I knew it would hurt, but no one told me it would be like this
I went into surgery fully aware that there would be some discomfort. Some pain. I even prepped myself mentally for pain. But nothing prepared me for the night after they placed the stent.
The spasms were relentless. The kind of pain that made me question whether my bones might split open. I was vomiting. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe through it. None of the prescribed medications touched it. Not the Hydrocodone, not the Zofran, not the bladder spasm meds. I was flopping in the bath, pacing, puking, crying, and eventually crawling into the ER at sunrise. They hooked me up to fluids and gave me Dilaudid through an IV, which helped for a couple hours. But I knew I’d be sent home to fend for myself again. And I was.
My doctor was kind. The system is not.
I want to be clear: my doctor was wonderful. Kind, attentive, calm, and clearly skilled. He explained the whole procedure and made me feel safe going in. My pre-op nurse was also incredibly sweet, talking me through the IV process and doing her best to keep me calm. But she still missed my vein. Three times. I have so many holes in my arms I look like a practice dummy.
That’s the thing though, none of these people failed me. The system did.
When my husband called the after-hours emergency line sobbing and dry heaving, we were told it was “normal.” We were told the first night is the worst. I was not told what to do when no medication worked. I was not told that sleep would come in 3-minute increments between spasms. I was not told that I would nearly pass out on my bathroom floor.
Western medicine treats the wound, not the person
I’m not anti-science. I’m not anti-surgery. I understand why I needed the stent, the antibiotics, and the whole miserable prep. But what’s wild to me is how little the actual human experience seems to be accounted for in these treatment plans.
Pain protocol says “try Tylenol first,” as if that’s even in the realm of reasonable for this. Hydrocodone is prescribed like it’s a big deal but for this level of pain? It’s just false hope in a bottle. My pain wasn’t dulled. It was cinematic. I was having an out-of-body experience from it. The vomiting would not cease.
Fruit was the final straw
I hadn’t eaten in nearly 24 hours, so I tried to be gentle with myself. A few bites of fruit. Innocent enough. Within an hour, I was back on the bathroom floor, stomach cramping, vomiting again, gas trapped so high I thought I was having a cardiac event.
At one point, my cat stepped directly on my bladder. I saw God.
The day after surgery, I considered giving myself an enema on the floor of my bathroom while crying and texting a chatbot for emotional support and other options. That was my spiritual low point, and somehow also the funniest moment of this entire journey.
I’m not anti-opioid awareness. I’m anti-suffering without listening.
I have people in my family who’ve struggled with addiction. I have struggled with addiction (there’s a reason I don’t drink). I understand the need for caution. But there has to be space in the conversation for adequate care, too. We can’t just hand people plastic tubes, a bottle of Hydrocodone, and a vague warning that “the first night might be rough.” Which, to be fair, I wasn’t even told until I was in the thick of it.
No one tells you what to do when the meds don’t work. When you’re too nauseated to eat. When the pain makes you feel like you’re hallucinating. Or when your body needs help, REAL HELP, and you’re sent home with a heating pad and hope.
Silver linings (because I need them too)
Today, even in the chaos, after the ER visit, I was able to keep up with my kriyas. Not perfectly, not fully mind you. There’s obviously no mula bandha happening here, and I couldn’t flutter my breath without shaking my bladder into revolt. But I did what I could. And something about that effort soothed my nervous system.
And maybe best of all, the inside of my kidney was cyst-free. That means polycystic kidney disease (PKD) isn’t going to be a problem for me right now, as long as I keep managing it through lifestyle. That’s not nothing. That is a major load off.
It’s been a hell of a ride, but I’m still here, breathing, healing, and watching King Kong from under a blanket fortress. And that’s enough for today.
More to come when I can sit upright without bracing for impact.
R.I.P., you jagged little menace.
