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Interstim Diary-- Final Installment (for now)
Well, I went for my post-permanent implant appointment with Dr. Evans today. When I began this diary, I knew in advance that this would be the date of my last entry in it as long as everything went according to plan. Time has flown, and I've gone through all of this, and I wonder sometimes if I'm still under anesthesia, about to wake up to a different reality... but I hope I don't, since this one has been so good to me.
Anyway, Dr. Evans peeled away my dressings and I finally saw my incision -- a couple inches long and sutured straight as can be across my left upper buttock. He and I both laughed with delight at how amazingly healed it is already; it was as clean as could be, no evidence of discharge or bleeding at all. Not even a hint of redness. That meant it was time. Time to make it absolutely, positively final, time to make the InterStim process complete. It was as if, as long as the device was held in there by a thread, it wasn't quite real... just a dream I had where I didn't have to pee, a dream that could end at any time, the brass ring just out of reach. As soon as the thread came out, though, and my skin held onto the metal on its own, as soon as the metal became enclosed by only me, it would be finished... it would be mine, over, done, the dream realized, the brass ring in my hand, my body forever changed.
He took the scissors and clipped through each suture with deft hands and then pulled each thread out quickly with forceps, closing the device inside my left haunch forever. He did it clinically and professionally, the way he has done it a hundred or more times; I closed my eyes and did it the way I have only done it once. Both surprised by and expecting the pinches as the sutures were cut, both surprised by and expecting the sudden rush of feelings from such a simple, silly act -- feelings of accomplishment, victory, permanency, and yes, yes, there it was... a tinge of mourning for a life without mechanical assistance and remote controls, now long gone.
When he was finished he swiped an antiseptic on gently, almost whispering, "This may burn." Then he taped the incision vertically with a few small pieces of stiff tape, to give it a little support in the days to come. "You can do what you want now," he said with a smile as I pulled up my pants. I smiled back.
I can do what I want to now. I can take a real shower, and maybe I can drive somewhere without having to pee every fifteen minutes. My husband and I can have sex again, and maybe I can sit through a meeting without sneaking out the back to find a restroom.
When I got home, I slipped down my sweatpants, lifted my shirt, and looked over my shoulder into the bathroom mirror. I saw the incision and the tape. I had bled a little on the ride home, a few dark red drops running down my butt cheek and drying in place. Then I looked up at my face and thought I saw a glimmer of something in my eyes, something that hadn't been there in a long time. Hope, maybe? Or perhaps that new strength that comes from doing something incredibly hard but coming out on the other side okay.
I fingered the blood trails on my back end and hoped that this would be the last blood I would ever shed in the name of IC. I don't know what the future holds but I hope that it is indeed the last actual blood...but I know I will always shed that metaphorical blood whenever I flare, whenever I hurt, whenever I hear someone else hurts. I will shed it whenever I fight for those with IC, which I do gently every day by wearing my bracelet, and which I do fiercely other times when I write and beg TV, newspapers, and magazines to tell our story. Because, while my diary is finished, I am not. We are not. We will not be finished until a thing called InterStim isn't needed anymore, because a thing called a cure will have replaced it.
Anyway, Dr. Evans peeled away my dressings and I finally saw my incision -- a couple inches long and sutured straight as can be across my left upper buttock. He and I both laughed with delight at how amazingly healed it is already; it was as clean as could be, no evidence of discharge or bleeding at all. Not even a hint of redness. That meant it was time. Time to make it absolutely, positively final, time to make the InterStim process complete. It was as if, as long as the device was held in there by a thread, it wasn't quite real... just a dream I had where I didn't have to pee, a dream that could end at any time, the brass ring just out of reach. As soon as the thread came out, though, and my skin held onto the metal on its own, as soon as the metal became enclosed by only me, it would be finished... it would be mine, over, done, the dream realized, the brass ring in my hand, my body forever changed.
He took the scissors and clipped through each suture with deft hands and then pulled each thread out quickly with forceps, closing the device inside my left haunch forever. He did it clinically and professionally, the way he has done it a hundred or more times; I closed my eyes and did it the way I have only done it once. Both surprised by and expecting the pinches as the sutures were cut, both surprised by and expecting the sudden rush of feelings from such a simple, silly act -- feelings of accomplishment, victory, permanency, and yes, yes, there it was... a tinge of mourning for a life without mechanical assistance and remote controls, now long gone.
When he was finished he swiped an antiseptic on gently, almost whispering, "This may burn." Then he taped the incision vertically with a few small pieces of stiff tape, to give it a little support in the days to come. "You can do what you want now," he said with a smile as I pulled up my pants. I smiled back.
I can do what I want to now. I can take a real shower, and maybe I can drive somewhere without having to pee every fifteen minutes. My husband and I can have sex again, and maybe I can sit through a meeting without sneaking out the back to find a restroom.
When I got home, I slipped down my sweatpants, lifted my shirt, and looked over my shoulder into the bathroom mirror. I saw the incision and the tape. I had bled a little on the ride home, a few dark red drops running down my butt cheek and drying in place. Then I looked up at my face and thought I saw a glimmer of something in my eyes, something that hadn't been there in a long time. Hope, maybe? Or perhaps that new strength that comes from doing something incredibly hard but coming out on the other side okay.
I fingered the blood trails on my back end and hoped that this would be the last blood I would ever shed in the name of IC. I don't know what the future holds but I hope that it is indeed the last actual blood...but I know I will always shed that metaphorical blood whenever I flare, whenever I hurt, whenever I hear someone else hurts. I will shed it whenever I fight for those with IC, which I do gently every day by wearing my bracelet, and which I do fiercely other times when I write and beg TV, newspapers, and magazines to tell our story. Because, while my diary is finished, I am not. We are not. We will not be finished until a thing called InterStim isn't needed anymore, because a thing called a cure will have replaced it.
In Memory of My Father (Lawerence) 1/25/2007
Janie
) I am so happy with you, and I share your dream for The Cure.
On the Beach with IC 
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