This is kind of a long story, so grab your iced coffee, cocoa, shandy, or whatever you're drinking, and settle in.Okay, so we've established in the previous post that though I don't like declaring this for myself in the present moment, that this year 2019 has thus far found me in a place of struggle, with me feeling my way through PTSD and other challenges. I keep telling myself it will get better (I know that it will), and for the whole first half of this year, I worked my job during the day and came home and night and worked my evening job (telephone psychic) and just kept going and going and going to make enough... to make enough... to make enough...
I was tired.
On Memorial Day, I didn't work my part-time job because I had not had a day off without working one job or the other in several months. It was an okay day in which I didn't do that much other than crush candies and listen to some podcasts, but at the end of the night, I got terribly sick, very quickly. One of my issues was a sudden coughing fit which left me with a seemingly permanent weird feeling throat (not quite sore, it just felt weird).
Later that week my sinuses were bothering me so I had a little throat-and-sinus combo. That continued into the following week. Then my gums said, "Hey, we want to join in the fun too!" and they began hurting immensely. I worked late on Friday because it is my busy season, and I thought I would be doing myself a favor by staying late and doing as much as I could, but as I sat at my desk amongst my snacks, my crystals, and my pictures of cats and nieces, I realized that I actually felt quite ill. Not feverish, but almost no energy. Sort of like in the old-timey film clips, when they slow down and move one frame at a time and the noise is distorted? That's how I felt. And my head was a mess.
But nonetheless, I went home and diligently signed on to job number two. Diligently except the pain and pressure increased. The next morning, I woke up with one side of my face swollen. I continued to try to go on as normal. But by Sunday morning, it wasn't just one side of my face, it was my whole face.
By Monday morning, my tongue was swollen too. So now as I write my dialogue until we get about midway through, you'll have to imagine me talking with cotton in my mouth. Oh, wait, does that take away from the power of the story?
But I digress.
I called in late for work on Monday and called my doctor's office. I talked to a nurse and she said, "You need to go to an ER. Right now."
I said, "No, it's okay, I can come into the office."
She said, "No. You need to go to the ER. NOW."
Fine. Damn.
She made me promise her twice that I would go to the ER, and I did promise both times.
I was already dressed for work, but after hanging up with the nurse, I felt like you do when you get a call in the middle of the night that something has happened and you have to go go go. What do I do? Which hospital did I go to? Technically Bryn Mawr Hospital is a bit closer to me than Paoli Hospital. But I'm claustrophobic and the ride to Paoli was open and easy, as was the parking, whereas Bryn Mawr, not so much. I said goodbye to my cats, Quentin, and Mr. Henderson, and on my way out, I heard three words. Three hospital-visit changing words:
Earbuds. Phone Charger.
I found a charger in the drawer but wasn't sure I had earbuds. I could hear the voice of any given sane and rational person going, you have been told to go to the ER! GO TO THE ER! Yeah but I need my earbuds, because otherwise, I will have to sit and pay attention to my thoughts and fears, and I can't have that right now. I said out loud as I rifled through the drawer, "Hey, God, I gotta go, if I do have earbuds would you mind putting them in my hand?"
Ah, here they are. "Thank you, God. Also, can you make the swelling in my head go away? Please, and thank you?"
I got in the car, placing a panicky call to my sister, who reassured me that I would be okay (as she always does and would continue to do all week), and I drove myself to the hospital. There are approximately 37 signs at Paoli Hospital suggesting that if you keep going you will eventually get to the emergency room. But I didn't know this, and so when I saw the first sign, I parked. Ten minutes later I was still trudging to the Emergency Room, but it was too late to turn around and go get my car, for I suddenly felt that I was going to collapse. I wasn't lightheaded, I just had no energy.
I got to the ER, happy to have insurance and to be at a place where they would help me, but feeling uncomfortable, in pain, and very self-conscious about my ballooned-up face. I tried to answer the questions of the triage nurse, but it was becoming more difficult to talk. For the first time ever in my life at an ER, I was seen right away. I was led to a room where I told my story about six more times to various nurses, nurse practitioners, and doctors. All the while, texting my boss, coworkers, friends, and my sister that I didn't know or understand what was happening with my face.
