Where I've been and how I've been dying
So, I figure I should enlighten some of you who I haven't been in personal contact with recently as to my current situation. I'm not cutting this since I think it's important that you should all know how I'm doing.
In short, I was admitted to the hospital the other day, fixed up, and released as if nothing had ever happened, but the truth is that I was in pretty bad shape. For those of you who are somehow still unaware, I'm still struggling with ulcerative colitis, which is really only a personal problem unless I have to use your bathroom, and for that, I'm really sorry if I did and made it smell like a restaurant's grease trap on a hot, sunny day. Anyway, for the last probably couple of months now, I'd been noticing that minor activities, even such as climbing a short flight of stairs, would make my heart race like I'd been having a marathon of sex. Now, I may not be getting the exercise these days that I used to as a full-time student walking around campus, but this was starting to concern me a bit, even though I didn't seek medical attention because I thought it was just my body being a wuss from the colitis.
Last Monday, I woke up with a hacking cough, having managed about three hours of sleep. I was able to zombie-stumble downstairs, shower off, and collapsed on the couch for a couple of hours, waking up feeling even worse. I had felt my bile rising after my shower, and the room had been spinning. My heart was pounding out of my chest non-stop since I had taken my shower, so my mom took my temperature. One hundred four degrees. For those of you who maybe have never run a fever that high, 104 is the point where you start hallucinating dragons or some shit, so I had begun to develop the ability to single out individual air molecules.
So here I find myself, laying around, praying for death with a cold compress on my forehead, and drinking as much water as I can while following lazily-floating subatomic particles with my eyes. My mom wisely decides to schedule an afternoon doctor's appointment, somewhat unlike her, since those of you who have met my mom would know that she'd just as soon pump me full of vitamin supplements than pay $90 to have a doctor take my blood pressure and then tell me to just drink lots of fluids.
Regardless, I went in at 1:30. Upon opening the waiting room door, the nurse practitioner immediately said "You look sick" and beckoned me inside. Apparently I had monopolized the white on rice since there was no color in my face. She took my vitals and ordered some blood drawn to be immediately tested. I got a little wheelchair ride back out to the waiting room where I sat among lots of sick people, marinating in the hospital stink of sterility wafting around me until the nurse reappeared about an hour later and hastily summoned me back to the exam room.
The nurse looked me in the eye and said "You. Are. Going. To. The hospital." as matter-of-factly as that and proceeded to tell me that I was, no exaggeration, almost dead. My hemoglobin was at a critical 4.4 when it should have been no lower than 12. I was literally not making any red blood cells or getting enough oxygen around. In other words, severely, severely anemic, except with one foot in the grave. I weighed in at 142 pounds. Additionally, my potassium was low as well as my liver enzymes and God knows what else. While I goggled over this new information, the nurse informed me that I was to be immediately taken to an ICU room to receive a transfusion of 6 units of blood, some antibiotics and steroids, along with some potassium replacement. I couldn't argue with this diagnosis, so I weakly agreed, realizing that I was about to cost my parents a whole lot of money.
They assembled a room in short order, and I was wheeled upstairs to a section of our hospital I'd never seen. The following hours became a blur of changing into one of those ever-so-lovely drafty hospital gowns, needles and more needles, and becoming acclimated to the fact that I wasn't going to get to take a dump by myself for a while. The nurse on duty grilled me for a while to make sure I wasn't killing myself with drugs or having sex with hookers or anything, and then suddenly it was time for the needles. Now, I used to give blood on a routine basis, so I'm no stranger to having things stabbed into my arm, but I'd never actually received blood before, much less ever been admitted to the hospital. Being transfused is a much more fun experience, and by "fun," I mean you get to have an inch-and-a-half plastic catheter inserted into your vein instead of a needle. Not only did this REALLY HURT, but after the blinding pain finally subsided, the nurse called for a clean sheet. I looked over and saw a spreading pool of blood about the circumference of a cereal bowl under my arm. Great. At least she managed to get it in all the way.
After being cleaned up, I was informed that some of my blood was to be drawn constantly to check on my various levels. Of course, they also needed stool and urine samples, to which I obliged, not always eager, but almost always able to produce at the drop of a hat. They also x-rayed me in the bed with a portable machine. A phlebotomist came in to start what would become a very tedious procedure of being stabbed at least once every four hours, sometimes sooner, by a different person each time. Fortunately, I can't complain too much, since only one of them was actually inept at her job, while the rest were very attractive young ladies who are quite deft at jabbing needles into people and stealing their blood.
