A young man from hospital transportation arrived and helped me move from the emergency room bed to the stretcher. The nurse transferred all my tubes and wires from stationary posts in the room to mobile ones she attached to the wheeled bed. The transport guy then checked to make sure that we had collected all my belongings and that they were resting securely between my legs or under the stretcher. He released the stretcher's emergency brake and we were off. Winding through the halls of the hospital was an adventure; akin to being on an African safari or a deep-sea dive on the Australian Barrier Reef. At every turn I discovered something new and saw sights I had never seen before--patients left on stretchers and in wheelchairs while awaiting care; tattooed, hard-looking, African American male and female hospital employees (mostly transportation personnel or housekeeping staff) cooing like turtle doves at each other, blushing and clearly in the early stages of courtship while on duty (I wondered what I, or anyone else, would have thought of them had they been on Anycorner, USA). Doctors, nurses and other medical staff walked quickly, some slowly, tending to the needs of patients or in various stages of making rounds, taking a break, completing paperwork or consulting with colleagues. I also zeroed in on the facility itself--an immense, maze-like, somewhat dated, yet fairly well-kept facility that seemed to have a lot of secrets. Oddly, I began to wonder what it was like to work at Grady. The vast mix of cultures--racial, ethnic, socio-economic, regional, political, gender, sexual identity, educational--was almost mind boggling. I wanted to know more.
When we arrived on the fifth floor we stopped first at the nurses station. The nurse under whose care I would be accompanied us down the long corridor to the room to help me get situated. Once in the room I was pleased to find out that it would be mine alone; as, by nature, I am a rather solitary creature--contrary to what most of my friends, family and acquaintances may think they know about me. I enjoy solitude--perhaps more than anything on this planet. I mean, other people are great and I enjoy them when I am with them, but there is nothing under the sun as satisfying as a cup of hot tea with lots of lemon (a whole one preferably) and honey at 5:00 a.m. while sitting in my pajamas with a good book, magazine or just piddling--the fine art (and my friend Pattie and I have declared it so) of doing nothing!
Once I was settled the transport guy left. The nurse then reconnected me to the IV and various vital statistic monitoring devices and began her duties--checking my temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, etc. She told me that my stay in this room was only temporary, as the doctors were looking for a room in the coronary care ward so that staff could monitor my heart rate around the clock--apparently, my heart rate was so high they feared I might experience some kind of heart episode. That thought kind of freaked me out, as my dad died of a heart attack in 1990--although his was from complications related to schleroderma--and I couldn't help but think of the irony (after all, I am a junior). The nurse completed her duties and left. Before I was able to get comfortable and get some more rest, the phlebotomist (a hospital staff person responsible for drawing blood) paid a visit to stick my veins. Over the course of my hospital stay I would refer to these staff as vampires--as they came every four hours to fill six to ten vials and small bottles with blood. I noticed their irritating habit most, however, between the the hours of 2:00 and 4:00 a.m. It was odd to me that in a place in which sleep and rest were supposedly valued, patients would be subjected to this kind of violation of such an important bodily function--sleep. I would argue that many hospital patients are sleep deprived--in addition to whatever pathology they might be experiencing. Within minutes, the phlebotomist was gone and I was alone with my television. I vaguely remember seeing images of a black and white movie before falling fast asleep.
When I awoke later that morning I pinched myself to make sure that I had not been dreaming the previous night's events. Nope, I was in the hospital alright, and I was hooked up to lots of machines. Awaking in a hospital was a strange experience. There were sounds and smells with which I was not familiar and my senses were still trying to figure out what was going on. I remember looking around the room and thinking to myself that I was not afraid. In fact, I was more curious about what was really happening in my body than fearful of what the diagnosis would be. For the first time in my life my attention was focused squarely on my body and not on mental activities or on external events. I realized how much I did not know about my body and how, for so long, I had neglected it and its needs.
At about eight o'clock that morning, a team of doctors entered my room. These morning rounds were routine and I would come to eagerly await them and look forward to chatting with the doctors about my body and the illness from which it suffered. I also enjoyed the opportunity to take advantage of free "pre-med" courses. The doctors and residents answered my many questions about not only my body and illness, but also questions I had about medicine in general. They found in me an enthusiastic student--the mental being that I am loved the learning involved with this new experience. It was fascinating! As the doctors asked me routine questions and began talking about what they had planned for me that day, one doctor lifted the sheet covering my body and asked me to raise my hospital gown--he wanted to check the catheter. I complied and to my amazement not a drop of urine was in the bag. My kidneys had effectively shut down.
