OK..here's the deal.
I came out of surgery with a thin layer of skin taken from my right leg (knee cap to hip...alll the way around) which was then put through a meshing machine to spread it out (like playdough through the playdough press) and then grafted (laid over and stapled) to my abdomen/chest, arms and a little bit on my shoulders.
I can't do the pain justice.
Doing ANYTHING with my leg other than lay down, the blood rushes to my the limb where there is one layer of skin gone. There's really nothing to compare this to.
I would lay in my bed until I had to go to the bathroom. The nurses would tell me to use the bed pan but I knew that longer I stayed off the leg, the longer it would take to heal (leg needs fresh blood flowing to it to help regeneration of cells). So I'd say screw them and feebly sit up in the bed. Then I'd anticipate the pain.
I let me leg slowly fall over the edge of the bed. The pain is really not bearable. It feels like my leg is a humongous pimple that is about to burst. I tear-up and slide off the bed hobbling on one leg. Why does the movie "Misery" come to mind as I limp out the door?
I moan all the way down the hall and quietly hum to myself- because if I don't hum, I'll cry. I guess I'm using my 'inside" voice to cry?
When I finally get to the bathroom, I sit down. Really, my bodily need to relieve myself is completely secondary to my need to manage the pain. It's like my body and my pain are two different things. The body goes to the bathroom while "I", the real "me", hums songs, counts numbers, swears, spits, goes a little crazy, until I can stand up again and hobble back down the hall to my room.
Back in my bed I feel the sweet relief of having my leg up. Besides that, I bask in the glory of having kicked the pain's ass. Well, Ok,at least I feel like I "beat" the pain. A guy has to have something to hold on to in situations like this. The fact that I'm alive isn't enough anymore. That was so "yesterday."
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