When it became apparent that I would not be leaving the ER, my sister promised she would come to me right after work, and that she and my brother in law would take my car home and take care of my cats. I wrote like two to three pages on my phone describing how to care for them. My cats are kinda high-maintenance, but that's okay, so am I and we sensitive types have to stick together.
The hospital wanted to admit me; I was resistant to this. But they talked me into it. They said they would have a specialist coming to look at me either later that night or in the morning. They got me into a room and said that they would try to get the swelling down with antibiotics but that surgery may be likely.
OhmiGod! No! No surgery! There are too many sharp tools and vulnerable situations associated with surgery! Use drugs! Drugs!
As someone with PTSD, I'm used to panicking, and literally unpacked all my tools to calm myself down. I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, reaching out to my sister, messaging with my friends, distracting myself with all the podcasts in my podcatcher. These tools would work for a time, but then I would get back to panic.
I got no sleep the first night I was there because I was too uncomfortable and I was too easily distracted, and earbuds would only go so far to tune out the noise. And the swelling was getting worse. Plus I was extremely thirsty and they wouldn't let me have any water because of the likelihood that I would be having surgery.
The specialist finally arrived and declared that I would have to have surgery to drain the swelling and, how about 4:30 PM, was that good for me?
Hang on, let me check my calendar. Nope, can't do it, I'll be busy having a panic attack. How's tomorrow? How about we wait and give me more antibiotics?
"Erica, we have to operate today. We have no choice. We don't know what's causing this infection, you are very sick, and it's going to spread to your airway."
I think that's what he said, I was actually crying pretty hard so I'm not sure. I calmed down enough to call my sister to tell her what was happening.
What helped as I waited for it to be surgery time, were that people kept coming in and calling me and texting me and visiting me, and someone even came in from the hospital to do Reiki on me, which was nice. The reassurance and the Reiki and the fact that I generally do always seem to be taken care of no matter what my struggle helped me put aside (well... sort of...) my fear of surgery.
What did not help was that since my arrival the previous day, due to the extreme balloon-like roundness of my face, people passing by my room or wherever I happened to be would look at me, do a double-take, then look at me again, probably thinking something along the lines of, "Jesus, look at her face!"
'K, thanks.
What they told me at first was that they would do the surgery, then I would be sent to the Recovery Room and then back to my room later that night. So that is what I told my sister. But then when I was in the surgery room (which seriously felt like the M*A*S*H unit, because there were so many other patients and doctors in it, and it was all open) I was introduced to anywhere from seven to 700 nurses, doctors, and the like. They were all very kind and reassuring and took my contact lenses out for me (oh good, now I can't see anything).
Then one of the doctors said, "So, here's the situation. We are concerned that your airway is going to quickly become blocked before the swelling has a chance to go down. What would be best is if we left the breathing tube in so that the swelling has a chance to go down and we can make sure that you're breathing well."
I explained through my marble-filled mouth that this probably wasn't a very good idea because I have a sensitive gag reflex.
All the nurses and doctors I encountered were adept at patiently explaining to me that my fears were inconsequential, and this is what we're going to do anyway. They promised I would be kept sedated, and that when I woke up, they would remove the breathing tube, but that I would be kept sedated until they had felt I was out of danger. Given that this is not what I told my sister earlier, and that she had just lost her father mere weeks before all this, I asked them to please call my sister and tell her what was going to be happening so that she wouldn't call or come to look for me later and panic that I wasn't there.
They launched into action mode and it all gets blurry from there, but I remember hearing one of the doctors on the phone with my sister explaining what was happening with me, and based on the doctor's responses, I knew my sister was asking questions.
Being an Intuitive, I suppose I assumed I would have some sort of "experience" while under anesthesia. But what happened instead was, I said in my head as they began, Angels, please help me! I felt my Angels, I felt my Mom, and I felt my stepfather Pete, all surrounding me, letting me know it would be okay.
