July 6, 2021:
Blood. A lot. Not a small amount.
The help nurse and my surgeon each say, when I call to ask what to do, "Some bleeding is to be expected after surgery." No, not this much. This is extreme, and dangerous, and I prove that by face-planting on my wooden floor after rising from the couch.
In the ER there are entire crews dedicated to keeping me alive. One team traces the point where hemorrhage originates, while another diagnoses sepsis and pumps me full of antibiotics. Alarms in all directions: flashing red diodes, a ballet of LEDs and squawks like klaxons. My breath is shallow, I'd feel my heart racing if I weren't already watching it on the monitor. "I feel like I'm having a panic attack." Someone has asked how I'm doing; that's my reply.
In the end there are two weeks in ICU. First to stabilize the infection. Then to re-perform the failed surgery. Then to recover. The people are wonderful; the food is good. I am very happy to be alive.