Cautionary Tale

As I'm sure you've heard by now, I was close to death two weeks ago. If you're like me, your 1st thought when you hear of this type of situation is: What happened to you and how can I prevent it from happening to me? I get it. The problem is there is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent my recent dance with death from becoming your future scare. Still, I always want to know details of others' health scares so my type-A self can hang on to the illusion of being prepared. To allow those who what to know to delve into the nitty gritty, I decided to blog about it. For those who don't want to know such deets, feel free to go about your day.

My nightmare started very innocently about five weeks ago. A slight upset stomach. Not nausea, just more of a burning, slightly crampy feeling. Because I hada big trial coming up and because an order I had drafted and been unusually proud of had been reversed by an appellate court, I chalked it up to stress. I did a few more Bible readings and deep breathing exercises and went about my business. My stomach refused to go about its business, however. It kept insisting that it needed attention with cramping pains. I finally broke down and saw my primary-care doctor on March 26. The dear man was puzzled with my symptoms: tenderness in my abdomen, no fever, no nausea, obvious pain. He ordered blood work and made an appointment for me to get a sonogram on March 28.

The night of March 26, I woke up in bad pain. Unlike my prior stomach pain, this pain would not ebb and flow. It was one long cramp. I took my temperature: almost 100. I found my insurance card and called the nurse help line on the back. After talking to me for about 5 minutes, the nurse said I had to get someone to drive me to the hospital ASAP. I woke dear hubs who drove me to All Saints. We got there about 2:30 a.m. All was quiet and empty. Good sign. They sent me for a CT scan, an ultrasound (upper and lower), a pelvic exam, and an internal sonogram. That's right ladies -- the dreaded dildo sonogram that I had piously explained to all that I had never had to have. CT scan came back negative for anything, ditto the ultrasounds. The tech who did my internal sono had trouble finding my right ovary, but it certainly wasn't for a lack of looking. He was so rough, I promptly threw up two bags of bile after it was over. The pelvic exam (done by the 14 yr old Doogie Howser ER doc) turned up "ulcerations" on my cervix, but nothing that would contribute to my current state. I suspected the techs "deft" maneuvers with the internal sono "wand" to be the cause of the ulcerations, but was still trying to be nice. I would have to follow up with my OB/GYN. Fantastic.

By this time, Hubs had to return home to get the girls to school. Once Hubs left, All Saints was ready to street me. They couldn't diagnose me and wanted me gone. The nurse who checked me out said without a fever there was nothing they could do for me. I told him I had 100 when I arrived. He said that didn't count as a fever. Oh. So they gave me 20 vicodin and kicked me to the waiting room for the Hubs to come get me.

That entire day (March 27) I kept getting worse with more vomiting. Did I mention I was not eating? So, the bags and bags of vomit were nothing but bile. Copious amounts of it. Steve drove me back to All Saints that afternoon where I sat crying and writhing in the waiting room for 2 hours before they got me back to triage. This time they admitted me to the hospital. I continued to not eat but throw up continuously.

The next day, they sent me for an endoscopy (tube down your throat to get a look at the stomach). The GI doc said they found nothing. She gave me a talk on cutting down on my stress. In other words, it was all in my head. I knew then that if I stayed there, they would let me die. This may be TMI, but they told me I had to have a BM before they would let me go. I hadn't eaten in two weeks, but they needed to see my pipes were working. I guess the bile wasn't enough of a clue that my pipes were definitely closed for business. I begged for a suppository, which they gave me. I sat in the bathroom all night of March 31 until I somehow got something to happen. I'm not being funny when I say that tiny BM was a gift from God. They cut me loose on April 1. By this time my stomach was so distended I looked about 7 months pregnant. The doctors told me it was the morphine they were giving me. As they were checking me out and giving me more vicodin, I was throwing up bile.

April 1 is a blur for me, but the Hubs was by my side all night. I think I spent most of it on the bathroom floor. The next day, April 2, he called my primary-care doctor and his nurse (dear Donna) told Steve to immediately take me to a different hospital because All Saints had written me off. A dear church friend came to stay with Moo and Gibby until my Mom could get to our house, and the Hubs drove me to Harris Methodist.

