A few weeks ago, I thought that around this time I’d be writing a blog post about the joys and challenges of owning a dog. Instead, I’m writing about the difficulties of giving one up.
We’ve been wanting and looking for a dog for a long time, visiting the Humane Society, perusing dog books, and checking out the various breeds whenever we visit Carmel (a.k.a. Dog Paradise). We attended a Dog Adoption Day at the Humane Society a few weeks ago and encountered a small, friendly, fox-like dog named Elvis. Finally, the search was over. Within two days, he was ours, with our first order of business being to change his name to Moses. Similar enough to Elvis for him to recognize the sound, and different enough to eliminate all possible references to the King.
I fell in love immediately. Never having owned a dog before, I was amazed by his constant companionship and unconditional affection. I was also overwhelmed by the amount of time and energy he required. A dog (even more so a puppy) is a lot of work for anyone, let alone two people simultaneously recovering from a massive health crisis, returning to full-time work, and transitioning back to school. Within a week, we knew it was too much.
As we gathered Moses’s toys to bring back to his foster home, we cried at the thought of losing such a happy little guy. Even though we only had him for a week, we already bonded with and cared deeply for him, and it was so painful to admit that we just weren’t ready to give him the time and attention he needs. Saying goodbye to Moses led to the deeper realization that we are still recovering from the trauma of the past couple years, and we are not yet ready to take on an additional challenge beyond those we are already facing. Saying goodbye to Moses meant choosing God, our marriage, and our health above our other desires. As much as I’d like to own a dog right now, especially Moses, I’m just not ready for that yet.
I know Moses will find a great home though...with a face and personality like that, someone is bound to fall in love with him as quickly and easily as we did, and hopefully this time it will be a perfect fit.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
The Pros and Cons of Looking Good
Based on that title, you probably think I’m getting a little full of myself, but let me explain. I’ve looked “sick” in various ways for the past 2+ years. Since 2010, my weight has fluctuated from 85 to 130 lbs., my hair has fallen out three times, my skin has displayed a range of colors, from blotchy red to pasty white, and I’ve sported a face mask that suggests I’m either a serial killer or preparing for impending nuclear disaster. I’ve been confined to my apartment for months, in and out of the hospital more times than I care to count, and on kidney dialysis.
Compared to all that, I now look pretty good. The upside of this is that the standard has never been lower. Who else is told she looks “fantastic” just because she has hair? I’m greeted by exclamations of, “You’ve gained weight!” as if I just won the lottery, and I keep having to fight the urge to retort, “You’re looking rather chubby yourself!” and remind myself that’s a good thing.
When I stop and think about it, I’ve come such a long way over the past couple years. The other day while I was taking a walk, I remembered the months that I either wasn’t allowed outside or didn’t have the strength or energy to walk more than half a block. However, I still have some serious challenges, some physical but mainly emotional, as a result of my disease and bone marrow transplant. I think people have seen me looking sick for so long that now, because from a physical standpoint I look and feel so much better, they assume I’m great!
On my bad days, I dread going to the doctor or seeing people I haven’t seen in a while because I don’t want to hear the constant repetition of, “You look so good!” You’d think I’d be flattered to hear that I look good, and sometimes I am, but in reality that assertion often makes me feel pressure to reassure people that I’m doing well for their own peace of mind. What if I told you about my depression, fears about the future, or hip pain from a steroid-related condition unknown to almost everyone? Would that let you down? I can also feel misunderstood when told I look good, because my appearance often doesn’t correlate with how I feel. When you look good, people think you feel good, and so they don’t understand when you can’t do “normal” things or handle as many responsibilities.
With all that said, I am grateful that I’ve come so far, a concept that I’m still trying to grasp. I also appreciate when people compliment me, because I know they see dramatic changes in me that represent growth and new beginnings. I want to feel as good as I look, but it’s taking me time to get there.
