The Saga of the Three Surgeries, Part One
Hospitals are not my favorite. I know they're not really anyone's favorite...but on the long list of “Places Patty Would Like To Visit,” 'hospitals' have traditionally rated above 'the blighted depths of Detroit' only because most hospitals now sport a decent espresso bar. So when the pain in my back and chest actually caused me to say the words “I think I should go to the hospital” you better believe it was an epic sort of pain.
Not that I'm a stranger to epic pain, either...but knowing that there was a bebe inside of me was a heck of a motivator to actually deal with it properly.
Also at play was the fact that this exact sort of pain landed me in a hospital not a week before: in Labor & Delivery, no less. My mother saw me trying to walk, shower, and generally whimper pathetically about the house and logically decided that I was having 'back labor' - an extra-especially type of hell where the normal pains of labor get directed down and about one's long suffering pregnant back (instead of the front where you would think it goes). At the last trip, the staff and doctors decided to label it a “false labor” or “pre-labor” and send me home again once the pain became bearable. Not a very unusual story for anyone carrying their +1 at the later stages...but eventually something that would prove very, very relevant in the week that followed.
But now, we return to our narrative already in progress. In that special form of agony that most agreed was due to my magical ability to bring a new human life into this world, Robin and I got into the car to return to our delivery hospital of choice (Hillcrest, part of the Cleveland Clinic). But before we could make with our great escape, the doctor who we had called for authorization called back and directed us to go 20 minutes away from said hospital to the Emergency Room best covered by our insurance plan. Said doctor (whom we shall call Dr. Snufflelufflelogus, due to his lack of physical manifestation) was apparently worried about the “chest pain” part of the description, and decided to err on the side of caution.
Did I mention this was the night before I was scheduled to be induced into labor? 'Cuz it was totally the night before I was supposed to be induced into labor.
After a ride I sincerely don't remember much of (despite my apparent ability to give Robin correct directions to the spot); we arrived at the ER, checked in, and I found myself rushed to the back by two nurses that carried the look of “oh my God, she's pregnant” on their faces. Back in the actual “R” part of the ER, the staff very quickly determined that my heart and lungs were fine, I wasn't dilated, and there were no signs of alien parasites popping out of my chest.
Yet.
Once all that was settled the pain actually started to get worse. And so I was left howling for a while whilst the medical team debated what to do. Pain killers? No, she's pregnant. MRI? Nope, preggers. Beat her over the head with a club? No, Ms. Heany...and we'd really appreciate it if you'd stop saying that. Try to get some sleep.
For six hours debates, and the occasional test, raged on. Robin and I watched a bit of PBS (one show about the son of escaped slaves who became one of the kingpins of the Underground Railroad, one about the Freedom Riders), and I writhed in pain. Finally, just as dawn broke upon “day of inducement,” the remarkably painful ultrasound I had been subjected to yielded results: gall stones. Lots of 'em. Enough to suggest that one or two might have escaped into my liver. For those of you playing along at home...yes, this is extremely painful.
The ER doc's solution? Send me to the hospital where I was supposed to give birth, and let them figure it out. I suppose in the long run that it's not really the worst idea I've heard...but another 20 minute car ride over uber-crappy Cleveland streets without painkillers was not really the happiest solution I could have received, either.
We arrived at the hospital to find that no one from the ER had bothered to call and say we would be on our way. ::sigh:: Fortunately they had given us a large envelope filled with medical jargon in written form that, combined with the verbal accounts of Boy and I, was enough to tell them what was going on. Dr. Snufflelufflelogus was once more contacted (I assume tarot cards), and eventually I got my very own Labor & Delivery suite...complete with premium TV channels!
(Still howling and whimpering in pain, for the curious.)
Finally the painkiller came: Nubain, also called No Brain for its amazing narcotic powers. I would much later discover that this particular drug of choice isn't so much known for it's painkiller properties as its ability to keep other narcotics from making you itchy. However, it worked: and one should not usually question something that works against that level of pain.
For the next six hours Robin did his level best to nap while I had a cavalcade of nurses, doctors, and technicians arrive to perform various rites and incantations of medicine over me. Most of these came in “insert needle here” form, but a few included me bending and contorting in various ways to give various doctors a better sense of how far along I was in terms of delivering the bebe. Short answer: not at all.
At noon, they began the inducement drugs. At six AM the next day, I still wasn't dilated enough for them to so much as break my water. At nine, one of the battery of tests came back to confirm that I had HELLP Syndrome.
Now, by the time my OB/GYN, Dr. Keng, had arrived at my bedside to explain all of this to me; I had been pretty doped up for quite some time (about 7 the previous morning, I believe). And so her meaningful, easy-to-follow, non-jargonesque explanation of HELLP Syndrome was somehow translated into my brain as “wow, Dr. Keng has really pretty earnings.” However, after I got home and regained my internet powers, I looked it up: and realized how lucky it was that I didn't follow a bloody word she said.
Essentially, HELLP Syndrome is an incredibly rare condition somehow caused by the placenta that causes your body to start attacking your blood supply. Part of me thought that bebe was a foreign body that needed to be attacked, part of me was doing its best to defend him. My liver and gall bladder were caught up in the crossfire: and as far as I can tell, no one really knows much more about it then that. Like I said, it's rare.
What's more is that most women with HELLP have to deliver premature. Whether this is to insure their survival or because delivery is the only cure for HELLP, I'm not sure. But The fact that I carried to term - with or without my knowledge - is something of a miracle. Well, it'd be more miraculous to me if I survived with all my organs intact...but I'm getting ahead of myself. The solution that Dr. Keng explained to me (and that I was magically able to follow) was a prompt delivery.
