Taking a Bit Off the Side
It starts off simply enough. He looks like he's in pain. Of course he's not ever going to be a talker. So I probe. His stomach's been bothering him a few days. We have dinner out. He's holding his stomach. Eating didn't really help. I prove some more. We stop on our way home to pick up a few remedies. Antacid and pepto. Nothing crazy.
He takes these before bed but by morning it's clear they didn't help. Still hurts. So I insist he call and make an appointment. They almost never have a problem making same-day appointments. He hangs up partway through. I guess he can't decide if the pain is worse than going in and getting some idea what might be going on. Answers are almost always better than speculation, but never as good as our friend denial.
I don't argue the point, and jump into my 8am phone conference. I loathe these, but with coworkers in the UK it's a necessary compromise. While on the call, I can hear him on the phone. Must have decided the pain was worse after all. I confirm this when I'm done with the conference, he'll the doc around 11. Not much more I can do for now so I head into office.
Knowing when the appointment is, I send messages to ask how it's going. They're sending him for a CT scan. "Just to rule things out." Not long after the scan, around 12:30 or so. I get a simple text. "It's appendicitis. I've been referred to the ER."
Mind switches instantly to battle mode. Work be damned. I leave the laptop where it is. I can worry about that later. I'm already thinking several steps ahead. No, we'll meet at home. He will wind up in OR and having two cars there is dumb. Already in the car on way home. He'll beat me back but he wants to pack. Pack? Whatever.
Once home, I wait downstairs as he finishes up. My priority is to get his ass to the ER. There will be many more hours, but we can't start any of that until we're there. Water? Why are you packing water? You should eat or drink anything unless your surgeon overlord orders it. Because even if you don't think so, I know you'll be in an OR today... under a knife or some equivalent.
He sneaks half a bottle of water, but at least we're in the car. Traffic's not too bad. Just past lunch time. Oh right, I haven't had lunch. Whatever. More important things to do. No, do not eat that snack bar! No good. No water. Not kidding.
I drop him off at the ER door because there isn't anyplace to park in front. Takes me a good 10-15 minutes to locate garage, park, and navigate back to ER where I get my visitor's badge and they lead me in. Green 3. Green?? That seems oddly inappropriate for something he's going to very likely need to get cut for...
He's been seen by a nurse. Two more come by. No he's already been seen. Why are we in a green room? I see signs for yellow and red. Probably means what I think they do. And about 5 minutes later, "come with me." Red 5. That's more like it.
The basic stuff happens pretty quickly. Here's a gown. Take your clothes off. Get in bed. Nurses buzz about with IV's. Nurse very clearly says to me, "It's better if nothing gets left with him, so it isn't lost." Right, there's two days' clothes, water, and snacks in his backpack. I find myself openly asking, "why did you pack all this?" I'm now trying to stuff today's clothes and shoes into the already full pack. It fits, and no harm done. We just do silly things when we're anxious and scared.
Nurses are situated. Surgeon #1 arrives and begins quizzing. He half answers, I share stuff he's told me but isn't telling surgeon. I ask many questions. I watch him as surgeon answers and notice his unspoken curiosity seems satisfied. Oh right, I'm playing the sane one now. This is my part. I'm cool with that. A part of me recalls the conversation with mom when she asked me about being "that person" if the need came to make "that decision" for her medical care. It dawns on me now why she asked me.
ER admitting. Hospital admitting. Repeated questions. Wait, why are they asking if e was born in the US? Can't you hear he speaks perfect English? He responds that, no, he doesn't have an employer now. I shortcut this and openly ponder the relevance. He has an MRN and he's covered. I see the question forming on her face. Before her lips move, I add, "We're domestic partners. He's on my insurance. Can't you look this stuff up? You're accessing the medical record, yes?" Oh, you're ____?" I show her my ID. Why yes I am, can we dispense with the stupid questions now?
He would normally be shushing me now. With that undertone of "that's not very submissive of you." Ah, the irony of why we seek submission! But now he's preoccupied with his pain and doesn't make a point to stop me. Which suits me fine because the help needs to be doing more helping. Being part of different good chains and living with that pressure, I don't tolerate slacking from others.
The good news is that most of these folks are very efficient. And they're fairly good natured. So there is little need for correction or redirection. Within the first two hours we've gotten through almost all the preliminaries. Yes, surgery will be happening. Now it's just a question of when. We're told it could be ten minutes or an hour. He asks if I'm hungry. It's nearly 4pm. Hunger is not a priority. I state -- and I will have to repeat this several times in the coming hours -- that I'm not going anywhere until the last moment until he heads into the OR. Then I'll worry about me and my nutritional requirements.
60 minutes pass. As we near 90, I get irritated there's no update. I remark that we're close to a Terms of Endearment moment, and I'm not sure he understands what I mean. But I pull open the curtain so I can watch. And so they can see me watching... no, glaring. Not entirely clueless one stops by saying that there's one surgery ahead of us and we should have someone coming by within 30 minutes to take him up. Fine. No, leave the curtain open. I'm not done glaring. He's napping now. I'm standing guard.
It's nearly 6pm now. Second surgeon stops by. Asks him more questions. Reviews same litany of risks and possible complications. I hear the boredom in her voice. Yes, this is routine and unremarkable... For you. Not for us. But she weathers more questions well.
