It was all too good to last…sorta…
No, the kidney is fine.
But it nearly wasn’t.
So, I admit it, I got cocky. I got brave thinking I was soooo smart and had avoided anything to do with hospitals other than a regular check-up. I got a cold – or rather, a cold got me. It started as the mother of all sinus infections, then withered away to a post-nasal drip, slinking slyly into my chest.
A light cough, coming and going, turned into a medium cough, coming and going. I kept thinking I was getting better.
Apparently, I wasn’t.
So…
5:45 a.m. – awaken with shortness of breath, unbearable pain on the right side of my chest, and chills to the bone, even though I could tell I was burning hot.
5:52 a.m. – thermometer located, temperature tested, 102.4 indicating this is a no-f*cking-around-zone.
6:02 a.m. – husband speeding down the interstate to UPenn where I currently receive transplant care. I know enough to go to the ER where my doctors are, even though it’s about 20 minutes longer to get there than the 10 minute ride to downtown Wilmington.
9:05 a.m. – the count: 1 iv, 2 blood cultures, 1 cbc panel, 1 bmp panel, 1 canula for oxygen, 1 chest x-ray, 3 tylenols followed promptly by 1 upchucking, 1 dose of intravenous zofran, 1 diagnosis of pneumonia in the lower middle right lobe of my lung, and finally, blessedly, 1 dose of intravenous dilauded.
Getting high in the ER
There is a kind of rhythm of the ER procedure that you learn after a while. The first 35 minutes are usually the worst. Unless you are brought in by ambulance, this includes stopping at the registration desk and producing all kinds of identification and insurance cards.
Then, you either sit and wait, or, if you’re lucky enough to have breathing problems, you get taken right back. Despite chills and pain, you then must shed all the clothing that has become cozy and warm by now to put on a cold hospital gown and snuggle up as best you can on the gurney.
There follows several minutes of various RNs and CNAs popping in to get your vitals, ask your story (the first of approximately 16,937,248 times you will be asked to repeat it), start an iv (and if you are lucky, to sneakily and privily draw your first bloods from there instead of a separate stick), and provide you with what I always affectionately called “the barfing bowl” – though nowadays, it seems to be more of a disposable barfing bag.
After this, you get visits by a resident (or two), maybe a medical student (who can be fun to torment if you haven’t gotten your pain meds yet and are looking to take it out on someone), and then the attending physician. All of whom need you to repeat your story when all you want to do is lie on the gurney, groan occasionally and stare up at the ceiling.
Finally, you get around to signing some more papers, some more people come in to ask you all kinds of questions about listing your belongings, surveys and other nonsense that I shortcut by groaning and approximating retching noises.
A nurse pops in to hang a bag of saline and tell you lots of meds are coming. At this point, you might get an x-ray tech or ultrasound tech, depending on how urgent your case is. I had a chest x-ray before I could ask for my first ginger ale. Impressive, I call it.
Then, finally. FINALLY. You get your first doses of the meds. Plus, the painkiller. Now, you sleep.
I feel compelled to point out two things here:
1. I am not advocating the wanton use of painkillers. However, they exist for a reason. Pain keeps your body from putting all its energy towards healing itself. Painkillers put you to sleep. Sleep is a major factor in healing. Painkillers in their proper time, place and dose, administered by a professional, are fantastic.
2. I tend to fall asleep to odd things: air traffic control, taxicab dispatch radio (the grouchy dispatcher yelling at the drivers just lulls me like a dove’s coo), and the sounds of an ER.
A few hours later, you get badly startled awake by someone not trying to startle you, and you get another visit from the nurse, more vitals, more meds and the first of a lot of ginger ale and graham crackers. Oh, and you get some kind of specialist or two dropping by.
You get to drift off again for another few hours, and by the time you wake up next, the fresh fun and novelty of the situation is beginning to wear off a bit. This is the point where either you get discharged or you get admitted. Both mean that you wait for several hours. And eat more ginger ale and graham crackers.
So, I get admitted with pneumonia. The right side of my chest from the bottom of my ribs to the base of my neck feels like walking on a sprain every time I breathe in or out.
I get taken up to the med/surg floor where I’ll be staying, and I decide that two doses of dilauded will do for now, even though I could use more. There is enough residual effect that I’m only in moderately extreme discomfort. I have a high pain threshold. Now. I didn’t used to.
Tucked in for the night
So begins the routine of getting upstairs. First, there’s the frogger-like experience of being maneuvered on a gurney through the ER – complete with other gurneys, lurching patients, lumbering families standing awkwardly in exactly the wrong place, doctors and nurses darting to and fro, environmental services carts, supply carts and all random wheelchairs. Then, you get a kind of surreal ceiling-tour of the hospital as you’re taken up to the floor.
