There I was strapped to the operating table again, squinting at the blaring white lights above me while trying to ignore the haze of nurses whirling around me.
The room was familiarly chilled like the meat locker I remembered it to be.
As the medical team crowded above me, ready to start the surgery, I broke down and sobbed.
I was so used to being the guinea pig throughout the years because my illness is so unheard of that the group of curious student nurses watching this rare surgery wasn't unusual to me anymore.
Since I had attempted this surgery before; I knew what to expect but that doesn't mean I was necessarily ready for it.
As I fought through the tears, the nurse stroked my arms and told me repeatedly in a motherly tone that "it would be ok."
I was calm. I knew it was now or never.
They tried to give me some kind of IV that was supposed to calm me down but it was more nauseating than helpful and didn't dilute the horror of the experience any.
The surgeon began sewing through my eyelids so that there were strings he could pull on that would hold them inside out for the procedure. Yes, you read that right. Cringe.
Once they were set, they were pulled up so painfully tight that it felt like they could rip right off at any second.
The surgeon began slicing a new crease in my inside out eyelids and immediately followed the line with a flaming hot blood cauterizer so that I wouldn't bleed everywhere while he was trying to work.
He sat me up to take a look at where my eyes were sitting three times.
A half hour later of cutting, adjusting and sealing later; it was over. I had 'normal' eyes again. Not the ones I had been born with, but an acceptable version of them.
The nurse then took a huge gob of medical Vaseline and whisked it over each eye. I was blind to the world and would be for the next 24-48 hours until it all dissolved into my eyes to prevent infection.
I was then whisked away to my suite to make room for the next victim, er... patient to use the operating table.
The room was familiarly chilled like the meat locker I remembered it to be.
As the medical team crowded above me, ready to start the surgery, I broke down and sobbed.
I was so used to being the guinea pig throughout the years because my illness is so unheard of that the group of curious student nurses watching this rare surgery wasn't unusual to me anymore.
Since I had attempted this surgery before; I knew what to expect but that doesn't mean I was necessarily ready for it.
As I fought through the tears, the nurse stroked my arms and told me repeatedly in a motherly tone that "it would be ok."
I was calm. I knew it was now or never.
They tried to give me some kind of IV that was supposed to calm me down but it was more nauseating than helpful and didn't dilute the horror of the experience any.
The surgeon began sewing through my eyelids so that there were strings he could pull on that would hold them inside out for the procedure. Yes, you read that right. Cringe.
Once they were set, they were pulled up so painfully tight that it felt like they could rip right off at any second.
The surgeon began slicing a new crease in my inside out eyelids and immediately followed the line with a flaming hot blood cauterizer so that I wouldn't bleed everywhere while he was trying to work.
He sat me up to take a look at where my eyes were sitting three times.
A half hour later of cutting, adjusting and sealing later; it was over. I had 'normal' eyes again. Not the ones I had been born with, but an acceptable version of them.
The nurse then took a huge gob of medical Vaseline and whisked it over each eye. I was blind to the world and would be for the next 24-48 hours until it all dissolved into my eyes to prevent infection.
I was then whisked away to my suite to make room for the next victim, er... patient to use the operating table.
(Day 1)
I don't know if you've ever had a blood cauterizer used on any fleshy bits of yours but let me tell you, you feel like your ON FIRE where it touched you.
I laid in my hospital bed, blind, with an ice pack wrapped around my face, rolling around crying and having a panic attack from the pain. My poor Mom felt helpless and tried to hold my shaky hand through it.
Keep in mind that I wasn't under any sedation or painkillers numbing what just happened.
The hospital released me the same day and my parents carefully lead me down the stairs and to the car while I used my giant Lady Gaga shades to cover my eyes from all the people staring at me.
My eyes leaked blood for hours and my cheeks were stained red from the tears.
(Day 3)
Unfortunately when I got home I discovered a hole in my eyelid that required me to go back the next day and get re-stitched over my already tender eyelids.
I took the needles to my temples and eyes to numb the sensation and watched while the doctor sewed me up like a rag doll.
The next few days of healing were nothing short of rough. Numerous times a day I had to reapply the Vaseline and anti inflammatory drops. The headaches were and continue to be debilitating.
(Day 5)
I still hear the haunting sound of my skin ripping slowly and the heat of the cauterizer when I lay my head at night. I now wait for the inflammation to settle and for the stiches to dissolve so I can carry on with life again.
(Day 7)
The physical scars will heal but the emotional ones are another story.
Which brings me to the next thing on my mind...
"I don't know how you do it."
It's a saying I hear all to often about my battle with Graves Disease.
The answer is simple; because I have to. I like to think that anyone fighting through an illness believes this.
We're no stronger than you, we just do what we need to and hope for the light at the end of the tunnel.
I also believe that having a positive outlook has a huge impact on your recovery as well.
The next follow up phrase usually goes something like this;
"I could never do what you have."
I am humbled at the comment but if I'm being honest, I have a unique outlook on the word 'pain'.
Is pain purely physical? Absolutely not.
Emotional pain and physical pain sting the same in my book.
I still cry sometimes when I look back and think about some of the things this disease has put me through, not because it still hurts, but because the memories bring up a really trying time for me.
Every blog post you have read in the past was typed with tear soaked keys as I relive and share my story.
I've always cringed when well intending people say "I will appreciate my days more because of what I've seen you have to go through" because I never really thought I have it tougher than most.
Beyond Graves Disease, I have been abundantly blessed by the loved ones in my life.
Anyone can handle physical pain but I would crumble if I had to do without the support from my parents, siblings, partner, co-workers and friends.
People struggle in all sorts of ways, often bearing more weight on their shoulders than one should ever have to and certainly more than they will ever lead on to others.
I've been watching the news a lot lately and been left in awe at witnessing people trying to rebuild after tragedy whether that means the loss of a loved one, an accident, a fire, and so on.
While my struggles were visibly written on my body at times; the trials some face on daily basis and the personal and irreplaceable losses they have felt is what true resilience means to me.
It's a type of raw strength I fortunately don't feel that I've had to experience yet but that I truly admire and hope to capture more of with my job at The Edmonton Examiner in the future.
So here's to you; The survivors, the wounded souls, the scarred, those who have loved and lost too soon, who have shed tears late at night because of the words of another, those struggling emotionally or financially, those who held on too long, and most of all, those who still get up with a smile on their face even on the seemingly hopeless days.
Whatever you're fighting; stay strong.
With love;
Rayanne.
