I awoke this morning realizing that one year ago today, at this time I was laying in a hospital bed feeling very anxious. My anxiety was over the impending surgery I was about to have. The first operation for my ileostomy on May 18th had a serious complication: my intestine kinked and I couldn't expel any of my waste. My body had almost shut down entirely 10 days previously, and I sustained additional injuries at my local hospital over the course of a weekend: a collapsed lung and severe dehydration since I was not given any intravenous fluids.

When I was transferred to the hospital where I had the original ileostomy surgery they had to fix the collapsed lung and give me two units of blood. I was so dehydrated that my blood pressure was dangerously low and my heart rate was tachycardic. Not the best conditions in which to operate, so for 10 days they gave me food through my veins. Because of the intravenous feedings my blood sugar became diabetic so I was also given periodic doses of insulin. Much of those 10 days are lost in my lack of memories. A combination of narcotics and the severity of my condition turned off my short-term memory.

By the time the day of my surgery came, my memory was functional enough to be aware that a huge hurricane was approaching Louisianna. It was like background noise in my mind. I heard about it on the news, Pooky would update me about it, but it was distant. Foremost on my mind were the kittens, getting well again, having to delay going back to school, Pooky not falling apart, and so on.

That morning my surgeon came in and I was almost crawling the walls. I asked for a dose of Atavan to sedate my nerves. He complied and I had to wait for that...the waiting was difficult for me. Usually I am not wound-up before surgery, but for this one I was beside myself.

The time came and I was taken in to the OR and the anesthesiologist prepared my epidural. After that was over I was put out by the "milk of amnesia". There is this drug that looks like milk that it put into a syringe and as soon as the plunger is depressed it works instantly.

Then the nightmare came. When I was roused from the operation I was instantly sat upright (remember, my gut had been opened up wide and so I was slit like a gutted fish) being told by the nurses that the epidural hadn't worked and they needed to remove the catheter. My body had just been stapled back together and to be moved like this—is not something I recommend.

I was laid back down and given a dose of the Dilaudid, which did very little for me since I had spent the previous three months receiving frequent doses of it to control the pain I was having from the complications. I had become "immune" to the drug and required a much higher dose, which wasn't feasible without stopping my breathing. So I lied there, crying, screaming, wishing I was out of pain or consciousness.

It was late at night by the time I was taken to my room, and I asked if I could be given a sedative to help me sleep. I was given another dose of Atavan and it helped. Only I did wake up from the pain. I recall asking Pooky to stay the night with me. There was no way I could be alone feeling that birds of prey were pecking away at my gut. He slept in the bed next to me. It comforted me to know he was there.

The next day I got up and walked around the unit floor. I had to if I wanted more sedative for sleep. I was already in so much pain that I reasoned moving wouldn't make a difference either way.

The second surgery will always be a tipping point in my mind. So much of the course of my life was detoured as a result. I am getting back on track, slowly but surely.

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