The very next thing I remember, I felt my cat Quentin sleeping on my feet, the way he always does. I opened my eyes to say, "Hey, buddy," to Quentin, but discovered instead a couple of things:
- I couldn't talk.
- My bedroom wallpaper was dark blue instead of light blue.
- My bed was now like a Craftmatic Adjustable or whatever.
- What I thought was my cat was actually a leg massager. Where's my cat? He must be hiding.
- There were about ten nurses in my bedroom. How did they get into my apartment?
OH - that's right. I had surgery. On cue, the nurse that was serving as my primary nurse said, "Erica? Do you know where you are?"
I tried to talk, but I couldn't because the breathing tube was still in. I started to lift my hand and noticed that it was tied to the bed with restraints the way I've seen when escaped convicts and crazy people get surgery on General Hospital. You know, like when Luke had that thing in his brain and Helena was controlling him and he committed all those crimes? You remember.
They undid the restraints, propped me up, and the nurse said, "You're in the ICU. Don't try to take out the breathing tube, we'll remove it."
I'm in the ICU? Am I supposed to be? Okay, whatever works, goodness I'm so tired.
They handed me a pad and paper and said, "We're going to take out the breathing tube in a few minutes. Write down whatever you want to ask."
I wrote:
When can I have water?'
"As soon as we get the tube out."
Can it be ice water?
"Yes," then she said to someone else, "Get her some ice water."
When can I have coffee? I had a major caffeine withdrawal headache since first arriving at the ER.
Big laughs from the nurses.
"One thing at a time." She smiled and said, "We had to restrain you. You gave us quite a hard time when you brought here."
I did? How?
"You were fighting us," she continued our conversation on her own since I couldn't reply, "trying to get the tube out, you were so agitated you were practically levitating off the bed."
Okay, well, thank goodness I am carrying no memory of that.
My face was still swollen, but I could feel that it was less so. They took the tube out and I didn't gag, so there's a victory. I drifted in and out of sleep and every once so often someone would come in and ask me a question or say something about how difficult I was when I first arrived in the ICU. Um... thanks? I still couldn't talk, really. The breathing tube, though now removed, left my throat raw and my throat was already agitated from the previous swelling. I called my sister, but I don't remember our conversation. She promised to come to the hospital soon and told me my cats were okay and that everything was going to be okay. "I don't want you to worry about anything," she said.
Then later that afternoon, the doctor came in and told me that I almost died due to possible constriction of my airway, and that it took longer for the swelling to go down than they thought it would, so that was why they kept me sedated for so long, and that I had been in Critical Condition when I arrived in the ICU.
No memory of that either. So, that leads me to believe that I was meant to be okay, especially because of how open I generally am to ethereal situations and energy. But I carried absolutely no memory of being near death or anything other than feeling safe before I went under.
But still, I almost died. So that's kinda nuts, huh?
The doctor went on to say that I have quite a high tolerance for pain and physical discomfort (that was news to me because I always thought my tolerance for such things was low). He told me if I had gone home on Monday night instead of checking in, I certainly would have died. "You were very, very sick."
Huh.
Friends sent gifts and messages, visited, the day went on, a literal constant flow of drugs both in IV and pill form were given to me, and I continued to try to snooze and listen to my podcasts. I had to stay sitting up because lying down made me cough. Every time I exhaled there was a "hmmm" noise coming from my nose and throat.
They told me I was going to a regular room when one was available but that I would probably be spending the night in ICU. I couldn't keep food down because of my coughing, so I stayed on IV and ice water. They got me an orange popsicle, but I couldn't eat it.
The next morning, my mouth felt better and so did my face, and I discovered an amazing privilege of private hospital rooms: You can request to keep the door closed! And from then on, I slept better without having to hear every conversation the staff had. They were all very nice but I don't like listening to other people's conversations.
I was moved to another private room, on a different floor, with different and just as nice nurses. As I made my way from the bathroom back to my bed, my legs decided it would be fun if they would turn into logs. And suddenly I was walking like a person quite a bit older than my actual age. My sister came to visit me again and the nurse gave me a shot to help my circulation. One of my doctors came by to say the swelling was going down but that I would be there at least a few more days so they could figure out what it was that caused the swelling.