Once in your room, your nurse comes in and gets you settled, asking your story. You get vitals, blah blah blah. Usually it’s too late at night for the doctor to see you, but they might. They want your story, too. At this point, you are arriving back at the beginning of your circle and wanting only to lie on the gurney, groan occasionally and stare up at the ceiling.
I fight the need for pain meds until the last possible moment, when I know I need to sleep. So, I get my dilauded, I get my saline bags. And I’m good to go.
The rest of the night is a hazy mix of good, deep, drugged sleep and waking up every four hours for vitals. I’m okay with that part. I can doze through it. What always really, really bothers me is the ungodly hour they decide to come and do bloodwork in the morning. I mean, I know I need my tacrolimus levels checked early, but 5:15 a.m.? For the love of humanity! At least bring coffee with the butterflies!
There’s very little hope of good sleep after 5:30 a.m., because then you get bloodwork, vitals, rounding docs, nurses, etc. The only bright point is breakfast – except, and I hate to say this, UPenn has the WORST hospital food I’ve ever had. EVER. And I’ve had a lot.
Oh, did I mention how much fun it is in the middle of the night to wake up with a bladder full from your saline drip and realize that you have to go urgently, but a) you must first unplug and loop the cord of your iv pole without hurting your precious iv access; b) somehow manage to maneuver your iv pole and 25 feet of oxygen tubing around each other and yourself so nothing gets tangled; c) do your business, wash your hands and try not to fall over or trip during the procedure; and d) return the iv pole and replug it, get into bed without strangling yourself with oxygen tubing and calm down enough to fall back to sleep. Yeah. That fun.
Good morning!
By now, we’re past breakfast, and if you’re lucky, you can sneak a two hour nap in before lunch. (Three times they brought me food, and two of the three times I couldn’t tell if it was chicken or fish. Literally. The third time, it was clearly a hockey puck dressed up as a chicken breast.)
I’m feeling good, still in some discomfort, but ready to do some serious getting well. This involves more fluids, more antibiotics, and a lot of worry about whether my precious iv is going to last because it’s already starting to burn a little. I do NOT want to be stuck again if I can help it, but I have such sh*tty veins, any drugs going into me usually burn right through them. I also get an incentive spirometer. This is good and bad. Good, because I get to practice deep breathing and healing. Bad because I start getting competitive with myself over it. Right. Hyperventilation city.
However, my practice is worth it as my oxygenation improves and they say if I keep doing well, I can ditch the canula by afternoon.
I feel some guilt over the canula because I remember making Dad wear it as he was unconscious and dying. He still instinctively tried to pluck it away, but I kept it on him because the oxygen was supposed to make him more comfortable. I discovered first hand that it produces sharp, dry, bloody boogers that dig into the tender sides of your nose. Dang, I feel bad about that now.
The rest of the day went quickly (unlike this post). I got up, walked, hyperventilated and turned up my nose at another meal of mystery meat. The only two important thing that happened were that I went without pain meds for the rest of the day, and they said I would probably go home the next day.
Another night, another morning. The doctor announces I’ll be discharged. I’m very happy, but I know better than to get all excited. News of your discharge is always greatly exaggerated. It’s no one’s fault because everyone is so busy and it takes a LOT of paperwork to let you out of the hospital (almost as much as to let you in). Between the time you are told you will be discharged and the time they come to discharge you usually runs about 3-4 hours. So, I take a nap and read a little bit. It’s not even worth changing until they take the iv out because if you spurt or drip, well, blood is a pain to get out of clothing.
Finally, three hours later, I’m on my way. It’s always a bizarre feeling to walk off the floor and out into the lobby of the hospital. You feel like you’re doing something not-quite allowed. It’s like you’re seeing the world again for the first time and freaking out just a little. It’s just surreal.
First day home from the hospital
So, then you go home, and then you’re like, okay, I’m home. Where did life leave off three days ago? Ah, then you remember, and life goes on.
As always, I send a HUGE shout out to the doctors, nurses and technicians who do such amazing work, but especially to the nurses. Nurses are the front line in the war against your illness. They are the human touch and the medical expert that you instantly can relax around, knowing you’re in good hands. They’re the ones who advocate for you when you need help with the pain, notice a change in your symptoms that can turn out to be hugely significant, and yet, they don’t blink an eye when you have to lean on them to get to the bathroom, or throw up all over yourself. They treat you with a dignity that turns a sh*tty, embarrassing situation into something a little less sh*tty and embarrassing. So, to all my RNs and CNAs and MDs, I say thank you again for letting me “borrow” a little more time.
