That time I almost died

I feel compelled to write these things.  Not that I plan to return to them and reread them often or that I think I'll forget, but more as a chronicle of my life and a refusal to glaze over the unpleasant parts while still focusing on the good.  I still have a categorically good life--I live in a first world country where my only real complaint is that I run out of scalding hot water after 15 minutes and hot water after 30; I have Gregory, who you will see is practically perfect in every way; and I have four generally well-behaved but always thoughtful and kind and caring children.  Nevertheless, the last few weeks I could have done without.  Perhaps by the time I'm 90 I'll be able to say what good they were but as for now, I'm unsure of what I'm supposed to be learning.  I suggested to Greg that maybe my absolute hatred of doctors was keeping me out of the celestial kingdom and maybe this was to teach me that they aren't all workers of Satan; he thought this was a ridiculous idea, and frankly so do I but the thought did cross my mind.

This is about the time I nearly died.

It started February 28 when we didn't hear a heart beat at our first prenatal appointment for Baby 5.  Because it's fairly painful to continuously rehash that event and because I've said all I want to say about it in the previous post, we'll move on.

We quickly realized that we only had one decent option.  Because I had what is called a missed abortion (doctors really need to work on their terminology), the best option was a D&E, where the doctor would manually remove the baby from my uterus.  It was supposed to a 30-minute, low-risk procedure, nevertheless Greg and I spent an evening drafting a list of all my concerns and long-standing fears regarding doctors and the medical field in general and we spent 45 minutes discussing them in-depth with our doctor the day before the scheduled procedure.  She was kind and open and reassuring.  Not that it mattered one-lick in the end.  She tried her best to stick to my wishes but when you're dying they kind of just do what needs to be done to keep you from dying.  Most of my wishes were in regards to my privacy and modesty and desire to not be a number but a patient.  She tried her best.

Tuesday morning we arrived at the hospital dark and early and were asked to pay upfront, which was annoying.  Oh, your baby just died and now you have to come in to have this uncomfortable procedure done when you'd really rather having a living fetus and be at home with morning sickness?  Let me pour some salt in that wound and ask for a few thousand dollars.  I'm leaning more and more towards a single-payer healthcare system every minute. 

We were then shuttled from waiting room to waiting room for about an hour before being taken to pre-op where I changed, got an IV and reviewed my name and birthdate a million times.  Greg and I made an abbreviated list of our concerns and handed them out to all the nurses that entered our room.  They responded well and were more than conscious of the painful situation we were in.  One nurse even blessed me with twins next time around, and really I'd take triplets over this any day.  They even provided socks, which was nice because I really hate not having socks on. 

The one thing I didn't like was that I was given a "relaxant" before being moved to the OR.  I would rather not have.  For one, I didn't realize how quickly it would work and didn't get a chance to say good-bye to Greg.  One minute we were in the middle of a conversation and then next, I was waking up to Dr. Jones, an extra IV and stitches across my lower abdomen.  If I had died, that last thing I would have said to him is that I wish we could get some of this to help our kids to go bed. 

Also, I like knowing what's going on and all the things done to me.  I would have liked to have been awake while they put me on oxygen and added all the heart monitoring cords, etc.  It was a little disconcerting to have fallen asleep with a single IV and woken up with cords coming out of every part of my body.  Grant it, that may have been due to my special circumstances, but I would have liked to have been awake for longer.

When I did wake up, I knew immediately that something was wrong.  First, the doctor was there when she told me she'd have to leave just after the surgery and that I wouldn't see her again; I could also feel the stitches in my abdomen and the extra IV in my hand; I also noticed the clock--it was 1 pm.  So much for a 30-minute procedure.  I immediately asked for Greg and he was allowed to the recovery room, which initially we were told was not allowed.  But I think Dr. Jones and the nurses made a lot of exceptions for us because we asked.  Greg arrived and told me what happened.  The initial procedure did not go as planned and the doctor had ruptured my uterus so had to do an additional surgery to sew it back up.  Greg had tried to take notes of everything and ask all the right questions but he had forgotten to ask how long the second procedure would take.  He ended up nervously pacing the waiting room for hours and preparing himself for an army of grief counselors to approach him.  The receptionist was so worried about Greg that she finally went up to the OR to get a report for him, which didn't really solve anything until he saw me again.  Dr. Jones said we could still go home that night.

I'm not sure how long we were in recovery.  I was extremely tired and was anxious to get out recovery so I could just sleep but I felt the need to stay awake while in recovery.   But I couldn't move--or at least didn't want to.  I felt like my head would explode if I turned it from the side where I was looking at Greg and like I would break in half if I sat up.  I couldn't talk from being intubated during the second surgery but was dying for water.  But I was bleeding, a lot and I could feel it.  I tried to explain to the nurse but between my dry throat and throbbing head, I struggled to get the words out.  Finally, she checked and saw that there was a lot of blood but insisted that this was somewhat normal but that she'd keep an eye on it.

