Call me an Oyster

Gentle reader, tonight I lay in a hospital bed, I.V. in my left hand, itchy hospital bracelet on my right. How did I get here? Let's start at the very beginning. A very good place to start (warning, this post contains graphic descriptions of gross medical problems):

5 years ago I lost 60 lbs - a rapid change in weight. Also, a common trigger of gallstones.
5 years ago I started having intense pain just below my right ribs. Where my gall bladder used to be.
5 years ago I went to the UCB student health clinic (a.k.a. the Tang) and, pointing right at my gallbladder, complained of sharp knifing pains. I was diagnosed with chronic acid reflux.

Since then, I have suffered increasingly frequent and severe "acid reflux attacks" characterized by 1) the feeling of a red-hot serrated knife twisting beneath by right ribs, where my gall bladder once resided, and 2) between 6 and 24 hours of vomiting stomach acid.

The last of these episodes commenced the Saturday before Thanksgiving. The vomiting and the most intense pain lasted for 2 1/2 days. Just in case, I visited student health services. They changed my Rx and sent me home expecting continued soreness as my insides healed from their recent acid-inflicted punishment.

When the pain intensified, I convinced myself it would pass. The next day found me unable to stand erect and barely capable of walking - literally crippled by pain. Still, I told myself, it would pass.

It did not pass.

By Wednesday, I had two choices: throw myself into traffic to end the pain or go to the doctor again. Since I didn't have the strength to walk to Lakeshore Avenue, where traffic is at its best, i decided to go to the doctor.

You might have the impression that I am masochistic. Certainly several friends insisted, from day one, that I go to the ER. Never fear, I was not totally daft. I had an inkling that I might wind up in the hospital. Just in case, I packed my purse with a change of underwear and stimulating reading material (Evidence Examples and Explanations).

As I lay on the examination table at student health services, I imagined that the acid had burned a hole through my insides and that I was dying of internal bleeding. The nurse practitioner listened to me, frowned a bunch, and pulled the attending physician into the room.

The Doc explained that there was a small chance I was suffering from pancreatitis or gall bladder disease. Since the clinic was closing that evening for the Thanksgiving holiday, the Doc instructed the N.P. to order an ultra-sound for the following Monday. By this time the N.P. was looking a tad nervous and, praise be to God, she somehow squeezed me in for an ultrasound that afternoon just before closing.

I hobbled, slowly and with much pain, to the ultrasound and radiology floor where I waited in line for the longest 5 minutes of life. Thinking back on it, I can't believe that I didn't collapse or at least feebly call out to the receptionist for help. For that matter, not a single person offered me a wheel chair, even though I was walking stooped over, at the pace of a 90 year old, and sobbing quietly to myself. What is the world coming to?

The ultrasound was another painful affair since they had to press the paddle into my swollen side. But I thank heaven that they fit me in same-day because it just may have saved my life. After 5 years of misdiagnoses, the ultrasound uncovered the real culprit: gall bladder stones, and lots of them.

At this point I thought they would give me a miracle stone-dissolving pill and send me on my way. Instead I was plopped into a wheel chair (at last!) and whisked off to the emergency room.

Two excellent friends met me in the ER so that I wouldn't be alone. One problem: the most painful thing I could do was laugh. And Cristy, that minx, kept cracking me up. It was agony.

The ER was in a pre-Thanksgiving lull and I was quickly wheeled to my own private curtained-off corner. Still convinced that I simply needed a pill, I impatiently put on the ass-exposing gown and crawled into bed.

Enter tired and somewhat cold ER resident: "You're staying the night with us, probably the next couple of nights."
Me: "Waaaaaaaa! Booooooo! Waaaaaaaa!"
ER resident: (unmoved by my tears) "In the mean time, can we give you something for the pain?"
Me: "Oh! Yes please! Yes!!"

After one failed attempt, the sweet but fumbling nurse go the I.V. in and I was introduced to the narcotic pain killer, dilaudid.

At that point I had the presence of mind to change into the clean and cute pair of underwear that I had earlier packed in my purse, just in case a draft should lift the flimsy gown, exposing the granny pair I originally wore. By accident, I left the granny pair in the sink of my private bathroom.

The nurse breezed back in to collect my belongings, peeked in the bathroom, and declared, "did someone leave their pants in the sink?" I couldn't help but laugh out loud, painfully, at the absurd notion of someone removing their pants and sneaking them into my sink. The dilaudid made the mental image all the more hilarious. My laughter was cut short when the nurse emerged, dangling my grannies on the tip of her finger.

I was mortified. Talk about kicking me when I'm down!

Sharon, my angel-friend who stayed with me for 5 hours that evening, grabbed the offending garment with a no-nonsense air, wrapped them in a paper towel, jammed them in her purse, and lectured me, "once you've had a baby, nothing will ever embarrass you again."

I didn't have long to mull over my embarrassment as the dilaudid rapidly eroded any sense of decorum.

Enter hot ER attending: (hold's my hand and looks lovingly into my eyes) "now, you have a potentially serious problem, but it is also a very common one. We're going to take good care of you."
What I heard on dilaudid: "Sweet nothing, sweet nothing. I love you. Let's get married."
What I said on dilaudid: (big sloppy grin on my face) "You are the cutest doctor ever."