Compared to all that, I now look pretty good. The upside of this is that the standard has never been lower. Who else is told she looks “fantastic” just because she has hair? I’m greeted by exclamations of, “You’ve gained weight!” as if I just won the lottery, and I keep having to fight the urge to retort, “You’re looking rather chubby yourself!” and remind myself that’s a good thing.
When I stop and think about it, I’ve come such a long way over the past couple years. The other day while I was taking a walk, I remembered the months that I either wasn’t allowed outside or didn’t have the strength or energy to walk more than half a block. However, I still have some serious challenges, some physical but mainly emotional, as a result of my disease and bone marrow transplant. I think people have seen me looking sick for so long that now, because from a physical standpoint I look and feel so much better, they assume I’m great!
On my bad days, I dread going to the doctor or seeing people I haven’t seen in a while because I don’t want to hear the constant repetition of, “You look so good!” You’d think I’d be flattered to hear that I look good, and sometimes I am, but in reality that assertion often makes me feel pressure to reassure people that I’m doing well for their own peace of mind. What if I told you about my depression, fears about the future, or hip pain from a steroid-related condition unknown to almost everyone? Would that let you down? I can also feel misunderstood when told I look good, because my appearance often doesn’t correlate with how I feel. When you look good, people think you feel good, and so they don’t understand when you can’t do “normal” things or handle as many responsibilities.
With all that said, I am grateful that I’ve come so far, a concept that I’m still trying to grasp. I also appreciate when people compliment me, because I know they see dramatic changes in me that represent growth and new beginnings. I want to feel as good as I look, but it’s taking me time to get there.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Crazy Hair
I guess I should be grateful that I now have enough hair to experience a bad hair day, but I’m not. Instead, I stare in disbelief at the stubborn tendril that curls over my left ear, defying gravity and maximum hold hair gel. My bangs (i.e. hair not yet long enough to tuck behind my ears) fall across my forehead in a way I like to (not so) affectionately refer to as “The Swoop.” I experiment with parting my hair on the left side, then on the right. I waste precious moments of the day untucking and retucking my sideburns behind my ears, wondering all the while if girls are even supposed to have sideburns. Caught in that awkward stage of trying to grow my hair out while not looking like an overgrown sheepdog in the process, I long for the day when my bangs are long enough to pin back without giving me a receding hairline.
I know, you think I’m exaggerating. But what you see is the result of many minutes (okay, hours) of patting, twisting, pulling, scrunching, and combing. Zack, however, gets to see the real deal. My morning hairstyles are his source of constant amusement. My hair has its good days and bad days, and half the time I look in the mirror and think, "What the heck am I going to do with you?" Sounds like a metaphor for my life.
Yet for all its untamed craziness, my regrown hair (and the fact that my face no longer looks like an overinflated balloon) has stopped people from staring at me and assuming I’m sick. Now I can go in a grocery store without little kids pointing at me and asking their parents, “Why doesn’t that girl have hair?” I can join the ranks of other women who chopped off their locks and lament with them about the awkwardness of growing them back, without sharing that I lost my hair from chemo, not by choice.
I’m sure I’ll have a moment next week or even tomorrow when I hate my hair, but today, I think it’s pretty cute.
I know, you think I’m exaggerating. But what you see is the result of many minutes (okay, hours) of patting, twisting, pulling, scrunching, and combing. Zack, however, gets to see the real deal. My morning hairstyles are his source of constant amusement. My hair has its good days and bad days, and half the time I look in the mirror and think, "What the heck am I going to do with you?" Sounds like a metaphor for my life.
Yet for all its untamed craziness, my regrown hair (and the fact that my face no longer looks like an overinflated balloon) has stopped people from staring at me and assuming I’m sick. Now I can go in a grocery store without little kids pointing at me and asking their parents, “Why doesn’t that girl have hair?” I can join the ranks of other women who chopped off their locks and lament with them about the awkwardness of growing them back, without sharing that I lost my hair from chemo, not by choice.