The first thought that crossed my mind was, "Thank God I am in the hospital!" I couldn't imagine what I would have done had I been in my apartment. Would I have even noticed not urinating? I mean, it's a bodily function that we so take for granted, I wondered if in the course of daily existence I would have noticed not taking a whiz--at least in time before passing out, or possibly dying, from blood poisoning. My next thought, and I remember this as if it happened this morning, was that I had just experienced a miracle. My angel, my friend Pattie. If Pattie had not encouraged me to go to the doctor in the first place, I would not have gone. I would not have been told to "run" to the hospital, and I certainly would not have been there. Possibly, very possibly, I would have been lying on the floor in my apartment near death or dead. The awesomeness of the Universe (God, if you will) and the lessons I had learned from my Seth readings and Jung's theory of synchronicity we, at once, more than just intellectual dalliances. At that precise moment, they became part of my physical and spiritual fiber. I had experienced the wisdom and all-knowingness of Creation in a way in which I never had before. This was more than just meeting the right person who eventually helps you get the job you want, or leaving the house at the right time to get the parking space you want in front of the grocery store, or thinking about a friend and having the phone ring within minutes. True, those experiences are important and give us insight into how the Invisible operates. However, having those forces at work, and witnessing them conspire to save your life is, at once, one of the most amazing and humbling experiences in the world. Something unexplainable happened to me in that moment. I knew that I would be alright--dead or alive--and I knew that I was to learn important lessons. Again, my focus shifted and I was now equally concerned about the lesson(s) I was to learn as I was about my body being healed.
The doctors made note that my kidneys had stopped functioning, and began laying out the day's plan. They immediately set up an appointment for me to have an ultrasound scan so that they could get an idea of what was going on with my kidneys. At this point, the doctors informed me that I was an enigma. They really did not know what was going on and hoped the ultrasound would give a clue. The exam was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. that morning and I was back in my room in time for lunch--although, I'm not sure that was a good thing. Most people have heard about how horrible hospital food is--well, it's true! And, given that my kidneys were in crisis, my diet (and the flavor the food might have had) was more restricted than most. I was on a renal, or kidney sensitive, diet--code for cardboard and water! It was awful.
Late that afternoon, somewhere I imagine around 4:00 or 5:00 p.m., the doctors came to my room to deliver the news about the findings of the ultrasound. My kidneys, it appeared, were slightly enlarged. Relatively speaking, this was good news, as damaged kidneys tend to shrivel and become smaller. Who knew?! Thus, it seemed fairly safe to say that my kidneys were not damaged (as initially thought) but were most likely infected. I was still an enigma, though, as the source of infection was not yet understood. The ultrasound did, however, indicate the presence of "dark masses" around my kidneys, liver, stomach and spleen--in effect, my entire abdominal area. And, although no one was saying it, we were all thinking--cancer. The first concern, of course, was to figure out what to do about my kidneys; however, the thought that I might have some kind of cancer lingered in my mind and seemed almost surreal.
Simply, the doctors informed me that we would begin dialysis the next day. They also scheduled a CAT scan to better determine what those "dark masses" were in my abdomen. When the doctors left, I took a deep breath and thought about what all this meant. Of course, I was glad that my kidneys weren't damaged, as even though I had never seen them, I did feel a certain bond with them and I didn't want to lose them. Moreover, I couldn't imagine being placed on a waiting list for a kidney transplant! Thus, dialysis was the lesser of two evils (although that thought didn't exactly make me jump up and down, either). After allowing these thoughts to settle, I picked up the phone and called my mom and then my sister--my mom, to give her complete and updated information about my condition. My sister, not only to give her the information but also, as a health care professional, to have her use that information in ways that my mom couldn't. My sister was also able to translate this information for my mom in a way that enabled her to digest it more efficiently. I was very concerned about how my mom, in particular, was receiving information, as my younger brother Marc died suddenly in an accident when we were children. I was fourteen and he was twelve. An afternoon of playing and riding our go-cart turned tragic. And, although my mom was putting up a good front, I knew in my heart and soul that all she was thinking about was whether or not she was going to lose another son. I was aware of this fact throughout my entire illness! And, perhaps, this knowledge (in addition to the prayers, medical expertise, medicine and my own mental attitude) contributed to my determination to get well. I could not bear the thought of my mom having to bury another child. I was not afraid of death. I just knew I couldn't die!
