It was the end of June. I was working online from home; it was a monthslong assignment that required daily 9-to-5 attention, and I was nearing the end of the bid. My stomach had been bad bad bad for quite a while. I was eating poorly (still am, essentially, but never mind), drinking too much, and stressed in my roles as paid online problem solver and unpaid parttime caregiver/lackey. My gut function was less than optimal.
For a couple of weeks I had noticed some abdominal cramping. These cramps did not feel like the period cramps I was tortured by in my 20s, 30s and 40s (which ceased once I begged my ob-gyn for a sad but necessary surgery). No, these were more like muscle cramps, but stabbing me in my sides. At first I thought it was just evidence of more indigestion, more reflux, more physical complaints from my hyperactive digestive system. I actually went out and bought more Pepto Bismol, which I am known to chug directly from the bottle. Eventually I wondered if I needed real medical attention but wasn’t sure what to do or if the symptoms were even that serious. I pushed through and kept working, trying to finish out the work assignment before I did anything about my condition. I stopped with the wine, ate less, and guzzled more Pepto, but I was still having issues. I started talking about a possible emergency room visit, because these cramps were … concerning. I wasn’t exactly doubled over in agony, but there was one night when I couldn't fall asleep because of the twisting in my gut.
Finally, I told my sister that I would probably go to the ER on Saturday and asked if she would drive me. She said Sure. But Saturday came and I was slow getting my shit together, The pain was less so I waffled. I think I even cooked dinner that night. But on Sunday, after Sis went to church, I thought: I can’t wait any longer. I had spent another sleepless night Googling about what my symptoms could possibly mean. I figured either my gallbladder or my appendix was on the fritz. Plus, my abdomen felt like a swollen barrel and those cramps were becoming diabolical.
I could
have driven myself the 7 miles to the hospital but thought it smarter to call an
Uber. I crammed my purse with lotion, a small tub of Vaseline, socks, a
bandanna, a cotton shawl, headphones, phone charger, and grabbed my zip-up
sweatshirt. I was going to be ready for a long stint at the hospital if
necessary and I wasn’t going to be cold, ashy, frizzy, or out of touch. Funny,
when I the Uber driver arrived, I told him to take me to the ER entrance and for a moment
he seemed panicked. "Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance?" I said, "Don’t
worry, I’m not going to bleed, pee, or vomit on your upholstery! it’s not that
kind of medical emergency."
It was about
2:30 when I arrived at Sentara Princess Anne Hospital, where the ER waiting room was pretty crowded for a Sunday
afternoon. I waited a good 30 minutes before my name was called, but after an initial assessment, the team took
urine and blood samples then sat me inside in a triage area. In fact, I was in
a recliner in the hallway because the other seating was occupied. The nurse
came and I described my symptoms but noted I wasn’t nauseous or wracked with unbearable pain. However, when she poked me in my lower right abdomen I flinched
and yelped. "I'm going to order a CT scan," she said.
A pair
of young male orderlies took me to a small room down the hall to get the CT scan. Once inside, they explained
that they were injecting me with a dye to show up on the machine and that I
would feel a sensation of warmth throughout my body, including a feeling as
though I were urinating on myself. "What??? What do you mean?" I blurted. They laughed. They explained that the sensation was due to the dye reaching all my extremities. "What if I DO pee on
myself?" I asked. "You won’t," they assured me. Sure enough, once I lay on the table
and went through the scanner, a slow heat spread through my nether regions.
When I got back into the wheelchair to return to triage, one asked, "How was
that?" "Weird," I replied, "But I low-key liked it." They laughed.
After a short while, the CT scan results came back. The nurse squatted next to my chair, looked at me sympathetically and announced, "You have appendicitis."
"Oh, wow," I gulped, trying to process the news. Even though I had suspected it, the reality set me back on my heels. When I’d arrived at the ER I’d been half expecting a prescription and a discharge, where I'd be home in time for Sunday dinner. "So what now?" I stammered, though I already knew: Surgery.
The nurse explained that I
needed an emergency appendectomy either that night or first thing in the
morning. In the meantime, Juliet had called and asked if she should come sit
with me. I said Yes Please! I told her I needed surgery and she was as shocked
and surprised as I was. I needed a bit of support in that moment, so Juli
arrived and we chatted a bit. Then the orderlies came with the gurney to take
me up to surgery, so quickly even my nurse was surprised.
At this point it was probably going on 6 p.m. I was the last surgery of the night for this surgical team. They wheeled me into the operating theater, where one person in a sheet divided area was still coming to. They read me my rights, described the laparoscopic operation, asked me about previous surgeries and medical conditions, all while getting me out of my clothes and jewelry, into a hospital gown, and jabbing anesthetic into my arm. Before I knew it I was out. When I slowly awakened in my own recovery cubicle, the surgeons assured me everything had gone according to plan. The orderlies were already tucking my shoes, purse, and clothes onto the gurney with me to take me upstairs to my private recovery room. It was about 10 pm when I texted my family that the surgery had gone well and I was doing fine. But it was tough to find sleep after so much disruption. And with my abdomen bandaged and sore, this side-sleeper couldn't get comfortable.
The hospital kept me through most of the next day, Monday, and
I was surprised that I was allowed to eat. There was some confusion, though,
because they first delivered an all-liquid breakfast, which I slurped down, but
later decided I could have solid food, and delivered a second breakfast of
eggs, toast, and even coffee, which I also consumed. For some reason I kept refusing to take their pain meds, and was a bit frightened by their prescription of oxycodone for my recovery. Somehow, I thought I might become an oxycontin addict, which they assured me was unlikely. I got to eat a lunch
before I was discharged.
My sistert came to pick me up around 2 pm and that was it. I was told to take it easy but make sure to walk around. No eating restrictions. The laparoscopic procedure has left me with four punctures in my abdomen, one of them right at my belly button; the marks were sewn up and covered with liquid bandages. I was told the whole thing would disintegrate over time. Though I resisted taking the pain meds, I resorted to them a few times, more to help me sleep.
It is more two months
later and my wounds are healed. I still have stripes across my belly where the
incisions were made. And thankfully, my gut is functioning a whole lot better overall.
Comments