I’m sure I’ll have a moment next week or even tomorrow when I hate my hair, but today, I think it’s pretty cute.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Not So Irrational Fears
I think everyone experiences the occasional moment of feeling a bump on your toe and thinking it’s terminal cancer, or of having a case of intestinal upset and imagining you have a thirty-foot-long tapeworm (it happens-I saw it in an episode of House). But the truth is, those situations are extremely rare, so rare that we acknowledge those thoughts are most likely completely irrational and untrue. But what about when you’ve been in that 1 in a million situation not just once, but many times? What do you do when the “irrational” thoughts you pushed aside because they were just that, irrational, turned out to be true? How do you handle those thoughts in the future?
My fears are not usually constant, but they are extreme. When most people develop a side cramp, they think dehydration. I think liver failure, because that was the cause of my sudden debilitating side cramp two years ago. When most people feel an ache in their hip, they think it’s a temporary problem caused by sleeping on the wrong side of the bed or sitting for too long. I suspect mine is a permanent problem caused by long-term steroid use and alleviated only by pain medication and hip replacement.
This morning I went to the bathroom after waking up and noticed that my urine was a slightly darker color than usual, and a wave of fearful thoughts swept over me. But I’m doing so well! Why is this happening?? I can’t face it if something else is wrong with me! I have to face the fact that what are irrational fears for most people are very real possibilities for me. But I need to also acknowledge the facts that I can often ignore, such as the fact that, with the exception of my achy bones and occasional fatigue, I am feeling quite well almost all the time. I’m faced with the issue of how to acknowledge the reality of these fears without letting them overwhelm and control me.
As I prayed about these fears this morning, I reflected on many people in the Bible who also had these fears that proved to be quite rational considering their circumstances. They didn’t gain comfort from telling themselves that these things wouldn’t happen; they gained comfort from their belief that God would stand by their side through these possible challenges and give them the strength to endure. David was one of these people, and here are two psalms that he wrote:
Psalm 46:1-3 NIV
God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam
and the mountains quake with their surging.
Psalm 27:3-4 CEV
My fears are not usually constant, but they are extreme. When most people develop a side cramp, they think dehydration. I think liver failure, because that was the cause of my sudden debilitating side cramp two years ago. When most people feel an ache in their hip, they think it’s a temporary problem caused by sleeping on the wrong side of the bed or sitting for too long. I suspect mine is a permanent problem caused by long-term steroid use and alleviated only by pain medication and hip replacement.
This morning I went to the bathroom after waking up and noticed that my urine was a slightly darker color than usual, and a wave of fearful thoughts swept over me. But I’m doing so well! Why is this happening?? I can’t face it if something else is wrong with me! I have to face the fact that what are irrational fears for most people are very real possibilities for me. But I need to also acknowledge the facts that I can often ignore, such as the fact that, with the exception of my achy bones and occasional fatigue, I am feeling quite well almost all the time. I’m faced with the issue of how to acknowledge the reality of these fears without letting them overwhelm and control me.
As I prayed about these fears this morning, I reflected on many people in the Bible who also had these fears that proved to be quite rational considering their circumstances. They didn’t gain comfort from telling themselves that these things wouldn’t happen; they gained comfort from their belief that God would stand by their side through these possible challenges and give them the strength to endure. David was one of these people, and here are two psalms that he wrote:
Psalm 46:1-3 NIV
God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam
and the mountains quake with their surging.
Psalm 27:3-4 CEV
Armies may surround me,
but I won’t be afraid;
war may break out,
but I will trust you.
I ask only one thing, Lord:
Let me live in your house
every day of my life
to see how wonderful you are
and to pray in your temple.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Spring Cleaning
I’ve always wondered at the expression “spring cleaning.” Why spring? Why not winter cleaning, when you’re stuck inside anyway, or summer cleaning, when your kids are out of school and can be paid to do manual labor at minimal cost? Regardless of the origin of the expression, I found it to be true these past couple weeks as Zack and I undertook the task of deep cleaning our apartment.