Oh, but one small problem: I wasn't responding to the inducement drugs. And HELLP Syndrome suffers were known to have bleeding problems. So, all the signs pointed to a very, very special C-section.
Stay tuned for Part 2, in which our heroine mistakes blue for green, and completely disassociates from reality.
Not that I'm a stranger to epic pain, either...but knowing that there was a bebe inside of me was a heck of a motivator to actually deal with it properly.
Also at play was the fact that this exact sort of pain landed me in a hospital not a week before: in Labor & Delivery, no less. My mother saw me trying to walk, shower, and generally whimper pathetically about the house and logically decided that I was having 'back labor' - an extra-especially type of hell where the normal pains of labor get directed down and about one's long suffering pregnant back (instead of the front where you would think it goes). At the last trip, the staff and doctors decided to label it a “false labor” or “pre-labor” and send me home again once the pain became bearable. Not a very unusual story for anyone carrying their +1 at the later stages...but eventually something that would prove very, very relevant in the week that followed.
But now, we return to our narrative already in progress. In that special form of agony that most agreed was due to my magical ability to bring a new human life into this world, Robin and I got into the car to return to our delivery hospital of choice (Hillcrest, part of the Cleveland Clinic). But before we could make with our great escape, the doctor who we had called for authorization called back and directed us to go 20 minutes away from said hospital to the Emergency Room best covered by our insurance plan. Said doctor (whom we shall call Dr. Snufflelufflelogus, due to his lack of physical manifestation) was apparently worried about the “chest pain” part of the description, and decided to err on the side of caution.
Did I mention this was the night before I was scheduled to be induced into labor? 'Cuz it was totally the night before I was supposed to be induced into labor.
After a ride I sincerely don't remember much of (despite my apparent ability to give Robin correct directions to the spot); we arrived at the ER, checked in, and I found myself rushed to the back by two nurses that carried the look of “oh my God, she's pregnant” on their faces. Back in the actual “R” part of the ER, the staff very quickly determined that my heart and lungs were fine, I wasn't dilated, and there were no signs of alien parasites popping out of my chest.
Yet.
Once all that was settled the pain actually started to get worse. And so I was left howling for a while whilst the medical team debated what to do. Pain killers? No, she's pregnant. MRI? Nope, preggers. Beat her over the head with a club? No, Ms. Heany...and we'd really appreciate it if you'd stop saying that. Try to get some sleep.
For six hours debates, and the occasional test, raged on. Robin and I watched a bit of PBS (one show about the son of escaped slaves who became one of the kingpins of the Underground Railroad, one about the Freedom Riders), and I writhed in pain. Finally, just as dawn broke upon “day of inducement,” the remarkably painful ultrasound I had been subjected to yielded results: gall stones. Lots of 'em. Enough to suggest that one or two might have escaped into my liver. For those of you playing along at home...yes, this is extremely painful.
The ER doc's solution? Send me to the hospital where I was supposed to give birth, and let them figure it out. I suppose in the long run that it's not really the worst idea I've heard...but another 20 minute car ride over uber-crappy Cleveland streets without painkillers was not really the happiest solution I could have received, either.
We arrived at the hospital to find that no one from the ER had bothered to call and say we would be on our way. ::sigh:: Fortunately they had given us a large envelope filled with medical jargon in written form that, combined with the verbal accounts of Boy and I, was enough to tell them what was going on. Dr. Snufflelufflelogus was once more contacted (I assume tarot cards), and eventually I got my very own Labor & Delivery suite...complete with premium TV channels!
(Still howling and whimpering in pain, for the curious.)
Finally the painkiller came: Nubain, also called No Brain for its amazing narcotic powers. I would much later discover that this particular drug of choice isn't so much known for it's painkiller properties as its ability to keep other narcotics from making you itchy. However, it worked: and one should not usually question something that works against that level of pain.
For the next six hours Robin did his level best to nap while I had a cavalcade of nurses, doctors, and technicians arrive to perform various rites and incantations of medicine over me. Most of these came in “insert needle here” form, but a few included me bending and contorting in various ways to give various doctors a better sense of how far along I was in terms of delivering the bebe. Short answer: not at all.
At noon, they began the inducement drugs. At six AM the next day, I still wasn't dilated enough for them to so much as break my water. At nine, one of the battery of tests came back to confirm that I had HELLP Syndrome.
Now, by the time my OB/GYN, Dr. Keng, had arrived at my bedside to explain all of this to me; I had been pretty doped up for quite some time (about 7 the previous morning, I believe). And so her meaningful, easy-to-follow, non-jargonesque explanation of HELLP Syndrome was somehow translated into my brain as “wow, Dr. Keng has really pretty earnings.” However, after I got home and regained my internet powers, I looked it up: and realized how lucky it was that I didn't follow a bloody word she said.
Essentially, HELLP Syndrome is an incredibly rare condition somehow caused by the placenta that causes your body to start attacking your blood supply. Part of me thought that bebe was a foreign body that needed to be attacked, part of me was doing its best to defend him. My liver and gall bladder were caught up in the crossfire: and as far as I can tell, no one really knows much more about it then that. Like I said, it's rare.
What's more is that most women with HELLP have to deliver premature. Whether this is to insure their survival or because delivery is the only cure for HELLP, I'm not sure. But The fact that I carried to term - with or without my knowledge - is something of a miracle. Well, it'd be more miraculous to me if I survived with all my organs intact...but I'm getting ahead of myself. The solution that Dr. Keng explained to me (and that I was magically able to follow) was a prompt delivery.
Oh, but one small problem: I wasn't responding to the inducement drugs. And HELLP Syndrome suffers were known to have bleeding problems. So, all the signs pointed to a very, very special C-section.
Stay tuned for Part 2, in which our heroine mistakes blue for green, and completely disassociates from reality.