The next day, Thursday, July 12, hospital transport came to collect me just after lunch--about 1:00 p.m. We were headed down to my first dialysis treatment. When we arrived, I waited in the hallway outside the dialysis treatment area, along with other patients also on stretchers or in wheelchairs, for almost an hour before being wheeled in (I would learn that one of Grady Hospital's weaknesses is its unspoken modus operandi--hurry up and wait!). Finally, a doctor came out to my stretcher and wheeled me into a room. I first had to have a temporary catheter placed in my groin to which the dialysis machine could be connected. It was a very uncomfortable, yet relatively painless, procedure. Moreover, this catheter would prevent me from doing much sitting up or walking, as if I bent my hips I could bend the catheter, thus rendering it useless. It was horrible! Nevertheless, I got through it and the doctor wheeled me, once again, into the hallway to....yup, hurry up and wait.
Fortunately, in less than an hour, a dialysis technician came to roll me into the dialysis treatment room. It was a fairly large room, one of two, with enough space to accommodate approximately nine patients--both outpatients and those, like me, who where on lock down in the hospital. The technician changed all the necessary tubes and hooked me up to the machine. It was fascinating to watch my blood leave my body, make its way through this archaic-looking machine, and then reenter my body. In talking to the technician, I learned that the process was not hazard-free. That fact made me somewhat nervous. The technicians watched and listened carefully to the machine for any signs of errant behavior--and so did I.
About half way through my scheduled three-hour treatment, one of the medical residents to whom I had been assigned, Jill, found me in the dialysis treatment area. She informed me that I would be able to have the CAT scan that afternoon--earlier than anticipated. I would leave dialysis, sit on my stretcher in the hallway just outside the treatment area and drink almost a liter of odd-tasting liquid (which she happened to have with her). Then, I'd be wheeled down to have the CAT scan--lots of activity! Sure enough, the technician disconnected me from the dialysis machine, rolled me out into the hallway and Jill gave me the bottle of liquid to drink. She stayed with me to make sure that I consumed it all--and, I think, to keep me company. I could tell that Jill knew something serious was going on inside my body and she did her best to prepare me emotionally for the blow she knew was coming. What she did not know about me, though, was that I was way ahead of her. I was not afraid of death, and my way of looking at human existence was far more enlightened than she could ever imagine. I was not her average patient. And, truthfully speaking, I probably did more to help her help me than even she realized. Everything considered, I appreciated her concern and understood well what she was trying to do.
When I had consumed the beverage, Jill decided to not wait for hospital transportation and wheeled me herself to the CAT scan area. I was impressed! She was not willing to do more hurry up and wait. I liked that--my kinda gal! This beverage, designed to enable the CAT scan technician to get better images, has a horrible side effect--DIARRHEA. By the time I got to the CAT scan area, I was struggling to disconnect myself from all the tubes and wires and get to a commode. I barely made it! Jill helped me get back on the stretcher and then left me in yet another hallway to do what...hurry up and wait. You get the idea. Finally, I had the CAT scan, was wheeled back to my room, had dinner, and settled in for my second full night in the hospital.
When I awoke on Friday morning, I remembered immediately that it was Friday the thirteenth--my good luck day. Since my brother Marc's death in 1976, I began to notice that all Fridays the thirteenth bring some small, or not-so-small, element of good luck. Perhaps it's because he was born on a Friday the thirteenth (December 1963). Regardless, I always feel his presence in a special way on these days and I look forward to them. This Friday the thirteenth was no different. Jill, and the other doctors, came to my room as usual at about 8 a.m. They informed me that since my kidneys were not damaged, but only needed to be able to release built up urine, they were going to insert nephrostomy tubes (one in each kidney) so that urine could flow freely. At first, I couldn't imagine what these tubes looked like and how they were to be inserted in my body--clearly, this implied some form of surgery. After a rather lengthy conversation, and some drawing on the dry erase board in my room, I better understood what the doctors had in mind. I can't remember if I had ever heard of ureters before, but I came to learn about their important function.
