Day 1 Post-Op: The Heavy Iron, Cuts on the Face, and the Longest Night
Good morning. I think.
If Wednesday’s anterior surgery was a masterclass in delicate precision, Thursday’s posterior rebuild was pure, unapologetic trauma. There is no comparison between the two. Yesterday morning I woke up hurting, but it was manageable and there were pockets of relief. This morning, I am in barely manageable, full-body pain.
Last night was brutal. I have had virtually zero sleep across the last forty-eight hours. The first night was driven by that eerie, chemical wakefulness – the surgical team thinks it was the high-dose steroids electrifying my nervous system. But last night I didn’t have insomnia. Last night was pure, unrelenting pain.
I could not find an ounce of comfort no matter what we tried. With great difficulty and assistance, I tried lying on my side, then flat on my back, but every single angle brought sharp, heavy agony. Right now, I am attempting to sit slightly propped up in bed, typing one-handed through blurry eyes with the pulse oximeter clipped to my finger. Every tiny movement feels monumental. In this moment, it is hard to imagine ever moving smoothly again.
Aside from tiny sips of water, I haven’t had anything to eat in three days. Just a moment ago, the nurse brought me a small cup of cold cranberry juice. It tasted like heaven. In a couple of hours, if my stomach stays calm, I might finally be brave enough to order real food.
Once I managed to get my contacts in, I caught the reflection of my face in my phone screen. My skin is dotted with small cuts, scrapes, and deep pressure abrasions from the aggressive taping and the tight oxygen seal they used while I was prone. It’s a bit of a bummer to look in the mirror and see battle scars on your face after all that pre-op pampering, but it is just another badge from the marathon.
Looking back on yesterday morning before they took me down, the start was filled with incredible warmth. My dad, Matt, and my brother Daniel completely surprised me in pre-op. Having three of the best, most steadfast men in my world standing together right in front of my bed – sharing hugs, kisses, and that solid, grounding presence, melted all the clinical tension away.
Because the surgical schedule was delayed, I eventually sent them home so they wouldn’t have to pace the waiting rooms for hours. After they left, pure boredom took over. No phone, no reading material, no television,just me staring at the hospital ceiling, twiddling my thumbs, and letting the quiet anticipation build.
When the surgical team finally came to roll me into the OR, they spared me the visual shock of the transfer. Unlike Wednesday, they put me under before moving me onto the operating frame. As I was wheeled in, I caught a glimpse of the setup: strange angles, specialized leg cradles, and a prone headrest designed to hold me face down for seven hours of heavy bone work. I cannot fathom the mechanics of how they safely flipped and positioned me, and honestly, I am deeply glad I was asleep for it.
I didn’t get rolled back to my hospital room until late, well past 9:00 PM. As far as I know, the surgery was a success, though I haven’t heard the full technical debrief from Dr. Allison yet.
Through all of this, my heart aches for Matt. He has been running on empty, dealing with his own flared hip and back after pushing way too hard following his shoulder surgery, alongside a painful flare-up of gout that I suspect was triggered entirely by the silent stress of this week. Even while hurting, he managed to see our chiropractor, Bree, who has been working on him daily just to keep him mobile. He has carried an extraordinary amount of weight on his shoulders, hiding his worry so he could be strong for me. I am so profoundly grateful for how he shows up, how he cares for me, and how he holds our life together. I could not do this life without him.
My phone has been buzzing quietly with constant check-ins from the kids and our close and many circle of friends. I feel the safety net under me.
The heavy carpentry is over. The rods and screws are in. The foundation and the frame are set. Right now, I am simply surviving the shock of the rebuild – one breath, one sip of juice, and one slow hour at a time.