The nurse makes a notation on the white board. She notices me watching. "I know we're running a little behind, but I'm writing 5:30pm on here, just so you know." I smile and turn. What I want to say is, "Excuse me bitch, we've been sitting here for hours and you're worried about your damned metrics!?" As they walk out, it's past 6pm. "It'll be any time now."
It turns out that any time now means another hour. We get a heads up that someone is coming down to wheel him up. I will be able to go onto the floor with him. I note the time and reach for the eraser. "What are you doing?" He asks. Adding some truth to their bullshit, I respond.
We head to OR suite at 7pm. It feels more like a morgue than a surgical floor. Deathly quiet. Almost no one around. Shouldn't there be more people if they're this busy? I'm with him another 30 minutes before a nurse and anesthesiologist show up to cover a few more things and wheel him away. "You know where the waiting area is?" Oh, sure, I'm here every other week. And your signs are super helpful. Thanks for pointing in the general direction though. I had to ask directions twice on my way there.
It's 7:30pm now. Cafeteria is closed. I got hints at walkable eateries from one nurse. I drop the ridiculously packed bag and other items in the car and move it to a more convenient spot in the garage. Getting some bearings now at least.
It's not until I sit to eat at last -- Subway -- that it starts to hit me. Knives. Utensils. Blood. Infection. Risks. Our child soon to arrive. I don't lose it though. Maybe the possibilities are just overwhelming enough to prevent that. Rational brain insists there's not use in trying to ponder all the scenarios. Now the priority is food. Lunch comes 6 hours late. But I wouldn't have done it differently. I enjoy my meal and realize it's 8:15. Time to head back and wait.
I'd been texting several folks throughout as updates came. Some had other conversation or items to discuss. And by now someone had leaked it to Facebook; I truly loathe that app. But I made my updates, because people were curious.
Got a call from my sister, who hasn't seen the emails I was sending. We don't talk very frequently so it was nice to catch up and just talk in general. By the time we finished it was nearly 9pm. This worried me a little because they said the operation should only take about an hour. I call the surgical desk from a house phone. They apparently didn't start until a bit past 8pm. Not unusual. So they should be out any minute.
I wait another 10 or 15 minutes in a now very empty and dark waiting room. Can't they afford to have lights on? In this darkness the surgeons greet me. The surgery went well. No perforation. No infection. About as good an outcome as we could possibly have wanted. They're not even going to prescribe antibiotics for when he comes home.
I promised to let his brother know when the surgery was done. I look up him number and call. Voicemail. I leave a lengthy message and hang up when the PACU nurse pokes her head out to let me know I can see him. He is the only patient there. Hard to miss. Just very barely waking up.
I hold his hand. He notices me. He apologizes. Silly. This is part of being together. Being that person for one another. I hold him as best I can around tubes and hospital gurney. We're not there very long before the PACU deems him ready to head to recovery. I still don't know what HAS stands for. Doesn't really matter. He's awake and OK and that's really all I care about right now.
I learn from the recovery nurse that his brother has already been asking about him. I didn't know he'd arrived, but I later learned he hadn't been there long. I was thankful for this cause I hated the idea he was just waiting. Their mom was with him. I was very glad to see them. And shortly we were there with him, as he was continuing to bece more aware. "So I guess this is the worse part of 'for better or worse'?" I chuckle. Merely a pothole.
We visited and caught up on the days events. We finally left him to sleep around 11:30pm. I got some food his mom and brother had prepared, and then trudged back to the lonely car. First stop was work to collect laptop. And then a bite to eat -- I was hungry again after my 8pm lunch. And then home, by 1am.
I was so keyed up still that I got a few things cleaned up. Prepped the pack for his clothes to dress in, since he was expected to be released in the morning. What time was unknown. I finally got to sleep at 5am.
Up at 7am. I see he's up and posting online. Any news on condition or release? No. This irritates. Please hand your phone to nurse. I need real updates here. But there is no news apparently. I get myself together and jump on a 8am call for a half hour. Thankfully we finish early. I will arrive at hospital by 9-9:30.
I arrive to find nurse impatient to get him out. He tells me later that surgeons only signed him off for discharge at quarter to 9. Fucking bitch, maybe you could hVe shared that instead of behaving like you'd been waiting 4 hours for me to show up. Whatever, I'm glad we will be done with this place very soon.
I head to discharge pharmacy for his meds, listening to staff chatter with each other while I stand as the only person in line waiting for them. "Oh there's no rush..." Speak for yourself, I say. I have a patient coming down and I'd rather not having waiting curbside while I go get my car and drive around, thanks. No, I have zero patience left for you people. He moves out of my way and 2 minutes later I've got what I need.
I run into him and a volunteer who's wheeling him out. As I share I'll just be a few minutes to drive the car around, she offers to wheel him over instead. Wow. Such a small thing and yet in that moment such a relief. Not long after we're on our way home. We make one quick stop at CVS for Tylenol, since we wanted something stomach-friendly and non-narcotic for moderate pain. Not really sure how he'll be in next few days.
Turns out his pain level hasn't really been that bad. He's taken very little of the Tylenol and none of the meds they prescribed. A nurse friend of ours says it'll probably just be a week or two... Though it can apparently take 4-6 weeks before full strength returns.
I am thankful that things have gone so well. I am thankful that he wasn't in worse shape. Appendicitis may be no big deal. But small things turn into big things when ignored. And with our son on the way, we'll already have our hands full and anxiety running high. Just a few weeks away now.
No more surprises... OK? At least not before H arrives. ;)