Ureters, I learned, are those tubes (generally about 10-12 inches in length in adults) through which urine passes from the kidneys to the bladder (which can hold up to two liters of urine). Ureters are muscular in nature and serve as more than just passive ducts. They actually propel urine from the kidneys down to the bladder. The body is, indeed, alive--beyond our wildest imagination and it knows much more about its myriad responsibilities than we. As I continued to learn about my body, I thought how almost criminal it is that we do not--from a very young age--learn more about our bodies. I almost felt betrayed that I had not learned--perhaps as early as kindergarten--the important functions my body carried out and how to better take care of it. Of course, it would be easy to blame parents, but my parents--perhaps like yours--were not doctors. And they had no clue about these kinds of things either. And while my parents certainly provided us with the best medical and dental care, they could not have possibly understood these kinds of intricacies. Perhaps it would be a great idea to give all parents a Know Your Body Manual when a child is born--something from which they could learn and then pass on to the child. This, together with age-appropriate Know Your Body lessons from kindergarten through twelfth grade, should be mandatory. I think I will write a letter to President Obama and our Surgeon General-to-be Dr. Sanjay Gupta.
Most of that day was spent in anticipation of my upcoming surgery. The doctors weren't sure if it would take place earlier in the day or later. As is turned out, I had the surgery (which was relatively painless and quick) at about 6:00 p.m. that evening. Earlier that afternoon I had undergone another dialysis treatment and, as with the treatment the day before, it, too, was aborted about half way through. Hospital transport collected me from the dialysis treatment area and wheeled me back to my room at about 3:30 p.m. At about 4:30 p.m. I was wheeled from my room down to the holding area. I spoke with the doctor who would be performing the surgery and he explained in great detail what would happen in the operating room and answered my questions. The nurses in the holding area hooked me up to an IV and monitoring devices, gave me the antibiotics I needed and had me sign a document that released the hospital of any wrongdoing incase I died. Signing that document really freaked me out. I had never had to sign my life away before and it was scary!
At about 6:00 p.m. a technician from the surgery department wheeled me into the small, almost makeshift-like, surgery room. Her name was Kristina, like my sister, and I immediately felt more at ease. I couldn't help but think that she and my brother Marc were watching out for me. Kristina prepared me and the room for surgery. The doctors arrived, chatted me up a little and began their work. I was conscious, but barely so. The anesthesia given me was not unlike the one dentists use--you are aware of what's going on but you don't feel anything. And, all I had to do was give the word and the attending nurse would have released more--ahh, drugs! The surgeons completed the procedure at about 7:30 p.m. (I remember looking at the clock in the room) and the technician wheeled me back to the holding area so that the nurses could monitor me, supposedly for only an hour. There I remained, though--lying face down on the stretcher as per the surgeon's instructions--long, clear tubes sticking out both sides of my body, for almost two hours. I was exhasted (not to mention the fact that I hadn't eaten all day). Apparently, hospital transportation personnel were very busy and I languished in the holding area for much longer than I should have. By the time they came for me it was after 10:00 p.m. I remember thinking to myself that my friend Karen, who visited me everyday after work and on weekends without fail, surely would be gone by the time I got back to the room.
At 10:30 p.m., the transport guy rolled me into my room. I was still lying face down and I could barely move. My body was spent! As the transport guy helped me maneuver getting off the stretcher with my various attachments (which now included "external kidneys") I glanced over at the dinner tray left in my room. Good, I thought, as I was actually somewhat hungry. As I made my way to the bed, I turned my head and noticed that Karen was sitting quietly in a chair in a corner of the room. Immediately, a wave of emotion engulfed my body like never before and I began to cry. I was so glad to see her face. It had been a long, tedious and emotionally draining day. Her silent presence and gentle, "Hey, Anthony," redefined, in that instant, the meaning of friendship. I got into my bed, made myself comfortable and began eating some of the roasted chicked and veggies on my plate. I didn't eat it all, and Karen only stayed for a short while--she, too, was tired. When she left, I felt myself drifting off to sleep and thought, "Friday the thirteenth, always a day that brings me some small element of good luck."
Next Week: Please Don't Be Sorry For Me. It's Not About You!
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