Step 1 was accumulating a vast array of things that could be sold at a yard sale. This task involved roaming throughout the apartment, opening drawers, sorting through clothes, digging in closets, and searching under the bed for any and all objects that we don’t use or need. We ended up with a row of paper bags lining our bedroom wall that took up most of Zack’s side of the room. Zack was patient enough to put up with this for a couple weeks while we waited for the approaching yard sale. As luck would have it, I found a whole new treasure trove of things to sell after the yard sale, resulting in another line of paper bags and another yard sale this coming Saturday.*
Step 2 was initiated after I came across some information, both online and from friends, suggesting that many of the ingredients in the cleaning and cosmetic products I use are harmful to my body. I’ve heard bits and pieces of this stuff over the years, but going through a bone marrow transplant and all the related treatments and medications tends to make you take a second look at what you’re putting in and around your body. I figure I’ve done enough inevitable damage (through chemo, steroids, etc.); why choose to do more than I have to? I won’t go into all that I learned here, and I certainly don’t claim to have any expertise in this area, but I did find a few basic ingredients in almost all of my cosmetic and cleaning supplies that have been identified as carcinogens, hormone disrupters, or toxic chemicals.
At first I felt totally overwhelmed. While taking a shower one day last week, I imagined the theme music from Hitchcock’s Psycho as I stared around me in horror at all the products that contained these potentially hazardous chemicals. Everything from the shampoo to the sunscreen, from the body wash to the makeup. And the worst part is that the stress caused to my body by the newfound knowledge of these chemicals wreaks even more havoc on my system than the chemicals themselves!
The good news is that it’s actually much easier than one might think to replace harmful products with safe ones, and most of these replacement products are not only affordable but are also much better for the environment. Guess it makes sense that what’s safer for our bodies is also safer for our planet, right? Again, I don’t claim to be an expert in this area, and I’m still shopping at Safeway, but I figure that these basic choices Zack and I are making to eliminate as many harmful chemicals as possible from our lives can only do us good.
*The great thing is that we’re having the yard sale with friends from church, and all of our proceeds will go to our church’s annual Special Contribution, the majority of which funds the hiring of staff to work with our youth ministries. I first studied the Bible and became interested in God as a teenager, so I am deeply indebted to those people who sacrifice their time (and sanity) to work with youth, act as inspiring, positive examples, and teach them about God.
Step 1 was accumulating a vast array of things that could be sold at a yard sale. This task involved roaming throughout the apartment, opening drawers, sorting through clothes, digging in closets, and searching under the bed for any and all objects that we don’t use or need. We ended up with a row of paper bags lining our bedroom wall that took up most of Zack’s side of the room. Zack was patient enough to put up with this for a couple weeks while we waited for the approaching yard sale. As luck would have it, I found a whole new treasure trove of things to sell after the yard sale, resulting in another line of paper bags and another yard sale this coming Saturday.*
Step 2 was initiated after I came across some information, both online and from friends, suggesting that many of the ingredients in the cleaning and cosmetic products I use are harmful to my body. I’ve heard bits and pieces of this stuff over the years, but going through a bone marrow transplant and all the related treatments and medications tends to make you take a second look at what you’re putting in and around your body. I figure I’ve done enough inevitable damage (through chemo, steroids, etc.); why choose to do more than I have to? I won’t go into all that I learned here, and I certainly don’t claim to have any expertise in this area, but I did find a few basic ingredients in almost all of my cosmetic and cleaning supplies that have been identified as carcinogens, hormone disrupters, or toxic chemicals.
At first I felt totally overwhelmed. While taking a shower one day last week, I imagined the theme music from Hitchcock’s Psycho as I stared around me in horror at all the products that contained these potentially hazardous chemicals. Everything from the shampoo to the sunscreen, from the body wash to the makeup. And the worst part is that the stress caused to my body by the newfound knowledge of these chemicals wreaks even more havoc on my system than the chemicals themselves!
