Maybe it was because I ordered Flavors of India for dinner last night and overdosed on carbs. Or maybe it's because I'm finally stopping with the self-pity and deciding that life here really isn't all that bad. Could it be that I'm actually accepting and moving on? I'm not sure what it was, but I woke up this morning feeling better...and that is a huge step in the right decision. My nickname by more than a few people is "Sunshine." This morning, I actually felt sun-shiny.
With the exception of the bureaucratic craziness leading up to surgery, and one doctor, I would say that my transplant experience at UCSF was positive. The nurses were amazing. The social worker empathized. My surgeon, while busy, genuinely cared about me, my fears, and my progress. The nephrologist on the other hand acted like a robot - he treated me as though I was a number...just a body - not a human being who had undergone major surgery, saved someone's life, was left with only one kidney, and would forever be changed.
I remember feeling like I was going to die as I lay in that hospital room the days after surgery. I have never felt so vulnerable in my entire life. I had given my complete trust to the medical staff and the only thing that I could do was believe in the process. My life was literally in their hands. I couldn't move, there was a catheter in my body, I had five bloody abdominal incisions, I vomited every time I tried to stand up, and was in constant, severe pain. Most of all - I was scared. Was this how I was supposed to feel? When was I going to get better? What did it mean that my kidney wasn't producing enough urine? Why are you sending me home - I DON'T feel normal.
As I lay there, drugged, sick, and in fear, the nephrologist made daily rounds with UCSF students. Having surgery at one of the best medical schools in the country was both enlightening and demoralizing. As an aspiring medical student, I was intrigued by the process and comforted by the residents - they were the ones who showed actual sympathy and concern. The nephrologist on the other hand would walk in surrounded by at least 20 students, recite his list of 15 "yes or no" questions and then, without warning, pull back the sheets covering my exposed body to examine my incisions. My largest scar is below my bikini line where the surgeon actually went in with his hands to remove my fist-sized organ (yes, I watched all five hours of the surgery that they, oh so kindly filmed for me), so suffice it to say that I was forced to quickly forgo any bodily insecurities that I may or may not have had. An entire room full of medical students took turns studying, taking notes, and drawing what they thought (but would not say) was either successful or unsuccessful progress.
There is a lot to be said about my kidney donation. I have been a patient before. Transplant surgery was not my first experience undergoing the knife. But there is significant value to being a patient before becoming a doctor. I know what it feels like to lose control. To be put in a position where you a forced to trust the medical staff. You have to believe that they are doing everything in their power to accomplish optimal results. They are there to save you. To fix you. To un-break you. They are there with the good news and the bad news. They are the intermediate to your mortality. Physicians have a decision - to take this responsibility lightly or seriously. To have big egos or to actually care. As I struggle through the challenge of getting back the ambition that inspired me to begin this adventure I am reminded of the bigger picture and what it must feel like to make that kind of a difference.
No comments:
Post a Comment