By: Jean Johnson for Fibroids1Part One | Part Two | Part Three |Part Four
Come along on the real life journey of Argelis Calderon as she undergoes a myomectomy to treat her fibroids. From a nervous beginning in the operating room to a successful recovery, take a glimpse into one woman’s fibroid removal success story.
(Editor’s note: Any treatment undertaken to combat a medical problem has varied results for different individuals. The experiences portrayed here are those of Argelis Calderon and would be different from the experiences of other myomectomy patients. A conversation with your doctor is the best way to determine the appropriate course of treatment for you.)
The night before she bulked up the best she could. Almond butter and honey on sourdough at 5, a veggie burger at 8 and then around 10 a bowl of cinnamon and molasses cereal.
“I ate too much,” said 100 pound Argelis Calderon who is 5 feet 2 inches tall and has the dark eyes of a Latina.
| Be Prepared |
What to Pack for a Hospital Stay:
Comfortable pajamas or bathrobe and extra underwear
Slippers with anti-slip soles to navigate slippery hospital floors
Toiletries including a toothbrush, hairbrush, shampoo, soap and lotion
Distractions – could include books, magazines, an ipod or cards
A change of clothes for your trip home
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Maybe so, but when a woman’s heading into major surgery to remove a fibroid tumor, she tends to go for whatever edge she can.
“Also after my anesthesiologist called and said it was OK, I drank a half cup of green tea the next morning, too.”
So freshly showered with the tea to fortify her, 34-year-old Calderon hoisted her tote bag and got into the passenger side of her husband’s vintage 1972 BMW. It was a rainy spring morning in Portland, Oregon with the smell of lilacs in the air. The mulberry tree in the parking was leafing out, buds bulged on the rose bushes, finches trilled, and a blood red rhododendron the couple planted when they bought their home was in full bloom. Calderon’s husband put the car in gear, and a spray of water hissed from tires as they sped away to one of Portland’s large, state-of-the-art hospitals.
“The nurse said to take the red elevator,” Calderon said. “We were the only ones in it, but when we arrived at the third floor there was a line of others waiting to check in for their surgeries.”
Before she knew it Calderon was seated on a gurney in hospital de rigueur – a light green backless gown. Then she was branded – a plastic bracelet with a barcode strapped securely around her wrist.
“When they started the IV and every time after that when they gave me a medicine, they scanned the barcode. They said it was to track the time they gave me certain things, but I suppose it was for charges too.”
Calderon reports all going favorably until the anesthesiologist arrived to give the pre-operative sedation. “Whatever she put into the IV hurt. It was a strong pain in my vein and arm, and I started blinking back tears. She must have seen that I was trying to contain myself, so she said it was OK to cry. That’s all I needed to hear for a flood of tears to come. I guess I hadn’t anticipated having to go through too much pain for the anesthetic and that led to me sort of feeling sorry for myself and thinking about how I wished I didn’t have to go through the surgery,” Calderon reflected back. “My husband was there, of course and reassured me. He said not to worry, that the doctor was really good. All those sorts of things that you barely hear when your emotions are getting the better of you.”
Despite the whipsaw of the sedation on her normal collected demeanor, Calderon rose to the occasion the best she could.
“The nurse came in and asked me why I was there. I couldn’t remember the name of the procedure, but I explained it to her. She asked me if they were going to make a small incision, and I told her no and made a slash across my lower belly just like my doctor did in his office when he explained how long the bikini cut would be. She said that didn’t seem right, so then there was all this disconcerting confusion while she got things straightened out,” said Calderon. “Eventually, though, both the nurse again and the anesthesiologist had me describe in my own words what was being done. And once we were all on the same page and I gave my name and birth date one last time, they got ready to take me in.”
Calderon also remembers that the anesthesiologist took the trouble to assure her that she’d chosen a very good doctor and that the anesthesiologist herself sees no other surgeon but him if she needs treatment. Nonetheless, Calderon was shedding more than a few tears by the time her husband kissed her, and they wheeled her off to the operating room.
“I don’t even remember that part,” she said with a smile. “And I wanted to since it’s what they do in the movies.”
Continued in Part Two