Eventually, we were moved from recovery to the women's floor.  I'm not really sure why.  It was the worst I-don't-know-how-long of my life.  I still couldn't sit up or move my head and was doing the best to keep that last thing I'd eaten--dinner the night before down, as they rolled my bed down several hallways and onto and off an elevator.  They really ought to put bigger wheels on hospital beds as those were the most painful few seconds of my time there, getting in to and out of the elevator.  I couldn't open my eyes as we moved and then they insisted that I get moved from the recovery bed to the women's floor bed--they did the whole sheet lift thing.  Also extremely painful.  Why I couldn't have stayed in the original bed, I don't know.  I was so sick as they moved me from one bed to the next I remember involuntarily reaching out and grabbing one of the nurse's shoulders.  Greg later said that should have been an indication that things weren't right.  I just thought I was having a bad reaction to the anesthesia.  I was half-conscious at this point but I looked over at the other bed and saw that it was covered in blood.  Greg said the nurse in charge of that room was very unhappy.  She did not think we should be in that room with how much blood was on the bed.  The nurses from recovery told her not to worry and that it was just because they hadn't changed the sheets since I initially came out of surgery.  But "blood transfusion" was starting to get thrown around.

Everyone left the room and I realized we would not be going home that night so in my half-conscious, unable to move for fear of breaking in half and unable to speak clearly from the tube, I started dictating emails to Greg about who should take which children where and make sure the kids' teachers knew who was picking them up from school and arranging to have someone else take treats to scouts the next night.  Greg did it to pacify me but he was annoyed that these were the things I was worried about--especially about who would bring snacks to scouts.  We also started discussing the need to have my mom come to watch the kids for a bit as it was becoming more clear that we would not be going home that night and that this was more than a quick out-patient procedure. 

The nurse decided I needed some sort of pill so sat the bed up.  I was pleased that I didn't just break in half but still eager to lie back down.  She kept me sitting as she explained the pros and cons of a blood transfusion to me and Greg during which time I tried to really hard to keep my eyes open but I was just so tired.

When I'd no longer been able to keep my eyes open, Greg had to slap me back to consciousness while the nurse who knew we shouldn't be there to begin with called a cardiac crash code so that half the hospital came running.

Next thing I knew I was lying flat again with a nurse telling me to talk to Greg.  What?  I looked over and he was asking all sorts of weird questions about I don't remember what and I tried to answer as I noticed more and more people pouring into the room, including the famed Dr. Morris, who all my friends love.  I tried to tell him this but my speech was so slurred by this point I doubt he understood me.  Greg, meanwhile, realized that he had to be helpful if he wanted to stay with me, starting helping the nurses by flipping switches and in all other ways remaining calm so he wasn't escorted to a waiting room.

I was somewhat conscious by this point and realized they were taking me to the ICU.  They said Greg couldn't come and this is the part I regret--rather than insisting he stay with me, I told him to call my mom to make sure she was coming to take care of the kids.  He followed my entourage up to the ICU, which by the way, we got a police escort for--they cleared the halls and held all the elevators while we moved.  I was feeling less sick by this point but getting off and on the elevators and the insistence of the staff to move me from one bed to another was just the worst.  For a few hurried minutes, I was hooked up to more cords by a hoard of nurses while I watched a few doctors discuss me by the door.  The nurses were so nice as they could tell I was trying to keep myself covered and they insisted that the male doctors couldn't see anything.  They even put these lovely cuffs on my legs that put pressure on my legs at intervals something like a massage chair--they were wonderful.  They distracted from the pain and kept away the pain of lying in one position for too long.  I started asking for Greg again and he appeared like magic and was again right beside me.  The ICU doesn't mess around so they turned up the IV drip as fast as it would go and gave me lots of fluids and my first bag of blood products.  I could finally sit up and have a somewhat coherent conversation.  I could still hear myself slurring some of my words and was having a hard time thinking of all the words I wanted to use but I could sit up without wanting to die.  It was just after 5 pm.

The room cleared out and a special nurse was called in to put a 3rd IV in--this time it was a mid-line and was in my upper arm.  Next time I go to the hospital I'm going to ask for one of these right away--so much less painful than the one in my hand and the one in my forearm--which still hurt a week after being taken out.

Greg called a friend who was at the hospital with his wife and new baby to come give me a blessing and the doctor came by to check on us.  She even went down to the cafeteria and got Greg some food since hadn't eaten all day.  Meanwhile our nurse was checking and rechecking the drop point as I was supposed to be getting more blood but it wasn't coming. 

And then shift change.  The new nurse and the old nurse were in the corner discussing my case when that now-familiar feeling came over me--I called Greg over to me and told him I couldn't keep my eyes open and that I just hurt.  I saw him flag the nurses and the next thing I knew I was flat on my back again with a handful of nurses putting as many bags of blood into me as quickly as possible.  And then they were gone. 

