Ok. Everything’s going along as usual and bingo, bango, bongo, appendicitis rears its ugly head. And I do mean ugly. One week later, everyone asks me how I’m feeling and I respond, “Much better, thanks.” But in fact, I’m feeling very different. Very changed by this brush with death and this reminder that the clock is ticking.
It started on a Saturday. I was driving back from my mother’s home in Stuart to Miami. A 100 mile drive that I do a lot. About 20 minutes in, I got some severe cramps and thought it must have been something I ate. Saturday came and went with a few bouts of distress and more than a few visits to the bathroom.
Sunday came and went in the same fashion. By Monday, I was feeling a bit better and able to go about my day. Tuesday morning I woke up feeling very badly, but Tuesday mornings I have a 7am BNI meeting (networking group) and it was my day to give my 7 minute presentation. I dressed and headed in hoping I could make it through the meeting and through the presentation without a trip to the bathroom.
The meeting ended. I went home and curled up in the fetal position. When my husband Rick said, “What’s up with you?” I told him and he looked up appendicitis on the web. Simultaneously, I called my mother. “Are you feeling ok? I asked. “Yes, she said, and if you’re still feeling badly, you might have appendicitis. Call your doctor and call me back.”
It’s 5 pm and after saying, “Got that,” to each symptom of appendicitis, we decide to head to the emergency room. We get to South Miami Hospital’s emergency room door at 6 pm and begin our slow entry into the system and my quick change from healthy, normal person in control of my life to sick, scared woman with no control brushing up against death.
My daughter is an adult. A beautiful, strong woman who loves her mother dearly. She is my crowning achievement in life and I feel I did a good job bringing her up. She gets off work at 5, goes home to let out and feed her dogs and then heads over to South Miami Hospital to meet us in the emergency room. By the time she gets there, it’s 7:30 and I’ve been there for 1.5 hours and talked to no one.
It’s a busy room, this outer room of hard, straight chairs and sick people. An older black woman in a wheel chair. Her daughter with her. A funny little man in a wheel chair with lots of luggage. A seemingly healthy young woman and her husband playing cards. A tan blond woman shivering constantly. Me. And a man named Nelson Fernandez. I saw Nelson once. He had his own walker filled with stuff and looked too young and able to be using a walker.
Time moves not at all. I look at the clock and it’s 8. I look again and it’s 8. It seems like 4 hours before it’s actually 8:15. My stomach is killing me and the straightness of the chair feels like a rod up my back. I rock. I squirm. I smile bravely at my daughter. My daughter looks concerned. My husband leaves to walk our dog and will be back in an hour at the most. “Don’t hurry, I say, I will be here.” So now it’s me, my daughter, the continuing stream of sick people, ambulance traffic and a battalion of emergency room technicians periodically calling for one person, Nelson Fernandez.
My daughter is very unlike my husband in this way. Rick is from the mid west. He’s a polite man. He’s polite in traffic, in emergency rooms, at airline ticket counters, at hotel desks, restaurants, everywhere. He is courteous. He is patient with people and will always let people in front of us. I love him for this and I hate him for this. And sometimes, I just can’t abide it and do my own, New England/Miami thing instead.
Feeling that attention was not being paid, my daughter began to take action. Rick was gone. She took control. And things moved more quickly. In Miami, it pays to be more proactive. Latins are more tolerant of aggressiveness than say someone from Michigan. And in an emergency room in Miami, it pays to be downright outrageous. Francine was not outrageous, she was focused on moving me into the hall, one room over and onto a stretcher.
That happened about 9. Rick came back to a more comfortable me on a stretcher in the hall. Same cast of characters, army of techs wandering in search of Nelson Fernandez. My name was called by the paperwork diva and my daughter went off to provide insurance information. Despite my dramatic decline in income, I kept up my health insurance and it was something I could feel good about right now.
“Heard Nelson was last seen in the cafeteria, but the cafeteria is closed now. It closes at 9:30. Where could he be?” It seems to me there are so very many others, without that name, but with another name in serious need of medical attention. “What the fuck’s with Nelson Fernandez,” I say to my daughter. “What about Nancy? Nancy’s not feeling well!”
My daughter leaves to go home to her dogs and will call in an hour. Rick is back. A nice young man takes my blood. About 11:30, the petulant looking young woman who I’ve watched move about all night comes to take me into a room within the emergency room area. She apologizes for the delay and seems sincere.
They don’t like the blood work and will do a CT scan of my abdomen. After which, a handsome young doctor tells me that indeed, I have appendicitis. They will need to operate quickly. This is said to me at 12:30 am and within a half hour, the pace accelerates. People are coming and going and questions are asked. My nurse is on it. Paperwork is read and signed. My husband looks tired. I’m scared yet relieved in some small way that I’m not a wimpy complainer. “I am really sick!” Another competent young man gently puts in my IV.
At 2 am I’m in the surgery suite. I have a nice, very nice nurse. She’s kind and moves quickly yet carefully. She explains everything she’s doing and this is amazingly comforting. The anesthesiologist visits. He seems hopped up on something. I tell him I get very nauseous after general anesthesia and to please err on the side of caution. “The more you give me, the longer I’ll be sick,” I tell him. My husband agrees, “She gets very sick.”
The young man I was behind in the hallway who was also on a stretcher comes out of surgery. The same surgery. And now, it’s my turn. My doctor is a large woman from Haiti who has a soft and gentle manner. She’s going to do a laparoscopic appendectomy which will leave me with three small incisions. I will be fine.
I know why Nelson Fernandez could not be found. He could leave. If I could leave, I would, too. I kiss my husband and go into surgery. The next thing I remember is room 509 ablaze with light and full of staff. My nurse. My bed. My IV. My daughter is back. My husband is gone. The surgery went well. Then why do I feel so horrible. So nauseous. I throw up. I use the bed pan. I can’t talk because I will throw up.
I do this and nothing else for 30 hours. My daughter won’t leave me. And she won’t allow the nurses to continue current treatment. I’m on 3 antibiotics and either dilaudid or morphine into the IV. Immediate reaction, vomiting. No more. “Please, pretty nurse, please, call the doctor. Make it stop.”
My daughter stands at the desk until the doctor is called, until the doctor responds. “We’ll start eliminating the antibiotics. And if you want to try, we’ll stop the pain medication, the kind doctor says in her Haitian accent. “Yes,” I say, “Stop as much as you can. I’d rather have pain, anything, than nausea.”
I came in on Tuesday at 6 pm and on Friday at about 1 pm, I go home. Once the nausea stopped, the recovery began. I walked with my own Nurse Jackie down the hall and learned she, too, has one child, a girl. We agree, it’s not easy to raise a child. We agree, we’re glad our child was a girl.
The night before I check out, I am sleepless. All night. No reprieve. I look out my window into the parking garage. The same marone Ford truck is back. It’s been there each night. The leer of death behind the wheel. “Is that a face?” “Is that Death looking back at me, no, leering at me?”
It’s the drugs, I think, but I’m scared to my core. I cheated death once again. I am reborn. Bingo. Bango. Bongo.