First my boobs tried to kill me last year (when I had breast cancer) and then my ovary gave it a go too. Here’s my story of my first responder and Emergency Department experience on Tuesday night. Edited to add: to understand the philosophy behind writing during illness, check out Sharon Bray’s wonderful blog called Writing Through Cancer.
It is 11:30 pm on a regular Tuesday night when I’m jolted awake with excruciating pain. It is as if someone has stabbed me in the lower right abdomen. It doesn’t go away or recede – just a constant pain as if I had just been knifed. Not like I’ve ever been stabbed, but still. I imagine this is what it feels like.
My only comfort is to sit up and fold in half over my sore side. Don’t touch me! I say to Mike, silently calculating what is the quickest route to pain medication. It isn’t having Mike figure out childcare and then drive me to the hospital and then wait in the waiting room. Call an ambulance I say. I don’t care how much it costs.
Are they coming? Are they coming? I keep asking. I’m hyperventilating, shivering and my legs are tingly. I can hear the fire truck roar up six flights below.
Our buzzer rings and all I can see is three sets of large brown boots in my bedroom. They are asking me questions. I’m trying to answer. I can’t look up. They put an oxygen mask on me and leave the mask remnants behind in the bedroom. They stand over me until the ambulance arrives.
Don’t wake up Aaron, I keep saying. Mercifully, my son sleeps with ear protection on (long story) and remains asleep. I get on the stretcher. I am keen not to traumatize him. I keep having to straighten out so I can fit through doorways and elevators, but sitting up is agony and I hunch back over the first chance I can get, trying to fold over like an accordion. Someone starts an IV in my inner arm and I don’t care. The ride is bumpy, I ask for a puke bag and they give me Gravol. Nobody wants me to puke everywhere, including me. Someone keeps updating me on how close they are to the hospital. I don’t know if the lights are on, there are no sirens – I’m not dying, only in pain – there’s no use in waking up the entire neighbourhood. I’m trying just to breathe. The paramedics take bets that I have appendicitis.
My first time in the back of an ambulance and it is bumpy. Once we are there, I bumpity bump out of the ambulance. I finally look up to see the paramedics and thank them for being good guys. There’s mercifully no wait. I’m in a bed in a curtained room, there’s misery all around me and now it is 12:30 am. There are vitals and my heart rate has calmed down considerably. The gruff but thorough doctor who shows up says I don’t have appendicitis, for appendicitis doesn’t start suddenly like that. He thinks kidney stones but I’m like, noooo it’s an ovary cyst, which he shrugs off. I have cysty ovaries, I croak. I’m not making any sense or he doesn’t listen to me or both. I am a lady with lady problems.
The morphine makes me woozy but the pain is still there. Mike shows up, having woken up his sister to stay at the house. (Why didn’t he knock on the neighbour’s door? He dragged his poor sister out of bed, but I’m so grateful to her for driving bleary eyed up the mountain to stay with Aaron).
Mike sources a steno chair and sleeps on that. A nurse kindly offers him a blanket. I ask again for pain meds because the stupid morphine doesn’t work and Mike shushes me, thinking I look like I’m seeking drugs. I AM seeking drugs because there is a knife in my belly. I shuffle to the bathroom and then throw up my Tuesday night chili dinner into a cardboard bowl. I get a new pain med – a stinging IM needle in my arm – I don’t mind, it is a distraction from my belly pain, which I’m still trying to breathe through, one breath at a time. This is like labour with no baby at the end. They keep asking me what number is my pain and I keep saying: EIGHT! EIGHT! Like late labour! They give me Dilaudid, which my daughter Ella tells me later is four times the strength of morphine and THAT makes the pain finally go away. Or it makes my head think the pain has gone away – no matter, I have some relief, after three hours of writhing agony.
Some hours pass. I doze in and out, listening to babies crying, people screaming, some security incident. The meds make me don’t care. It is morning and Mike has to leave to get Aaron ready for school. I’m waiting for my ultrasounds and I realize my meds must have worn off because I’m no longer in pain. The knife has been removed from my belly.
Of course the ultrasounds show nothing. There is a vaginal one too, how fun, with the condom-covered dildo camera. For my abdominal scan, the tech is annoyed my bladder isn’t full – I’m like – well they put me on NPO so sorry. I can’t drink anything. I can tell I’m no longer in pain or stoned because I’m getting pissed off. The tech is teaching a student which normally I don’t mind but it takes forever. She’s also talking to me as if I’m about four years old.
I wait in the hall on a stretcher afterwards for a long time and my doctor happens to walk by. He goes to check my ultrasound. It has shown nothing. I know this is because the cyst has already burst. He’s still talking kidney stones and I’m repeat, nooooo, I have cysty ovaries. He shrugs again. I’m another woman with woman problems. He’s a tough guy but his saving grace is his sense of humour. I make feeble attempts to joke about my cysty ovaries and at least I extract a smile from him.
I text Mike to come pick me up and a crabby nurse takes out my IV. I hold the bandage on my IV site for a while and when I let it go, blood starts gushing out of my arm. Um, excuse me? I stick my head out of the curtain. I’m a bleeder here. She sighs and gets me another bandage. I get dressed and sit on the bed to wait for Mike. She tells me to leave. I look around. It is 9 am and the ward is empty. I’m like – I don’t know where to go, an ambulance brought me in. You just follow the green line, she says crossly. I follow the green line outside and stand in the rain and the cold in my pajamas with no coat on and wait for my ride. I see how people are discharged into -40 weather and later die in a snowbank. Honestly, hospitals could say good-bye a bit better. They are like a bad, abusive boyfriend. Get the hell out! they yell when they are done with you.
I sleep all day and then sleep all night too. I think that pain has worn me down more than anything. Today is the next day and I’m tired too. It is grey and raining. I am reminded how complicated the lady bits are. I am grateful for faceless firemen, bumpy ambulance rides, chatty paramedics and almost all of the Emergency Department staff. I understand the desperation to get through that kind of pain. I am thankful that I remembered my labour breathing.
One breath at a time; that’s the only way we can get through. Today I cut off my hospital ID bracelet, scraped the bandage glue off my arm and am humbled once again by the fragility of this thing called life.