Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Peculiar Intimacy

A few days ago I stood naked in a shower with a man I had met only 10 minutes before showing me how to properly use the sprayer to massage my abdominal region.  With his face inches from my belly button, he guided my hand in the appropriate circular motion and commented, "Feels very nice, doesn't it?"  Then he winked and gave me a big grin.  I could do nothing but agree; it did, indeed, feel very nice.

My husband was relieved when he heard about the encounter because it meant he wouldn't have to do it himself.


The man helping me, you see, was a nurse and the reason I needed help with the shower sprayer was to learn how to properly wash out my new surgical site, which was left open to heal rather than being stitched completely closed.  Rather like a drawstring bag pulled almost, but not quite, shut.  While the shower itself felt great, btw, weird doesn't begin to describe the physical sensation of hot water being sprayed into an open surgical wound onto a patch of one's small intestine.  It's like the sharpest pinprick and the softest touch you've ever experienced, happening simultaneously.

This being my ninth surgery in eight years it wasn't my first surgical wound or my first "this-should-be-really-uncomfortable-but-it's-not" moment.  A few weeks before, a very kind nurse knelt by my bed, leaned over my belly and gently blew excess powder away from my stoma -- the bit of small intestine cut open and sticking out through my abdominal wall to allow poop to be gathered in a bag rather than exiting in the typical mode.  Her mouth was mere centimeters from a poop volcano known to erupt violently at random moments, but her eyes showed only concern.  Her breath was cool, and soft.  I let out a sigh of relief and felt pain and fear recede.  It felt wonderful.  I wiggled my toes and stretched a little, delighting in that brief moment of release and freedom from ulcerated skin, adhesives, and plastic ostomy bags.

The Dutch have a great word for this pleasant sensual feeling: lekker.  Lekker can be translated as "yummy" and it is used to describe a variety of sensations.  It is not sexual in nature, although sex can be described as lekker.  So can a shower (lekker douchen) or a cup of coffee (lekker koffie) or the weather (lekker weer).  It's the best word I can think of to describe that first hot shower on a battered body two days after surgery, that comforting touch at a site of pain that lets one know it will all be okay in a bit.

Peculiar is the other word that comes to mind, because normally I don't allow strangers to see me naked or get close to orifices that may leak poop, let alone touch me in an exceedingly intimate manner.  I used to be really uptight about things like that; used to insist on curtains being closed in exam rooms and gowns being provided for medical tests.  I used to blush and bite my lip until it bled when medical students gathered around my bed, commanded me to pull my knees up to my chin, and poked around in my nether regions.  Not any more.  It's all too matter-of-course these days.  Now I just follow directions, close my eyes, think of England (!!!), and get on with business.

Except when one of those unexpected lekker moments happen; those I try to capture, to remember when I need something positive to think about.

Before I experienced major surgery I had spoken with people who described what it was like to be stretched out on the table, naked and cold and afraid.  One man told me that he remembered that Jesus had been like that on the cross, and it reminded him that he was not alone; it gave him some comfort.

I desperately tried to feel that myself the first time I was placed on that cold metal, but even though I pictured the crucifixion vividly in my mind, willing myself to believe that I was not alone in that awful place and position, all I felt was cold and terrified.  Then the anesthesiologist announced it was time to place the epidural.  Powerful hands gripped me, pulled me up, and turned me to the right while a calm voice explained how I needed to curve my back and place my head while the doctors worked.  I began to panic, a scream started to rise out of my stomach, and then strong arms enveloped me and held me close to a warm, clean-smelling, solid body.  The nurse held me like that for the entire procedure, softly telling me to breathe, breathe, in-out, in-out.  The panic left and I felt like a baby in someone's arms.

It was lekker.

Have you ever had an unexpected moment of lekker-ness in a peculiar place?


6 comments:

  1. oh your words are so so good! and you are a feisty broad indeed. so glad you're here in blog land - i'll be linking to you from my site.

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    1. Thanks Brie; I'll be doing the same as soon as I can figure out how!

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  2. Awh, if all your posts are like this I am going to have to find a box of tissues. Your post reminded me of why I am a nurse, to make a difference even if it's just. Blowing away excess ostomy powder Elizabeth

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    1. And it does truly make a difference; don't stop!

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  3. Leanne sent me via the Things. Welcome to Blogland. You'll soon feel more than at home.. (www.chittlechattle.com)

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  4. Thanks! Still getting used to it...

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