A minister from our church beat us to the ER and prayed with us. I cried because of his beautiful prayer for healing and bedcause I was afraid no one at Harris Methodist would believe me either. But they immediately took me back to a room where I met Dr. Trotter [insert angels singing here]. He crouched down to look me in the eyes (I could no longer sit up at this point) and asked me pointed questions. He immediately ordered another CT scan and a chest XRay and hurried off. By this time I was either throwing up or laying with my eyes closed. But any time I opened my eyes, Dr. Trotter was somewhere near looking at me. I could see the concern on his face. It was so dear to me to be believed. They quickly took me to get the CT and minutes later, Dr. Trotter came down and said, "You have a blockage and I have paged a surgeon." Someone said something about putting me under observation, but Dr. Trotter said, "No. She's going up to the OR as soon as the surgeon gets here."

Apparently, Dr. Trotter had paged Dr. Shabout. I did not know it at the time, but Dr. Shabout is apparently some sort of surgical rock star. My entire hospital stay, all the nurses were amazed that I had been so lucky to get Dr. Shabout to do my surgery in the middle of the night. I firmly believe Dr. Trotter demanded Dr. Shabout for me. He's just that kind of guy.

Dr. Shabout appeared and told me they had to remove the blockage in my small intestine by cutting out the blocked part and reattaching the pieces. Oh, also there was a worrisome spot on my liver that they would biopsy while they were in there. And bonus: if the blockage is too close to the large intestine, they would have to give me a colostomy bag. I began to cry, and they ushered the Hubs out. I don't remember getting to the OR except I grabbed the gas mask before they put it over my mouth and cried out, "I'm so scared. Help me."

The surgery lasted 5 hours. Poor Hubs sat alone through it all. I don't know how he did that. My first words coming out of surgery were whether I had a colostomy bag. I didn't. Hubs said I asked him that about 4 times. They had to take out two sections of my small intestine and they drained almost 4 liters of bile and backed up stuff from my intestines. One small-intestine section Dr. Shabout removed was completely blocked and contained a tumour. The other section had a small genetic "flap" that could cause a similar problem later. So now we had to wait for the biopsy results on the liver and the small intestine tumour.

On April 3 the day after surgery, I began to spike a fever. It was 102, so I guess it counted. One of my lungs collapsed. Dr. Shabout was afriad he would have to go back in, but he decided to try a million antibiotics first. They worked, so no 2nd surgery. Biopsy results came back negative, so no cancer. Dr. Shabout told me my internal organs were beautiful and could be in a text book. Thanks? I couldn't eat or drink anything until April 6. That first sip of water was pure heaven. Later that day, I had my first food in almost three weeks: chicken broth and a popsicle. It was delicious.

Bad news came early the morning of Saturday April 7: Moo and Gibby had strep throat and my mother was sick and had to go home. Dear Hubs had to shoulder it all alone. I cried because I couldn't be with my sick babies. It was a low point. But I had a dear friend visit me that day. I won't ever forget her kindness on a day that I'm sure did not include time for a hospital visit. Moo and Gibby, as all children usually do, bounced back quickly once they got some medicine.

They cut me loose on Easter Sunday after the doctors were assured that my pipes were back on line and working. Before I could go, the doctor wanted me to eat a real meal and see what happened. The Hubs brought me a turkey sandwich from Panera. The texture of it nearly sent me into a swoon. So delicious. I immediately called the nurse and told him to unhook me from my horrible IV. That was a good feeling to not have that trailing me everywhere.

Now I'm on the long road to recovery. I can't drive until May and who knows when I'll be able to get back to the gym. Sadly, all my muscles are gone and I have no idea how much weight I have lost. I have to say, though, that my church family did more for me than they will ever know. Praying with me in the hospital and checking in on my family reallly showed me how beautiful the body of Christ is. My work family also showed me great mercy. My huge trial continues to loom and my other cases lurk, but my co-workers have taken over my docket and just want me to recover. They are kind people. I am blessed. I am alive.