I finally received my first bag of blood almost six hours after I had been admitted, since they take the time to test the blood for everything under the sun. By this time, I had at least gotten to "eat," though they forbade me from having anything that resembled actual food, so I was stuck with orange jell-o, vaguely-fruit-flavored protein drink, other vaguely-fruit-flavored drink, hot water and dehydrated chicken broth in a little packet, and italian ice substitute. Everything they ever said about hospital food is entirely true.
Hours later, I had begun to finally relax, having figured out how to work the TV, which for a time was the only salvation I had in the place. I sent my parents away and wisely asked my mom to bring my Nintendo DS next time she showed up. A new nurse took up the shift and intoduced himself as Nathan, a strapping young lad of 26 who I could imagine was quite the stud in nursing school. Hell, he was even a geek, too, admitting that he was currently playing Final Fantasy XII and had just picked up Champions of Norrath. I don't know how he kept the ladies off of him. Seriously, this guy had a chiseled jawline, well-defined muscles, a charming demeanor, and a pleasant smell. Additionally, a noticeably big package. Those hospital scrubs don't hide anything, especially when you're reclining on a hospital bed at crotch-level. Also, I'm totally not gay.
Nathan later administered another IV line into my other arm for an antibiotic drip. While it was going into a larger vein than on the other arm, he failed to successfully insert the catheter the first time, noting that I had tough skin, but I gritted my teeth and had him try again, because I wasn't going to deny what little masculinity I had left by admitting how painful it was. I am a MAN. And if hairy, primitive men could handle being stung by mad, primitive hornets with harpoon-stingers every day, I could handle this.
I began to settle into a schedule which involved a rotation something like this: Change blood. Go to bathroom. Change antibiotics. Go to bathroom. Get blood pressure taken. Go to bathroom. Get temperature taken. Get blood taken. Go to bathroom. Repeat endlessly, and don't sleep at all in between every step.
I started to feel really bad for Nathan, because I was constantly hitting the "Call Nurse" button just so he could come in and unplug my machine, wheel it over to the bathroom, wait for me to crap in a plastic hat suspended over the bowl, pee in a jug, and then wheel me back over and hook me up again. Also, from what I'm assuming was a side effect of the drugs, my stools were GREEN, and I hated that he had to see that every time he would have to empty the waste and record the difference in my fluid intake and expulsion. I wasn't enjoying feeling like a useless bag full of crap and urine that had to be carried around everywhere, but what else could I do? I'm amazed at how humble he was about the whole thing, saying "Comes with the territory. But I actually like it."
Before I knew it, it was morning, and I was winding down to the last of my six bags of blood. A nurse earlier had remarked that I must have had the constitution of an ox to not have felt as sickly as I looked, also adding that I would feel substantially better after the blood was mine. Aside from the complete lack of sleep, I actually did feel pretty good. I amused myself with the thought that I had vampirically absorbed the life essence of six delicious A-Positive donors, and while I hadn't begun to manifest any mutant powers, I did feel a boost from their strength.
The next day was a bit of a blur as I bid Nathan goodbye and met the next nurse who was in charge of my fluids. I don't remember her name, and it's not important, so we'll leave it at that. The best thing she did for me was inform me that I was allowed to eat solid food again, which was a hidden joy that I shall always treasure. The steroids I was getting had the side effect of giving me the munchies like nothing else, and I absolutely destroyed the fried chicken they gave me at noon.
Towards the evening, I was informed that my hemoglobin was at 9.8 and that I was close to my last blood draw. Already I felt like a new man and this news relieved me further, as at this point I'd been pierced 11 times, not counting the two IVs in my arm. I estimate that they'd taken between 25 and 30 vials of blood by now, and it was beginning to show in a little half-moon arc of pinprick-bruise on my inner elbow. I was beginning to think they weren't so much testing my blood in the lab as they were painting some macabre picture with all of it. The nurse hooked up the last of my antibiotic drips and made herself scarce. I browsed the internet on my DS, happy to have the access.