I continued sleeping and listening to my podcasts, and most of the time I felt okay, though every once in a while I would have an acute attack of panicking about the money I wasn't earning from my part-time job because I was in the hospital and the fact that they didn't really know what happened to me or why, and I was afraid that I was going to die. I tried to keep my nurses entertained with one-liners and by showing them some of the funny gifts I'd been sent, and they were all very nice to me. I confided in one that I was really scared about the idea of not getting better and the fact that I almost died was starting to hit me. "Your story does not end at Paoli Hospital," she said.
The next day, I still didn't feel very good and was in a lot more pain than I expected. The drugs and podcast listening continued and I'm glad the door was shut because I was literally laughing out loud at TBTL and My Brother, My Brother, and Me. Talking was becoming easier. I could eat a little more as well and was on the "Full Liquid" diet which included Cream of Wheat, the most solid food I had had in days.
(You guys - if I haven't lost weight after all this, I'm going to be annoyed.)
My sister was planning to visit later, and the doctor had come in and announced they had discovered the cause of the infection: Strep.
Strep? You can be hospitalized from strep? I almost died from strep?
That made me feel better that I at least knew what it was. Later, a friend was visiting and as she and I sat chatting, another one of my doctors came in and said he was pleased with my progress and now that we knew it was strep, I could be given the antibiotics in pill form, so how would I like to go home today?
I instantly turned into a child from a 1950's sitcom. "Boy, would I!"
Thank you for saving my life, Paoli Hospital! I'll never forget you. But I'm getting the heck out of here. Three hours and two more IV drugs later, I was being wheeled down to the main entrance where my sister's SUV was waiting, containing my brother-in-law, and all three of my nieces.
I climbed into the SUV and we started along. My brother-in-law drove, my sister handed out York Peppermint Patties (it's how we roll in our family) and the kids chatted at me. Luna, eight years old, wanted to tell me about everything that had happened since she last saw me six days before. Maya, six years old, wanted me to know that even though she loved me, I really looked like a mummy at that moment (I have not mentioned my facial bandaging, but it will go away soon enough). And Frida, three years old and the most direct out of the bunch said simply, "What happened your face?"
They took me home and carried all my stuff upstairs, and now the moment we've all been waiting for: Cat Reunion. Quentin is ten years old and has been with me since he was five weeks old, and I had never been away from him for that long. Mr. Henderson is about six years old and has been abandoned several times, and probably thought he had been abandoned again.
My sister and I walked through the door together. She had been taking care of them all week, and they knew where their loyalties were. They looked from her to me, from me to her, and then my sister started off to the kitchen to put my stuff down. They immediately followed behind, and Quentin turned a glance to me that said, "Hey, glad you're home, but she feeds us now, so we'll talk later, okay?"
Everybody settled me in, and they left. I walked them downstairs from my second-floor apartment, the way I always do. Then the groceries that I ordered were delivered, and I realized that I had no plan for taking up the case of 24 water bottles and that the only thing I could do was bring it up myself.
That was kind of a mistake. I overdid it, but finished my laundry and unpacking and got in bed. The next day I overdid it a second time because at one moment I felt fine, the next my throat was making a weird noise from breathing funny. I got some solid advice from a friend on Facebook: Always do half of what you think you can do.
That has helped immensely. Two days ago my sister and the girls came over again, played with my cats, had fries and pie (it's how we roll in our family) and my sister took care of a few things around my apartment while I sat on the couch and hung out with the girls.
Tomorrow I make an attempt at going back to real life by going back to work, at both jobs. The difference is that now I am going to have to go very slow.
If I think about it too hard, I'm pretty overwhelmed honestly, there was a lot to be done before my hospitalization and there's even more now. But, I have always gotten through everything, and I'll get through all this too. I was lucky, I was saved in the hospital, and I have to believe that everything always works out for me.
So, off we go, moving forward! Who wants ice water?
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