Reality began to set in as I shoveled food into my mouth and the peace corps lounge got dark and empty and lonely. The shuttle to the airport was wildly unexciting, and I think I fell asleep at some point (so many nights of bad sleep combined left me desperate for some zz's). I awoke as we were pulling into the dark airport -recognizing it by its shadowy darkness and immediately was reminded of the night when we arrived in Liberia just a little over 2 months ago- nervous, luggage-less, and not sure what to expect.
The airport in Liberia is itty bitty, feeling like an old warehouse divided into sections. Despite its size, I struggled to find my way from place to place with the lack of signage as this Atlanta gal is used to the madness and chaos of Hartsfield Jackson airport. People stared at me intensely with my crutches and long baggy pants that hid any sign of what may be wrong with me, and I tried to ignore these stares just as intensely.
At 1 AM, after about 3 hours of waiting, we were able to board the plane. I got to go on a special bus to board first which was nice, but I also had to deal with the driver's repeated attempts at getting my phone number. (Ah, the struggles of a girl traveling solo).
The plane ride was honestly horrible but probably because I was too afraid to make a fuss for myself to get a seat where I could prop my leg up to prevent my knee from throbbing in pain. I ended up putting it across the aisle on the empty seat there, but was forced to move it so many times for flight attendants and people going to the bathroom that it almost wasn't worth it. I eventually scooched over one seat toward the guy knocked out at the window and put my leg up on the aisle seat. I was able to fall asleep for at least 2 hours, albeit I was awkwardly hunched over and super uncomfortable.
When we landed, I was an idiot and didn't accept the wheelchair that the flight attendants offered me. I forgot that Casablanca airport is actually much bigger than Robertson in Liberia. This left me sweating and struggling down many a hallways cursing myself for being too stubborn and independent to accept help even when I need it.
I went through customs, able to cut to the front thankfully, changed my crisp $100 to dirham, half "ran" to catch my backpack on the baggage claim, then headed outside to look for someone holding a peace corps logo in his/her hands who would take me to the Peace Corps Morocco office. When I stepped outside, I was greeted by a wonderfully refreshing wave of chilly air. I'd almost forgotten what this felt like after an Atlanta summer and moving to Liberia where the climate literally feels like hell on earth to me. I enjoyed the cold, pulling it deep into my lungs. The driver found me eventually, and we discovered that we did not have any languages in common immediately.
We drove in silence for most of the hour and a half trip. I sat in the back half awake and exhausted but wanting to enjoy the full glory of the stunning sunrise playing out across the horizon. I reflected on my last time arriving in this country- how intimidating and thrilling it was going to a place where I knew absolutely no one but where I'd always felt pulled to internally. What a thrillingly difficult but rewarding experience that was.
We arrived at the office and I met the regional medical officers who had me recount all of the details from the past 4 days including how I fell, which drugs I'd been taking, the color of my skin in certain places, and any and all past medical history. After this, we drove to the hospital where I'd most likely be staying if the surgeon agreed that I did indeed need my knee opened up and cleaned.
Sitting on the hospital bed felt oddly strange and unprecedented as my knee was barely hurting at this point. I made small talk with the RMO until the surgeon arrived, learning about traditional Moldovan foods, the Angolan war, and how surgery is performed on a soldier whose leg needs to be amputated. When the surgeon walked in the room, he introduced himself and quickly got down to business taking off the bandage and assessing my knee. There was some bloody/pus coming out from between the steristrips that held my skin together, and he, along with our RMO, immediately agreed that it was infection and that I would go straight into surgery.
From there, things got crazy.
A nurse came in and put suction cup things all over my chest and clamps on both of my ankles and wrists to check my heart. Then she undressed me and redressed me in a robe, a hairnet, and little surgery socks. She removed all of my rings and bracelets and transferred me to a wheelchair where I was all wrapped up in a giant, heavy blanket. From there I was wheeled downstairs to the surgery theater.
They took me to a back room and had me lay out on a surgery table that had me in a pose that reminded me of savasana in yoga. But this was probably the least relaxed I'd ever been by contrast. Nurses rushed about around me, coming in and out of my peripherals as I tried to breathe through my anxiety and focused instead on the giant, multi-armed light above me. I tried to find a happy place in my mind to escape to, but fear and adrenaline took complete control of my brain blocking all of my attempts at mindful breathing.
One nurse placed a catheter in my left hand and another checked my blood pressure on my right arm; meanwhile the doctor was wrapping my left thigh with a large gurney ("to prevent too much blood loss" according to the RMO who had come into the room with me all decked out in surgery gear). The surgeon removed the iodine soaked gauze from my knee and then called a nurse and made a sleep motion with his hands against his face. It was time. She came over and injected the liquid into my catheter and a male nurse above my head waved goodbye to me. I remember saying "it's cold" and turning to my right to reach out to the RMO's hand.
When I woke up I was back in my hospital bed and super groggy. The RMO was telling me what the surgeon had done and showing me photos, and a nurse brought me lunch- Moroccan couscous (I was thrilled!!!!). I barely remember much of this besides how delicious the vegetables were and how difficult it was to get the spoonfuls of couscous into my mouth without dropping bits all down my chest. I fell asleep immediately after for quite a few hours until the nurse came in and started an antibiotic drip in my catheter.
At this point I started to come to from the anesthesia. The IV fluid was super cold in my veins and made my hand and wrist hurt. I started freaking out- probably a combo of being alone in a hospital room, my insane fear of needles, not being able to communicate with any of the nurses, and all the pent up anxiety and fear from pre-surgery. What began as tears and chills from the cold liquid as I tried to go back to sleep turned into shaking uncontrollably over my whole body. I hate asking for help, but at this point I felt like I couldn't calm back down.
The nurse came in and checked my temperature. Then she brought another IV bottle and fastened it into my catheter which set me off with fresh tears and anxiety as she stroked my hand and said "seva seva seva" over and over again. They eventually changed the catheter to my other hand which hurt less.
After our phone call, I calmed down a lot and seemed to come to better terms with the situation. The hospital staff brought dinner, I ate some, then almost immediately leaned my bed back and fell asleep.
I was awoken throughout the night - first with one antibiotic injected In my catheter, next with checking my blood pressure, a third time for an antibiotic drip, and the last time when I had to pee at 4 AM.
When I woke up the next morning, I finally felt fully awake- no sleep deprived grogginess or residual anesthesia left in me. I realized that I could get out of bed and move around a bit (until my knee started throbbing anyway). I got up and changed the shirt I'd been wearing for over 2 days, not quite daring enough to attempt a shower. I dug through my belongings, locating my toothbrush and deodorant along with a headband to push back my unruly hair that I didn't think I could quite finagle into a bun with the catheter in my hand hurting me too much. Then I pulled out any and everything that I had that could entertain me- a phone (no internet but it has games), 2 books, my journal (before I realized that the catheter in my right hand would probably prevent me from writing or drawing), and my iPod.
The day dragged on and on and on, interrupted only by meals, a visit from the RMO, antibiotic drips, blood pressure checks, getting up to pee, and two surprise phone calls from home.
I honestly don't think I've EVER been so bored in my life. I couldn't even watch tv or talk to the nurses to pass the time because of language barriers. When the day finally ended, I was so relieved that I had one day down with only one day to go.