Around 3 a.m., my medical ball-and-chain beeped, informing the world that I was done with the antibiotics. The nurse came, unscrewed the IV from my catheter, and asked if I wanted some drugs to help me sleep. Since I'd gotten maybe three hours of sleep since I had been admitted, I heartily agreed. She gave me a tiny pill that was labeled "Temazepam," a drug which I would later mentally file into the "Fear and Loathing" section of Jon-drugs, a wicked category shared by Nyquil, which never fails to give me fucked-up dreams. Sure enough, the Temazepam knocked me out within about a half hour, but I found myself suddenly awakened to a whirlwind frenzy of complete and utter chaos some three hours later. I vaguely remember a nurse offering me a fresh gown, since the one I was in was literally drenched in sweat. She also gave me a pair of hospital pants, except I'm a little hesitant to call them "pants." These had a large V cut into the front, with a tie above it around the waist, and no snap. So, I slipped these on and noticed that the V was right at my crotch, allowing my junk to hang out for all the world to see if not for the gown. I tried to mentally process if there was any point to wearing these at all, but I was too stoned to really care.
I halfway remember stumbling to the bathroom, changing, coming back, and being stabbed yet again by another phlebotomist, then lapsing back into unconsciousness almost as soon as she taped on the gauze. The next recollection I have is waking up at about 7 a.m. with my doctor talking to me, which makes me a bit uneasy because of all the potential subliminal things that he probably said. I think he was informing me of my progress, but I can't be certain since I was still too high on the Temazepam. After he left, a nurse informed me that I'd probably get to go home later in the afternoon. I steadily regained complete control over my faculties, and eagerly awaited the chance to get the damn plastic tubes out of my arms. Hours later, I ate another lunch which tasted way better than it probably should have, had my IVs pulled out, and was released back into the world. I could have done a cartwheel.
I left with a laundry list of prescriptions to further ensure my recovery, including an antibiotic, Prednisone, and iron tablets. Though probably attributed to the drugs, amazingly, my colitis has been the best it has in what must be two years. I certainly can't complain. I don't care if it grosses anyone out, but I'm proud to say that I'm producing stools that are almost completely normal. (read: solid) I look at myself in the mirror and actually see color in my face, and my lips and gums are a darker shade of red than I can remember seeing in a very long time. I notice brightness in my eyes again, I have energy for once, I don't feel like crap all the time, and I'm gaining weight back. I'm going to start working out again because I finally feel up to it now. I've kept on the hospital bracelets they gave me and I plan to do so indefinitely as a reminder to keep better tabs on maintaining this degree of health.
I am NOT going back to being sick again. Thanks for supporting me for so long through all this, guys.
In short, I was admitted to the hospital the other day, fixed up, and released as if nothing had ever happened, but the truth is that I was in pretty bad shape. For those of you who are somehow still unaware, I'm still struggling with ulcerative colitis, which is really only a personal problem unless I have to use your bathroom, and for that, I'm really sorry if I did and made it smell like a restaurant's grease trap on a hot, sunny day. Anyway, for the last probably couple of months now, I'd been noticing that minor activities, even such as climbing a short flight of stairs, would make my heart race like I'd been having a marathon of sex. Now, I may not be getting the exercise these days that I used to as a full-time student walking around campus, but this was starting to concern me a bit, even though I didn't seek medical attention because I thought it was just my body being a wuss from the colitis.
Last Monday, I woke up with a hacking cough, having managed about three hours of sleep. I was able to zombie-stumble downstairs, shower off, and collapsed on the couch for a couple of hours, waking up feeling even worse. I had felt my bile rising after my shower, and the room had been spinning. My heart was pounding out of my chest non-stop since I had taken my shower, so my mom took my temperature. One hundred four degrees. For those of you who maybe have never run a fever that high, 104 is the point where you start hallucinating dragons or some shit, so I had begun to develop the ability to single out individual air molecules.
So here I find myself, laying around, praying for death with a cold compress on my forehead, and drinking as much water as I can while following lazily-floating subatomic particles with my eyes. My mom wisely decides to schedule an afternoon doctor's appointment, somewhat unlike her, since those of you who have met my mom would know that she'd just as soon pump me full of vitamin supplements than pay $90 to have a doctor take my blood pressure and then tell me to just drink lots of fluids.
Regardless, I went in at 1:30. Upon opening the waiting room door, the nurse practitioner immediately said "You look sick" and beckoned me inside. Apparently I had monopolized the white on rice since there was no color in my face. She took my vitals and ordered some blood drawn to be immediately tested. I got a little wheelchair ride back out to the waiting room where I sat among lots of sick people, marinating in the hospital stink of sterility wafting around me until the nurse reappeared about an hour later and hastily summoned me back to the exam room.