The good news is that it’s actually much easier than one might think to replace harmful products with safe ones, and most of these replacement products are not only affordable but are also much better for the environment. Guess it makes sense that what’s safer for our bodies is also safer for our planet, right? Again, I don’t claim to be an expert in this area, and I’m still shopping at Safeway, but I figure that these basic choices Zack and I are making to eliminate as many harmful chemicals as possible from our lives can only do us good.
*The great thing is that we’re having the yard sale with friends from church, and all of our proceeds will go to our church’s annual Special Contribution, the majority of which funds the hiring of staff to work with our youth ministries. I first studied the Bible and became interested in God as a teenager, so I am deeply indebted to those people who sacrifice their time (and sanity) to work with youth, act as inspiring, positive examples, and teach them about God.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Never a Dull Moment
In America we’re all about excitement, standing out, and being unique or extraordinary. One doesn’t usually wish one’s life to be dull, boring, or uneventful, or to be perceived as ordinary or average. There have been countless times over the past two years of my life, however, in which I wished for nothing more. When I was first admitted to the hospital for my then undiagnosed and extremely rare immune disorder, teams of doctors visited me every day for five weeks before they finally pinpointed the cause of my sickness. Almost every day, after being stumped yet again by my array of symptoms, one or more doctors would teasingly tell me I was “special,” as if this was an original statement. It drove me crazy.
Another one of these times was my last hospital admission two weeks ago, which I didn’t bother to mention to most people because, let’s face it, lately I’ve been admitted to the hospital about as often as I’ve filled up on gas. The day I was admitted, I arrived in the day hospital for a routine infusion of IVIG, a blood product meant to boost my antibodies and therefore my immune defense. I came by myself for the two-hour infusion, since I’ve received IVIG at least 40 times over the past year and a half and expected nothing out of the ordinary (there’s that word again). My nurse was training someone that day, so she decided to follow protocol and hook me up to the cardiac monitor, which they usually never do. I took Benadryl and Tylenol before the infusion to prevent any possible allergic reaction, and then quickly fell asleep.
About two-thirds of the way through the infusion, I woke up to go to the bathroom and felt a little crummy. I know my body well enough now to know when something is wrong, though I can’t always put my finger on it. As soon as I got back to bed from the bathroom, I plugged myself back into the cardiac monitor, which immediately started beeping. The machine has several levels of warning, which correlate the different beeping pitches and frequencies. The first is, “You’re a little anxious or sleeping too soundly.” The second is, “Something’s wrong,” and the third is “GET THE PADDLES!” I paged the nurse, muttered, “I’m going to pass out” as she entered the room, and then proceeded to feel my brain go to mush as the machine blasted its third and final warning level. During that moment, my heart rate actually dropped to 0, but luckily it rose quickly enough that they didn’t have to resuscitate me. I returned to consciousness to hear “CODE BLUE” being announced over the hospital PA system and saw a team of about 20-25 people rush into my room, shouting things at me and each other as they tore off my socks, checked my pulse, and started pumping me with fluids and hydrocortisone. Within 5 minutes, I was rushed to the ICU.
Not to worry; I was fine after about an hour since that chaos was simply caused by a severe allergic reaction to IVIG, which, thank God, I’ll never receive again. But protocol required that I be monitored overnight in the ICU, bringing me to hospital admission #3 in less than a month. I was pretty angry about the whole thing, but I’m grateful that it wasn’t anything more serious. I realized how God was protecting me by having the nurse decide to hook me up to the cardiac monitor. Even though no one was there with me, I wasn’t alone.
Isaiah 43:1-3 MSG
Don't be afraid, I've redeemed you.
I've called your name. You're mine.
When you're in over your head, I'll be there with you.
When you're in rough waters, you will not go down.
When you're between a rock and a hard place,
it won't be a dead end—
Because I am God, your personal God,
The Holy of Israel, your Savior.
