someone else showed up and wheeled me to the room I would be staying in overnight. (1262 Feldberg.) I discovered I had an even larger catheter with three ports, which was attached to two bags: one put water into me through one opening, and another received the urine mixed with the water into another receptacle. I am unclear about this. My urologist, Dr. Peter Steinberg, showed up. I asked him how it went. He answered it went well, just like the person in recovery. I asked him if I will be going home tomorrow. He said, I should. Great. I wasn’t feeling so great. Fran called, and I told her not to bother coming, and that everything went well, which is what Dr. Steinberg, told her after the surgery.
I met a new nurse, and the resident urologist. Both of them studied the color of the urine, which turned out to be very red. That was my blood coloring my pee. I was told not to worry. That is the way it looks after surgery. The color will lighten. In fact when it lightens to everyone’s satisfaction, I can go home. My nurse described the preferred color to “fruit punch.” (And the sizes of the enlarged prostate to lemon, orange and grapefruit. The citrus industry should object.) I had a liquid supper—broth, tea and jello.
The night crept along. I would half-doze when a person would appear and take my vital signs.
Daylight came. I apparently was not producing enough urine or something—a blood clot—so my nurse performed a procedure called an irrigation in which something like a huge plastic syringe was filled with water and forced up my penis. It was painful. I did not care for it at all. I had breakfast. I had breakfast. (The coffee was awful.) A few more hours passed. I asked about being discharged. The resident urologist, Dr. Chiang, came by and did a super irrigation, which was even more painful, but if that is what it takes to get me out of there, I will endure it. By 2:30 pm, I received my discharge papers (just like in the army.) I called Fran to pick me up in the front of the Feldberg Building, and the nurse put me in a wheelchair, to wait for her. I waited and waited. Not having my wallet or keys, I could not go home on my own. And since my cell phone died, and the hospital did not have a charger, I could not call a neighbor. I would just have to wait. Fran had been waiting at Shapiro until she remembered I had said Feldberg. She eventually showed up, I arrived home, and got into bed.
We did not bother with Friday night dinner. I had some chicken broth and crackers, making believe it was chicken soup and challah. Now to deal with post-op. No fun. I had been prescribed oxycodone for pain and docusate sodium for the constipation caused by the oxycodone. The next day I was told that bacteria was found in my urine following surgery so I should take an antibiotic for that. I was told to continue finasteride, but not to take baby aspirin. When it turned out that the docusate was not dealing with the constipation, we moved onto milk of magnesia and finally an enema. And it turned out that the catheter was leaking constantly. I ran through all my underwear and was putting new folded sheets on the bed to avoid wetting the mattress. (All the gory details.)
It took me three days to figure out that I should put the catheter bag lower on my thigh so the tube lies straighter. The loop in the tube may have been responsible for much of the leakage. It was a lousy three days. I am grateful for everyone’s concern and calls. For the first two days, I was in no condition to talk to anyone. I was a terrible burden to Fran. Being in pain does make one irritable. I slept a little better last night. I called Dr. Steinberg this morning and he plans to remove the catheter tomorrow. I have a special pill, ciproflaxacin, to be taken the morning of the “procedure.” I have never taken so many pills in my life. I did not read, or watch TV. For the most part, I just lay in bed for three days. I refused to do that today. I got up, dressed, had breakfast, and sat down at my computer and wrote this.
I am not sure what tomorrow will bring. (No one is.) I hope things will go well. (I notice I have been saying “I have my fingers crossed,” and assume it is related to “you know what,” so I am going to try to avoid say it.) We will see. It seems I will not be up for the trip, which creates problems. That’s it for now.
9-12-16
Original Format
application/msword
Collection
Citation
Jacob Schlitt, “Post-Op,” Autobiographical stories & other writing by Jacob Schlitt, accessed April 23, 2025, https://tsirlson.omeka.net/items/show/416.