The nurse looked me in the eye and said "You. Are. Going. To. The hospital." as matter-of-factly as that and proceeded to tell me that I was, no exaggeration, almost dead. My hemoglobin was at a critical 4.4 when it should have been no lower than 12. I was literally not making any red blood cells or getting enough oxygen around. In other words, severely, severely anemic, except with one foot in the grave. I weighed in at 142 pounds. Additionally, my potassium was low as well as my liver enzymes and God knows what else. While I goggled over this new information, the nurse informed me that I was to be immediately taken to an ICU room to receive a transfusion of 6 units of blood, some antibiotics and steroids, along with some potassium replacement. I couldn't argue with this diagnosis, so I weakly agreed, realizing that I was about to cost my parents a whole lot of money.
They assembled a room in short order, and I was wheeled upstairs to a section of our hospital I'd never seen. The following hours became a blur of changing into one of those ever-so-lovely drafty hospital gowns, needles and more needles, and becoming acclimated to the fact that I wasn't going to get to take a dump by myself for a while. The nurse on duty grilled me for a while to make sure I wasn't killing myself with drugs or having sex with hookers or anything, and then suddenly it was time for the needles. Now, I used to give blood on a routine basis, so I'm no stranger to having things stabbed into my arm, but I'd never actually received blood before, much less ever been admitted to the hospital. Being transfused is a much more fun experience, and by "fun," I mean you get to have an inch-and-a-half plastic catheter inserted into your vein instead of a needle. Not only did this REALLY HURT, but after the blinding pain finally subsided, the nurse called for a clean sheet. I looked over and saw a spreading pool of blood about the circumference of a cereal bowl under my arm. Great. At least she managed to get it in all the way.
After being cleaned up, I was informed that some of my blood was to be drawn constantly to check on my various levels. Of course, they also needed stool and urine samples, to which I obliged, not always eager, but almost always able to produce at the drop of a hat. They also x-rayed me in the bed with a portable machine. A phlebotomist came in to start what would become a very tedious procedure of being stabbed at least once every four hours, sometimes sooner, by a different person each time. Fortunately, I can't complain too much, since only one of them was actually inept at her job, while the rest were very attractive young ladies who are quite deft at jabbing needles into people and stealing their blood.
I finally received my first bag of blood almost six hours after I had been admitted, since they take the time to test the blood for everything under the sun. By this time, I had at least gotten to "eat," though they forbade me from having anything that resembled actual food, so I was stuck with orange jell-o, vaguely-fruit-flavored protein drink, other vaguely-fruit-flavored drink, hot water and dehydrated chicken broth in a little packet, and italian ice substitute. Everything they ever said about hospital food is entirely true.
Hours later, I had begun to finally relax, having figured out how to work the TV, which for a time was the only salvation I had in the place. I sent my parents away and wisely asked my mom to bring my Nintendo DS next time she showed up. A new nurse took up the shift and intoduced himself as Nathan, a strapping young lad of 26 who I could imagine was quite the stud in nursing school. Hell, he was even a geek, too, admitting that he was currently playing Final Fantasy XII and had just picked up Champions of Norrath. I don't know how he kept the ladies off of him. Seriously, this guy had a chiseled jawline, well-defined muscles, a charming demeanor, and a pleasant smell. Additionally, a noticeably big package. Those hospital scrubs don't hide anything, especially when you're reclining on a hospital bed at crotch-level. Also, I'm totally not gay.
Nathan later administered another IV line into my other arm for an antibiotic drip. While it was going into a larger vein than on the other arm, he failed to successfully insert the catheter the first time, noting that I had tough skin, but I gritted my teeth and had him try again, because I wasn't going to deny what little masculinity I had left by admitting how painful it was. I am a MAN. And if hairy, primitive men could handle being stung by mad, primitive hornets with harpoon-stingers every day, I could handle this.
I began to settle into a schedule which involved a rotation something like this: Change blood. Go to bathroom. Change antibiotics. Go to bathroom. Get blood pressure taken. Go to bathroom. Get temperature taken. Get blood taken. Go to bathroom. Repeat endlessly, and don't sleep at all in between every step.
I started to feel really bad for Nathan, because I was constantly hitting the "Call Nurse" button just so he could come in and unplug my machine, wheel it over to the bathroom, wait for me to crap in a plastic hat suspended over the bowl, pee in a jug, and then wheel me back over and hook me up again. Also, from what I'm assuming was a side effect of the drugs, my stools were GREEN, and I hated that he had to see that every time he would have to empty the waste and record the difference in my fluid intake and expulsion. I wasn't enjoying feeling like a useless bag full of crap and urine that had to be carried around everywhere, but what else could I do? I'm amazed at how humble he was about the whole thing, saying "Comes with the territory. But I actually like it."
