A Medical Story
Two Fridays ago, I picked up my sister from the airport to start a week-long vacation with plenty of fun activities planned. By that afternoon, I started experiencing intense abdominal pains and by that evening I was throwing up the food I ate earlier that day. Saturday was more of the same, except there was even more vomiting, nausea and stomach pain, along with fatigue and fever. I literally couldn’t keep any food down for more than a few minutes and anything I took to relieve pain was woefully inadequate. From a pain standpoint, it was easily one of the most harrowing days of my life — if only I knew then what the next few days would hold for me.
By late Saturday, it became clear that this wasn’t just some stomach bug that would pass with over-the-counter medicine and bed rest. Therefore, in the middle of the night I checked myself into an ER clinic, where they ran a battery of tests (CT scan, ultrasound) to find out what was wrong with me. As it turned out, I had developed two kidney stones, one of which was unable to pass because it was blocked by my gallbladder. The clinic prescribed me a bunch of medicines to manage pain and treat the underlying condition while also warding off infection. They also gave me a list of specialists from which to schedule a follow-up appointment on Tuesday.
While I wasn’t in tip-top shape on Sunday and Monday, at least the nausea and vomiting had stopped and I was able to take it easy at home while my sister and wife were out and about. By Tuesday, however, I felt seriously out of sorts — my forehead was really hot and I felt woozy and fatigued (which I attributed to a lack of sleep over the last few days). Somehow I managed to drive myself to my appointment, where my doctor informed me that I was running a 100 degree fever and elevated blood pressure advised me to check into a hospital immediately.
I spent mote than four hours in a Memorial Hermann waiting room while my skin melted off from both my elevated body temperature and the humid Houston weather. After several fruitless attempts to get medical attention, I left the hospital without being seen to go back to the clinic I visited early Sunday morning. (Sidebar: Remind me sometime to talk about how inefficient and overrun Houston hospitals are, particularly and specifically due to COVID.)
When I went back to the ER clinic that afternoon/early evening, they pumped me with a mess of antibiotics and painkillers to reduce my fever and other symptoms. I spent the night under observation at the clinic while my doctors arranged for my surgery on Wednesday. I had half a cup of Dannon strawberry yogurt early Wednesday morning because even though the nausea had gone away, my appetite hadn’t yet returned. As it turned out, it would be the last thing I would get to consume (aside from some water) for the next 12 hours due to a strict no food/fluids policy prior to surgery.
On Wednesday morning, I had my first (and hopefully last, at least for a considerably long time) experience of being wheeled out on a stretcher. The ambulance arrived at Houston Methodist — Sugar Land, where I was wheeled into a hospital bed on the fifth floor. I saw a litany of doctors and nurses (all of whom were uniformly nice) and given more drugs — but, critically, no food or water save a few sips of water after sufficient pleading on my part.
But what made the experience especially torturous was the waiting. For the next several hours, I was continuously assured that I was “only a half-hour to an hour away” from having a surgical room ready for me. But instead I kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting. My wife was with me for much of that time, while my sister went shopping. (We were told that the hospital had a one-visitor limit, so it was decided that my sister could visit during a later shift, assuming I was still in the hospital by then.) My wife was good company, but I wasn’t in much shape to reciprocate given the semi-delirious state I was in due to pain and hunger.
Still more time passed. My wife had left to pick up my sister, leaving me to attempt a fitful and ultimately unsuccessful nap. It was past 5 pm at this point and I was becoming doubtful that, despite confined reassurances, that I would have that surgery that day, which made me frustrated that I had starved myself for nothing and would have to look forward to another starvation day on Thursday, along with a longer stay at the hospital.
Finally, at around a quarter to 6 o’clock, they came for me. I was wheeled out on a stretcher and taken down a few flights on the elevator to the surgical area. There was still an interminable wait, but a more tolerable one because I could see the metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel. I was asked a series of questions about my health history and current physical status, many of which I’d answered several times that day. One member of the surgical team asked me three separate times which side of my body the surgery would be performed on. Later, I reasoned that the questions were likely asked to make sure I was mentally cognizant — at the time, however, in my half-aware state, I hated the incessant questions and desperately wanted to get the whole thing over with.
I was told that the surgery wouldn’t be of the traditional “cut you open” variety, but would instead involve the use of lasers. They would put me under anesthesia and that I would wake up after the procedure was done. The last thing I remember was rolling over from my stretcher to the surgical table as a trio of doctors talked at and around me.
I woke up in another room as medical staff pumped more fluids into me and checked my vitals. From there, I was wheeled back to my hospital room, where my wife and sister awaited me — turns out two visitors could be in the room after all, based on just-recently revised hospital policy — along with a full-course dinner. I ate ravenously while my family talked to me. After much eating and some conversation, I found myself getting very drowsy and, without meaning to, soon slipped into sleep.
While my pain and fever had largely subsided after the surgery, nurses still came into the room throughout the night to monitor my condition. At some point, one of the nurses conclude that my temperature was still a bit too high, so I was made to sleep with ice packs under my arms. I also wore compression socks to halt the development of blood clots. While the conditions were far from ideal, I slept more deeply and for longer periods than I had all week.
My wife visited my room early Thursday morning, and together we awaited the inexorable process of being discharged. I was able to eat a full breakfast and my symptoms were non-existent, but nonetheless I still had to wait for the overseeing doctor to see me and assess my condition herself. We basically whiled away the time watching daytime TV and talking about the week that was. My wife and sister had been updating our family (both in Houston and New York) about my health progress, and my wife shared all the well-wishes I’d received through her.
At long last, at around 2 pm Thursday afternoon, I was officially released from the hospital. To say the least, my vacation hadn’t gone as planned — my sister’s flight was for Friday morning and we hadn’t spent any time together seeing the sights. But as the saying goes, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans, and despite it all I was able to enjoy the time I had with my sister while she was in town. If nothing else, I was able to spend it in good health, which is something I’m less inclined to take for granted going forward.
