It has been forty days since my prostate and bladder surgery.
I approached the operation with more than a little dread, but there really wasn’t much choice. In the end, several significant problems were resolved, for which I am deeply grateful.
Still, the procedure itself was no small matter. There was gouging of tissue, suctioning and flushing, slicing and stitching. I remained awake throughout, thanks to an epidural that numbed the lower half of my body.
At seventy-four, recovery has been slower than I imagined.
The greatest frustration is that the incision made to remove the bladder stones has not healed as expected. By now I had hoped it would have closed in the first ten days, yet it continues to weep—a mixture of plasma and a small amount of blood. Suture reactions—where the body mounts an exaggerated response and tries to push the suture out or forms a small inflammatory nodule—occur in perhaps 1–5% of patients, depending on the type of suture material, the location of the surgery, and the person’s immune response.
Three times a day I change the bandage, and each time it is soaked. It remains tender and painful—24 hours a day.
My dear neighbor Marta, a retired nurse who has watched over me with remarkable kindness, does not believe I have an infection. I have no fever, no spreading redness, no foul odor at the wound, and no pus—only the persistent drainage and localized tenderness. Her calm confidence has been reassuring.
On Tuesday I return to the surgeon. I hope for encouraging news.
The emotional side of recovery has surprised me almost as much as the physical.
Throughout my life I have usually possessed an inner resilience—a kind of flame that continued to burn, even through illness and adversity, waiting only for the chance to blaze again. This time has been different. There have been moments when uncertainty has settled over me, and I have found myself wondering when that old vitality will return.
Healing, I am learning, does not always proceed at the same pace in every part of the body—or of the spirit.
Yet the blessings continue to outweigh the setbacks.
I have Amy beside me. I have Marta’s experienced care. I have good physicians. I have friends who write and call. I have faith.
And I have Naomi’s voice, still echoing after all these years.
“Chin up!”
I can almost hear her saying it.