Surgery Day + 11, 12, 13, 14 and 15

I feel as if I am in that movie Groundhog Day where every day is just a repeat of the day before and nothing ever changes.

First thing in the morning Dr. Kai stops by and we agree my operated shoulder is doing very well.  Being totally confined to bed makes it easy to follow all the rules about not using your operated arm to lift anything heavier than a cup of coffee. My half reclined, beach chair position to facilitate breathing is ideal for my new shoulder, if not so good for sleeping.

Next, the respiratory therapist drops in, one of four visits a day.  My favorite treatment involves puffing through a device that resembles an Indian peace pipe but I am not able to instigate an uprising among the staff.

Next appears Dr. Marco, the hospitalist assigned to my case. He is charming, multi- lingual, up- beat, and thorough. He is concerned that my hemoglobin has dipped to 7.5 and is beginning to think about a blood transfusion, something everyone has been trying to avoid since surgery. Apparently blood loss during hip or knee replacement surgery is a common problem, less so in shoulder surgery. Only about 20% of patients undergoing shoulder replacement surgery will require a blood transfusion. One option to consider is autologous donation,  meaning you donate for yourself well in advance of your surgery date. You can also arrange for a a Directed Donor, someone you choose with your same blood type. 

 Next appears Dr. Marsh, a thoracic surgeon. Who ever would have thought I would have one of those? He is confident, plain spoken, and calm. He squints at the water receptacle to which I am tethered by the lung tube and sees tiny bubbles that doom me to yet another day, every day. If I would ever quit effervescing I could be disconnected and go home.

Meals appear and disappear regularly. The food is good but I have no appetite. Nurses and aides inquire as to my pain level frequently. The chest tube hurts, more with movement or, heaven forbid, coughing. Trips to the bathroom are choreographed like a Donald o'Conner dance; me, my IV stand and the water receptacle. Instead of a gossamer gown, or even some pajamas from home, I am content in the hospital gown barely tied behind my neck. Visiting grandchildren raise my spirits tremendously. Dear Husband reads to me, TV sustains me and boredom has morphed into ennui.

But my shoulder is getting along fine.