The Big Gun, A Plastic Sheet, & Sweet Sleep

After the CT Scan there are hours that I essentially lost. I couldn't move. I could barely talk. I was in and out of consciousness. Text messages from my mom to my sisters during this time said, "It's minute-by-minute right now. She's in and out of consciousness. Keep praying."

The blood culture showed fairly early (compared to the 48 hours that it could have taken) that I was septic, due to Group B Strep. The Infectious Disease Control Doctor prescribed Vancomycin, a "big gun" in the world of antibiotics. It's used for treating MRSA and other penicillin-resistant staph infections. It's the "last resort" for when all else has failed. This big gun requires a central IV line, in other words, a line into a major artery in the neck, it's too caustic for a peripheral line.

Apparently there's a saying among medical professionals about not being treated by August resident doctors, or something to that effect that meant: When you are treated by a resident doctor in August, you're being treated by complete newbies. In other words, they're learning on YOU. Guess what? I had not one, not two, but THREE brand spanking new resident doctors working on me to get that central IV line in. This is what happened: my family (husband, dad, mom) was ushered out of my ER room and I was awakened by three young doctors. "We need you to roll onto your side." I replied, "You're going to have to do that for me, I can't move." They rolled me over. They said, "We're going to put a sheet over your head," and then they put a plastic sheet over my head.

Yes. A plastic sheet. Over my head.

At this point, I thought/prayed, "Lord, I must be really sick. I'd like to see my babies grow-up, but if it's not Your plan, I understand. They're in Your hands, You'll take care of them. If my husband and I are not going to have a successful marriage, take me home now. I'm ready."

There were two residents on my right side, behind me at this point, the third had walked out and would return later. One was a man, the other was a pregnant woman. The pregnant lady was the lucky one to do my central line. I, however, was not lucky. She'd never put in a central line... at least not on a live person.

Male resident: "Make a small incision... Good... Now, insert the tube..."

Female resident: "I can't find where it goes..."

Male: "You might need to do some exploration before it goes in..."

Me: (thinking) "Really? She doesn't have a clue as to what she's doing. I hope she doesn't kill me. Of course, it's really hot, I can't breathe under this plastic. They're going to suffocate me if she doesn't kill me first."

There was sweat rolling down my forehead and into my eyes. I tried to say, "Help. Can't breathe," but those words just wouldn't form. Finally, that third resident came back into the room and stood in front of my face. I looked up at him, pleading, "Please, help me." He looked down at me, up at the other two, and said, "She's sweating! Looks like she's having trouble breathing!" He lifted the plastic sheet up and in rushed fresh air. I mouthed, "Thank you."

From my mom and dad I later learned that as they were ushered out they were told a central line was going to be put in so Vancomycin could be administered to combat the Group B Strep. My parents nearly lost a friend a year ago to an allergic reaction to Vancomycin. They were  terrified extremely concerned.  Dad headed to the hospital chapel to pray. Mom and my husband just waited... praying.

I vaguely remember the residents finishing the central line, rolling me over, and leaving. I vaguely remember falling asleep with that new central line and thinking, "I just want to sleep. I'm so tired."

My family held vigil over me while I slept. I woke around 7:30 am, shocked to see that it was, indeed, 7:30 am on Saturday, August 18 2012.

Will You Please Hold That For Me?

So, within an hour of calling the doctor on-call, my life turned upside down.

I found myself changing into a hospital gown, having electrodes stuck to me for an EKG, being told to "fill a cup," having blood drawn, getting an I.V., and meeting doctors that I would have happily lived out the rest of my life without ever having met. This is where things sort of go foggy on me. I remember Nice Male Nurse (NMN) and Sweet Female Nurse (SFN). I remember SFN checking my temperature and saying, "I thought she felt warmer than 100. She's 103.5." I remember losing the blanket with which I had been covered and being left with only a sheet.

My timeline for the rest of the evening is so very, well, foggy really just doesn't do it justice. And, no, it's not because it's been four months. It was this way for me 24 hours later. I had x-rays done of my abdomen to check for air, to see if my uterus or colon had been punctured during the procedure. I moved myself from the bed/gurney to the table, but only just barely. Side note, I had to sign a release form when I entered the x-ray room. I thought, "This is odd. I don't think I'm in any condition to make this decision for myself."

By 6 o'clock, my husband and father had joined my mom and me. Seeing the two most important men in my life at the hospital, with looks of bewilderment on their faces, made me regret having the NovaSure procedure done. I think I apologized to them. I tried to hold their hands, but I really couldn't even do that. They had to hold mine. I could not lift my arms.

I had a fully (or maybe it's foley, I don't know- anyway, a catheter) put in by 6:30 pm, I was no longer able to get out of bed.

The surgeon ordered a CT Scan because the x-ray didn't have enough contrast to be 100% sure that there wasn't a puncture or a tear somewhere. This required drinking the radioactive dye. The doctors told me it tasted like water. The nurses assured me it wasn't bad. I tried. I really did. My family took turns holding the cup and straw up to my mouth so I could sip it. The staff kept coming in, "You've got to drink it and then we have to wait 2 hours before we can do the scan." Um, no. I could not get it down. I finished about half of it, and then asked for a vomit bag. "Please, will you hold that for me? I can't do it."

Quick rewind, remember that "mocktail" I drank on the way to ER? Yeah, it was the same color when it came back. I can't bring myself to drink anything neon green after that. It took multiple times before the contents of my stomach were thoroughly emptied. I felt immensely better. And, I did not have to finish drinking the "contrast." When they wheeled me back, to the CT machine, the tech just injected some iodine into my I.V. line. I also had to sign a release form. By this time, my signature was a scribble.