Before I knew it, it was morning, and I was winding down to the last of my six bags of blood. A nurse earlier had remarked that I must have had the constitution of an ox to not have felt as sickly as I looked, also adding that I would feel substantially better after the blood was mine. Aside from the complete lack of sleep, I actually did feel pretty good. I amused myself with the thought that I had vampirically absorbed the life essence of six delicious A-Positive donors, and while I hadn't begun to manifest any mutant powers, I did feel a boost from their strength.
The next day was a bit of a blur as I bid Nathan goodbye and met the next nurse who was in charge of my fluids. I don't remember her name, and it's not important, so we'll leave it at that. The best thing she did for me was inform me that I was allowed to eat solid food again, which was a hidden joy that I shall always treasure. The steroids I was getting had the side effect of giving me the munchies like nothing else, and I absolutely destroyed the fried chicken they gave me at noon.
Towards the evening, I was informed that my hemoglobin was at 9.8 and that I was close to my last blood draw. Already I felt like a new man and this news relieved me further, as at this point I'd been pierced 11 times, not counting the two IVs in my arm. I estimate that they'd taken between 25 and 30 vials of blood by now, and it was beginning to show in a little half-moon arc of pinprick-bruise on my inner elbow. I was beginning to think they weren't so much testing my blood in the lab as they were painting some macabre picture with all of it. The nurse hooked up the last of my antibiotic drips and made herself scarce. I browsed the internet on my DS, happy to have the access.
Around 3 a.m., my medical ball-and-chain beeped, informing the world that I was done with the antibiotics. The nurse came, unscrewed the IV from my catheter, and asked if I wanted some drugs to help me sleep. Since I'd gotten maybe three hours of sleep since I had been admitted, I heartily agreed. She gave me a tiny pill that was labeled "Temazepam," a drug which I would later mentally file into the "Fear and Loathing" section of Jon-drugs, a wicked category shared by Nyquil, which never fails to give me fucked-up dreams. Sure enough, the Temazepam knocked me out within about a half hour, but I found myself suddenly awakened to a whirlwind frenzy of complete and utter chaos some three hours later. I vaguely remember a nurse offering me a fresh gown, since the one I was in was literally drenched in sweat. She also gave me a pair of hospital pants, except I'm a little hesitant to call them "pants." These had a large V cut into the front, with a tie above it around the waist, and no snap. So, I slipped these on and noticed that the V was right at my crotch, allowing my junk to hang out for all the world to see if not for the gown. I tried to mentally process if there was any point to wearing these at all, but I was too stoned to really care.
I halfway remember stumbling to the bathroom, changing, coming back, and being stabbed yet again by another phlebotomist, then lapsing back into unconsciousness almost as soon as she taped on the gauze. The next recollection I have is waking up at about 7 a.m. with my doctor talking to me, which makes me a bit uneasy because of all the potential subliminal things that he probably said. I think he was informing me of my progress, but I can't be certain since I was still too high on the Temazepam. After he left, a nurse informed me that I'd probably get to go home later in the afternoon. I steadily regained complete control over my faculties, and eagerly awaited the chance to get the damn plastic tubes out of my arms. Hours later, I ate another lunch which tasted way better than it probably should have, had my IVs pulled out, and was released back into the world. I could have done a cartwheel.
I left with a laundry list of prescriptions to further ensure my recovery, including an antibiotic, Prednisone, and iron tablets. Though probably attributed to the drugs, amazingly, my colitis has been the best it has in what must be two years. I certainly can't complain. I don't care if it grosses anyone out, but I'm proud to say that I'm producing stools that are almost completely normal. (read: solid) I look at myself in the mirror and actually see color in my face, and my lips and gums are a darker shade of red than I can remember seeing in a very long time. I notice brightness in my eyes again, I have energy for once, I don't feel like crap all the time, and I'm gaining weight back. I'm going to start working out again because I finally feel up to it now. I've kept on the hospital bracelets they gave me and I plan to do so indefinitely as a reminder to keep better tabs on maintaining this degree of health.
I am NOT going back to being sick again. Thanks for supporting me for so long through all this, guys.