Another one of these times was my last hospital admission two weeks ago, which I didn’t bother to mention to most people because, let’s face it, lately I’ve been admitted to the hospital about as often as I’ve filled up on gas. The day I was admitted, I arrived in the day hospital for a routine infusion of IVIG, a blood product meant to boost my antibodies and therefore my immune defense. I came by myself for the two-hour infusion, since I’ve received IVIG at least 40 times over the past year and a half and expected nothing out of the ordinary (there’s that word again). My nurse was training someone that day, so she decided to follow protocol and hook me up to the cardiac monitor, which they usually never do. I took Benadryl and Tylenol before the infusion to prevent any possible allergic reaction, and then quickly fell asleep.
About two-thirds of the way through the infusion, I woke up to go to the bathroom and felt a little crummy. I know my body well enough now to know when something is wrong, though I can’t always put my finger on it. As soon as I got back to bed from the bathroom, I plugged myself back into the cardiac monitor, which immediately started beeping. The machine has several levels of warning, which correlate the different beeping pitches and frequencies. The first is, “You’re a little anxious or sleeping too soundly.” The second is, “Something’s wrong,” and the third is “GET THE PADDLES!” I paged the nurse, muttered, “I’m going to pass out” as she entered the room, and then proceeded to feel my brain go to mush as the machine blasted its third and final warning level. During that moment, my heart rate actually dropped to 0, but luckily it rose quickly enough that they didn’t have to resuscitate me. I returned to consciousness to hear “CODE BLUE” being announced over the hospital PA system and saw a team of about 20-25 people rush into my room, shouting things at me and each other as they tore off my socks, checked my pulse, and started pumping me with fluids and hydrocortisone. Within 5 minutes, I was rushed to the ICU.
Not to worry; I was fine after about an hour since that chaos was simply caused by a severe allergic reaction to IVIG, which, thank God, I’ll never receive again. But protocol required that I be monitored overnight in the ICU, bringing me to hospital admission #3 in less than a month. I was pretty angry about the whole thing, but I’m grateful that it wasn’t anything more serious. I realized how God was protecting me by having the nurse decide to hook me up to the cardiac monitor. Even though no one was there with me, I wasn’t alone.
Isaiah 43:1-3 MSG
Don't be afraid, I've redeemed you.
I've called your name. You're mine.
When you're in over your head, I'll be there with you.
When you're in rough waters, you will not go down.
When you're between a rock and a hard place,
it won't be a dead end—
Because I am God, your personal God,
The Holy of Israel, your Savior.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Another Hospital Stay
I would’ve written earlier but I only recently regained use of my right elbow. I realize that statement leaves one desiring some context or background information, so let me explain.
I was admitted to the hospital for the second time in less than 3 weeks last Monday night (technically Tuesday morning, since I was admitted at 4:30 am, but that’s another story/blog post). Since my Hickman was removed during my last hospital stay (awesome), I had to get a regular IV for my IV antibiotics and fluid during this hospital stay (not awesome). In an attempt to avoid the bruising that resulted from the IV placed in my forearm during my last hospital stay, I requested this IV be placed at my elbow (medical people have some technical name for this location that I’ve never cared enough to learn). The IV placement actually went fairly well for me, meaning that it took only 3 nurses and 4 attempts, but the IV rendered the bending of my right elbow nearly impossible, making dressing, brushing my teeth, eating, and typing rather difficult. Add that to being seriously sleep-deprived, and blog-posting was not at the top of my list.
The reason I was sleep-deprived is that I arrived at the ER on Monday evening around 6:45 pm and wasn’t admitted to 1 North until 4:30 am, as I mentioned earlier. For the first 2 of those 9.5 hours in the ER, I was in immense pain, for the first 3, I had a fever, and for the entire time, my systolic blood pressure was under 100 (mostly running in the 80s/30s). Needless to say, I was thoroughly exhausted by the time I reached my hospital room, but procedure dictates that once the patient arrives, he or she must be thoroughly interrogated (for lack of a better word, but rather fitting at 4:30 am) regarding timing and dosage of medications, reason for coming to the ER, and pain level. I underwent this interrogation in addition to a complete medical examination by a handful of nurses and doctors, each of whom must have believed that his or her stethoscope yielded a unique result, since each insisted on pressing it all over my chest and back as I took deep breaths. By the time the entire process was over, it was about 7 am, and I was beyond cranky. Zack and I were able to catch a few hours of sleep between 7 and 11 am Tuesday morning, but we were physically and emotionally wiped out.
