Documentation

One of the reasons I started this blog was to document everything that has happened, really since December '08, when the first signs of the disease appeared.

In this installment I want to discuss the hospitalization.

Friday, April 29

As I've reported earlier, Dr. A. decided on hospitalization in order to facilitate the biopsy and to ensure I was receiving enough oxygen.

With no beds available, Dr. A. called an ambulance to admit me to the ER. This would ensure speedy admittance & hospital bed. Or so we thought.

You need to understand that Dr. A's office is a total of one-half city block from the ER, and thinking it would take a few minutes for the ambulance to arrive, I stepped into Barnes & Noble, next door, to get one last glorious decaf iced coffee. I figured I had a wait ahead of me.

But no, as I returned to Dr. A's office, the EMT guys were pulling up. Dr. A's office completed the paperwork and I was driven the half block to the ER.

MyMan showed up shortly thereafter, brought my stuff and stayed with me for several hours. I was finally admitted at around 4:30 a.m. that night, a full 10 hours after my arrival.

Once a bed opened up, oxygen was provided, and I was instructed about how to inhale what I now know was albuterol to keep my airways open. I still don't understand why no assistance was provided until I was actually admitted.

I felt no relief, fear nor expectation. No worry either. I gave it up and observed myself and what was happening around me. I knew MyKid was cared for and safe.

My state of mind was: I was just here in the hospital, dealing, following instructions. Auto-pilot.

Saturday April 30

Saturday was a blur of friends, family and synagogue community members coming to visit me. I felt so lucky, so buoyed by the good wishes and attention.

Flowers from my DSD (darling step daughter) were especially beautiful. My DSIL (my darling son in law) sent over crosswords. I love them so much!

But my idyll came to an abrupt end when the evening nurse let me know I was to be moved: A CT scan taken a few hours before looked "suspiciously like tuberculosis."

THEY HAD TO BE KIDDING. One silly misdiagnosis by an under trained tech (my impression) and my path to health was being detoured! I was whisked off to my own private isolation room.

It was nice to have one's own room & private bathroom. Thus began a parade of doctors, nurses and aides coming in for tests and questions, and all looking like robbers -- they all had to wear thick pink masks, ostensibly to protect themselves from my "tuberculosis."

Context: You need to remember that this is taking place as swine flu hysteria is racing through our area. It's on the news every night, and at every entrance to this hospital there's a metal rack offering those entering the same blue-tinted face masks you saw on TV every night.

To test for TB, I needed to cough and spit into a cup for 3 days, to see if there was blood in my mucus. There was no blood in my mucus. Saturday night was Day 1.

Sunday

More oxygen, more albuterol, pills. TV on. I was on lock-down. No leaving my room. Knitting a little, maybe. Reading magazines, newspapers. Attempting crosswords.

More spitting in cup. Day 2.

Probably this day there was a visit from Infectious Disease Dr. who was good enough to declare I didn't have TB and even took off his mask. Thank you Dr.! But, the results still needed to be in.

Most annoying of all is the dumb repeated questions routine. I mean, I answered the questions, the answers are in the book. Do the doctors even bother to read the reports they're handed?

• Have you ever smoked?
• Yes
• When and how much?
• Stopped 20 years ago; 1 pack a day
• Oh

Oh, as in, "darn and I thought I figured this one out, Oh." Over and over again. And thus ends each of the doctors' brilliant attempts to "solve" my mystery disease. Yuck!

Monday

Same as above, minus IDD. Dr. A. stopped by. Of course he knew I didn't have TB. Today's cup of mucus would have been Day 3, but apparently it got lost, we learned later. I was afraid that the results of the TB tests might hold up the biopsy. Apparently not:

Biopsy was finally scheduled for Tuesday. I welcomed the idea of the operation. It meant one step closer to going home.

MyMan came today, and every day, bringing cheer and news of the outside world. I miss MyKid like crazy. I wonder how he's taking the fact that Mom's in hospital. In his stride, G-d bless him, in his stride.

Tuesday

Biopsy day. Finally, another step closer to getting out of here and resolving what it is I have.

I hated the prep. I hated the idea of them going in to cut me up, for the sole purpose, it seemed to me, of confirming what the CT scan already told them. How much proof do they need?

I remember listening to the sexist comments of one of the male doctors?aides?nurses?, who cheerfully flirted with the nurses while I lay there, like a piece of meat. Do they think we can't hear?

I had a moment of panic as they placed the mask over my face. I remembered going under for my first operation in 1953 on my eye. The black mask with the funny-smelling stuff.

I came out of the biopsy with a tube hanging out of me, which felt about 4" wide in diameter. It wasn't of course. But it felt like it.

Here's the beauty part: they gave me a little trigger gun. If I felt pain, I hit it. It was morphine. My G-d, morphine. That's what WWI survivors were given for pain. The oldest and the best, I guess. I don't do recreational drugs, but they were practically begging me to use it.

It was truly a lost 24 hours. All I knew was I would awake, feel pain, zap that little trigger and go back to sleep. A couple of hours later, do it all over again. I can't say I had a high from this, but I also had no pain.

Wednesday-Thursday

Waiting for the biopsy results. Oxygen and albuterol, nexxium and more pills. TV and magazines. Lock-down ended. Surprise, I didn't have TB. What a shock! But at some point there was no reason to move me, and they kept me in my "private" room.

Both Rabbi and Rebbitzin came each at different times to see me. Now that's a belief system in action. They actually show up, they offer solace. They are gracious and generous. I am heartened.

MyKid came one day. I was soooo happy to see him. I felt so bad for him. What emotions surely he felt...but he's a boy. It's all inside.

Friday

D-Day. I get to go home. But not before a phalanx of doctors arrive to deliver the final report.

MyMan came today as usual, and at my request, brought MyMom. MyMom is 84 and her chief occupation is worry (see worry "telegram" in earlier posting). I figured it was time she got to see what was happening. So she was there for the main event.

Dr.A called to confirm it was indeed boop, but he before he would let me go home, he asked the head of pulmonology (HOP) to stop by, review the biopsy results and deliver the final decision. Dr. A. really did not want to let me go home, but it was Friday. I was anxious to be at home for the Sabbath.

The Visit from HOP

MyMom worked in a hospital back in the 60s and, while many, many things have changed, the visit from the head of pulmonology proved that some things had not. MyMom had been the medical secretary for a hospital department, reporting to the department head. My impression was of the lead role the dept. head had and the swirl of respect/fear that he inspired in his staff.

After being told over several hours that HOP was on his way, had been held up, would be here shortly, etc., etc., by a somewhat disheveled, disorganized doctor, HOP finally appeared. With his pool-like, deep brown eyes, perfect tie under his crisp, white lab coat, HOP towered over his subordinates and floated into my room. (Aside: Of course he was TALL! TALL PEOPLE INVARIABLY RISE TO THE TOP!! THEY TOWER OVER EVERYONE)

In essence, he said, it is BOOP. We don't know what causes it, but we know how to cure it.

He at least had original questions.

When did the problem commence?

December 29th.

Did something happen, say 2 weeks previously? Had I had an abscess or other inflammation in the mouth?

We know, he said, that these problems sometimes are caused by an infection in another part of the body.

MyMom, being MyMom, decided to answer a question. I cut her off. Hey, MyMom, this is my disease!

Finally, Dr. A. relented. I was free to go home. But, oh the instructions to follow.

Friday night, MyMan went to the pharmacy and returned with a bag of medicine, and thus it began.