And he was. The cutest doctor. Ever. In fact, the Northwestern Memorial Hospital is filled with hot doctors. Well, with the exception of the cranky resident who was not unattractive, but not exactly an Adonis.

My transport arrived to whisk me off to my hospital room. In the elevator, I asked the gurney next to me, "what are you in for?" She answered, "something, something, pain, blah blah blah." I wished her, everyone in the elevator, and everyone in earshot, a "Happy Thanksgiving!"

I later learned that the NWMH was built to feel like a hotel. Way to go NWMH! I loved my single room, pretty painting, two leather arm chairs for guests, faux-mahogany bookshelves and night stand, fold-out sofa bed, and the private bathroom and shower. If you have to spend Thanksgiving in a hospital, NWMH is the place to be.

That night I was visited by a phalanx of doctor-fairies who discussed the plan of attack: 1) calm down my freaky gall bladder with massive doses of antibiotics, send me home to fight the infection, and remove the rebelling organ at a later date, 2) if my insides continued to revolt, cut the infected organ right out.

Thanksgiving was spent laying in a hospital bed, monitoring my response to the antibiotics: zero. A few more fairy-doctors returned in the afternoon declaring, "out with her gall bladder!" Surgery was scheduled for Friday morning.

I was relieved. The thought of that time-bomb remaining in my body for any length of time was terrifying.

Flowers started arriving the next day and I was regaled with well-wishes from family and friends (thank you Mom & Dad, Puppy, Krista, Cristy, Jillian, Lisa, Parul, and Manisha). Cheryl visited on Thanksgiving morning with a bag full of books and the New York Times. She insisted that, once released, I recover at her fabulous West Loop town house. And Oscar was quickly farmed out to darling Krista and her Nathaniel (with hopes that his furry company will be the catalyst they need to commit to a kitty of their own). What a wonderful thing it is that, so far from family, I have a circle of friends dedicated to my well-being. Yay for friends!

That afternoon, over the phone, my Dad put the anticipated surgery into positive perspective by reminding me that this year I truly had something to be thankful for: my life. Had the problem persisted undiscovered, my gall bladder could easily have burst and killed me. Yikes!

By that time, the dilaudid was rapidly losing its intoxicating effects. The drug typically wore off 30 minutes before the next scheduled dose; as a result, the first deep sleep I had in 6 days was the one I had on the operating table.

Friday morning came at last and I was wheeled down to surgery. I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared, or that I didn't shed a few self-pitying tears. Just before surgery, Cheryl showed up to cheer me on.

And then, just like that, it was over.

Suddenly I was awake, sort of, and in excruciating pain. The first thing I said was, "I dreamed my whole semester." I want to dwell on my first post-surgery utterance. It captures my internal struggle from day one. It was perhaps the principle reason I waited 5 days before finally going to the hospital; an irrational fear of the damage that a trip to the ER could do to my schoolwork. I am daily shocked at how close I came to permanently ruining my health, all because I lacked any perspective of the priorities in life: health first, then everything else.

The next bits of memory are fuzzy and often lack one or more senses. I could sometimes hear but not see. Sometimes see but not hear.

I was wheeled to a post-op recovery area and quickly administered a much larger dose of dilaudid, 10 times larger than before. It came to me, gradually, that my gall bladder was gone. But as the pain receded, something very disturbing happened: I forgot to breath. I had to think about breathing. And unless I remembered to breathe I thought I would suffocate there on the gurney.

How could I remember to breathe if I was unconscious? The massive dose of narcotics made it impossible to stay awake. Each time I nodded off, I awoke with the terrifying realization that I wasn't breathing.

In a panic, I looked around for the nurse. I was all alone. Unlike my cozy bed upstairs, there was no nurse call-button. I tried calling out for help but couldn't speak. I whispered "hello?" Then croaked, "help!" Finally, I managed a speaking-voice, "I need help!" The nurse was just on the other side of the curtain, checking on my neighbor. I sobbed out, "please don't leave me alone. I stopped breathing!" She assured me that the monitor would have beeped if that were the case, and anyway, she had to finish checking-out my neighbor. Then she left me.

I was devastated.

I must not have suffocated after-all. But later a nurse told me that, for some patients, dilaudid suppresses the instinct to breathe. I was right! Take that, mean nurse!!

Back in my private room I examined my 4 new scars. One is hidden in my belly button. Two more tiny scars decorate my side. The big one, 2" wide, is conveniently located just beneath my right breast. Fantastic. Adds character, I'm sure.

I later learned that the big incision is larger than normal due to the unusual size of my gall bladder. A surgeon later described the diseased organ. "It was big. It was really big."

Oh my God Becky
Look at her gall bladder
I mean it's just so big
I can't believe it's so round
It's just out there
I mean, it's gross

Not only that, but it developed a tough rind, and was full of stones and sludge. That's why my surgery took longer than usual.

Ugh. A rind? Like a cantaloupe?

Just a few hours after the surgery I was eating solid food and walking around the ward. I felt so good that I suggested running laps. The nurse assured me that running was not in my cards; it was the pain-killers that felt so good.

Tomorrow I'll be released and Cheryl will take me to her place in the west loop to recover.

I have one regret: I never asked to keep my gallstones. I later learned that gallstones are beautiful. Like pearls.

So I'm an oyster.