Tuesday night around 10 pm, I was looking forward to a much better night sleep when I was informed by my nurse that I had 3 upcoming blood draws. In the middle of the night. Since my IV wasn’t giving any blood return, these blood draws would have to be peripheral needle pokes. Let me repeat: in the middle of the night. I threw a mini-fit, cried a little, and then resigned myself to the facts. Shockingly, I endured the 3 blood draws, at 12 am, 1:30 am, and 3 am, with a dressing change thrown in at 2 am, each of which took about 20-30 minutes and consisted of nurses turning on all the lights and speaking at a volume better suited for a concert than a hospital room, without throwing anything or hitting anyone. Amazingly, I was even fairly alert on Wednesday and enjoyed visits from several friends.
Every hospital stay is difficult; no matter how many times I’ve been in this situation, it doesn’t get easier. But I’m grateful to be back home and back to my normal routine. Here’s to hoping the next one will be MUCH longer than 3 weeks away.
I was admitted to the hospital for the second time in less than 3 weeks last Monday night (technically Tuesday morning, since I was admitted at 4:30 am, but that’s another story/blog post). Since my Hickman was removed during my last hospital stay (awesome), I had to get a regular IV for my IV antibiotics and fluid during this hospital stay (not awesome). In an attempt to avoid the bruising that resulted from the IV placed in my forearm during my last hospital stay, I requested this IV be placed at my elbow (medical people have some technical name for this location that I’ve never cared enough to learn). The IV placement actually went fairly well for me, meaning that it took only 3 nurses and 4 attempts, but the IV rendered the bending of my right elbow nearly impossible, making dressing, brushing my teeth, eating, and typing rather difficult. Add that to being seriously sleep-deprived, and blog-posting was not at the top of my list.
The reason I was sleep-deprived is that I arrived at the ER on Monday evening around 6:45 pm and wasn’t admitted to 1 North until 4:30 am, as I mentioned earlier. For the first 2 of those 9.5 hours in the ER, I was in immense pain, for the first 3, I had a fever, and for the entire time, my systolic blood pressure was under 100 (mostly running in the 80s/30s). Needless to say, I was thoroughly exhausted by the time I reached my hospital room, but procedure dictates that once the patient arrives, he or she must be thoroughly interrogated (for lack of a better word, but rather fitting at 4:30 am) regarding timing and dosage of medications, reason for coming to the ER, and pain level. I underwent this interrogation in addition to a complete medical examination by a handful of nurses and doctors, each of whom must have believed that his or her stethoscope yielded a unique result, since each insisted on pressing it all over my chest and back as I took deep breaths. By the time the entire process was over, it was about 7 am, and I was beyond cranky. Zack and I were able to catch a few hours of sleep between 7 and 11 am Tuesday morning, but we were physically and emotionally wiped out.
Tuesday night around 10 pm, I was looking forward to a much better night sleep when I was informed by my nurse that I had 3 upcoming blood draws. In the middle of the night. Since my IV wasn’t giving any blood return, these blood draws would have to be peripheral needle pokes. Let me repeat: in the middle of the night. I threw a mini-fit, cried a little, and then resigned myself to the facts. Shockingly, I endured the 3 blood draws, at 12 am, 1:30 am, and 3 am, with a dressing change thrown in at 2 am, each of which took about 20-30 minutes and consisted of nurses turning on all the lights and speaking at a volume better suited for a concert than a hospital room, without throwing anything or hitting anyone. Amazingly, I was even fairly alert on Wednesday and enjoyed visits from several friends.
Every hospital stay is difficult; no matter how many times I’ve been in this situation, it doesn’t get easier. But I’m grateful to be back home and back to my normal routine. Here’s to hoping the next one will be MUCH longer than 3 weeks away.
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