Greg and I waited for a few more hours.  Just waited for me to crash again.  We weren't getting a lot of information at this point and after Greg had to flag the nurses over, I was afraid to fall asleep because I wasn't sure I would wake up.  Finally around 10, Greg ran and got more food.  Around midnight he took some NyQuil and was able to sleep.  I, on the other hand, could not.  I had refused any pain medication stronger than Tylenol because I wanted to feel everything that was happening so I could keep the nurses informed of any changes.  I could feel my hands and feet and arms swelling with all the liquid they were pumping into my body.  I tried to hold my phone with one chubby hand and managed to use a single finger to type out the last few emails I needed to take care of the kids.  I also continued to bleed.  I wasn't convinced that adding more blood would solve that problem since I was having labor-like contractions but our nurse, Wanda, was convinced and continued on her coarse.  She stayed with us that night.  I'm not sure why she did but I found a lot of comfort in having her nearby.  Maybe it was the Spirit telling her I needed a medical professional in the room or maybe the doctor told her too, whichever it was I'm glad she stayed.  With her in the room closely watching the monitors, I felt like I could relax a bit more.  She also answered questions as they came up and provided lots of information and her own wise perspective as the night wore on.

I continued having labor-like contractions throughout the night.  At some point I passed a clot the size of a baby and the contractions finally stopped.  Wanda went to work cleaning things up and after that I felt much better.  I was finally clotting and the bleeding was stopping.  I slept off and on through out the night but mostly I just watched the soundless TV.  I passed several more clots and by morning the bleeding had mostly stopped. 

Wednesday morning when the doctor stopped by Greg convinced me that I hadn't slept in over a week, which is true, funny out finding out your baby died makes sleeping difficult, and that I really ought to take something stronger than Tylenol.  So I did.  And it worked immediately.  Just minutes after taking whatever narcotic mixed with an anti-nausea I was slurring my words as I gave Greg more instructions.  I was soon asleep and he went home to shower and check on the kids.  I slept most of the day and woke up feeling much better.

Wednesday night, after two days of lying flat on my back, 2 nurses and Greg helped me into a chair before Greg hurried off to get my mom from the airport.  He brought her back to the hospital to say hi, all while insisting that I didn't look sick or scary (I didn't want anyone to be concerned from looking at me).  My mom later admitted that I looked very puffy.  Greg took mom to our house and I took more pain medicine and slept most of the night--of course this is kind of hard with a nurse coming in every so often but it was better than the night before.

Thursday was Greg's birthday.  He bought himself a birthday banner and brought his poncho to the hospital.  He made sure to tell every nurse he'd been born in that hospital 33 years prior and they all wished him a happy birthday. 

By this time, I was getting much better.  I spent most of the day in the recliner reading Harry Potter, watching mindless TV and sleeping.  We had been told we'd be moving out of the ICU that day so Greg hung around so he'd be with me to move.  We waited and waited.  I needed more blood so we got that and then we waited some more.  Greg and I even took a very slow lap around the ICU.  It was nice but painful to be up walking again.

Half of my machines.

I started getting pretty board by Wednesday night.

After much persistence, we finally moved to the women's floor at midnight and I was detached from most of the cords, which was lovely because they are heavy and causing a lot of pain in my shoulder from supporting them for so long.  I spent another mostly sleepless night on the women's floor but was finally allowed to shower the next morning, which was quite the shock as I hadn't seen how bruised and swollen I was.  I was completely black from the belly button down and barely fit into the dress I brought to wear home--luckily I'd thought to not wear jeans when we came to the hospital 4 days before. 

At 1, we finally left.

It was a little bittersweet.  I liked the hospital.  I fit in there. A giant building full of broken people.  I was afraid to see the kids--mostly that they'd touch me, but Greg did a good job of preparing them and they all did a great job of keeping their distance.

Now we've been home for over a week.  Friday was the first day I didn't wake up feeling terrible.  Today was the first day I spent more time not sitting than sitting. 

It's discouraging to be like this.  I know that I will eventually get better and that I will run and go to the park and wrestle with the kids.  But I don't feel like that.  I feel like I will always walk hunched over and slowly, as Henry likes to remind me.  I feel like I will always need a pillow on my lap and one behind my back.  A friend of mine told me the other day that she doesn't mind C-sections, which is the closest thing I can think of to describe what I had, because she was in a coma for 3 months one time so the three C-sections she's had are nothing to her.  That put me in my place.  I know I will get better; I know it will take time; but I have a hard time remembering that.  My legs itch to run and my arms to snuggle the kids.  But for now I'll just have to deal with hobbling along and reading thousands of stories to children sitting a comfortable distance from me. 

UPDATE:  I woke up this morning covered in blood--I'll save you from looking at the pictures--so back to the doctor's office we headed.  The hematoma I had under the stitches burst and seeped out through the stitch line.  I actually feel much better and moving is so much easier without all the extra pressure, but it also burst the stitch line so now we get to make weekly visits back to the doctor to have her re-pack the opening.  On the bright side, I didn't have to have the stitches completely reopened, washed out and re-closed.  So much for a simple out-patient procedure, amIright?