Whirlwind
modern medicine decidedly NOT at its best, liz behaving badly and illogical feelings of luck
Thanks to everyone who has e-mailed me or commented here about my post-op shenanigans. The last few days have been crazy, so here's a synopsis:
On Wednesday, I went to see the surgeon, who is very kind and calls me "sweetheart" and sounds like she means it, as opposed to calling me sweetheart because she can't remember my name. So she examined me and came to the same conclusion as Handsome Charming Single Surgical Resident did: the right side of my body is numb and tingly because of the position that they had me in on the OR table. It's just a coincidence that my face is numb from my neck being scrunched up and my arm is numb because that's where the IV was and my leg is numb from the belt that strapped me on the table. However, the surgeon wanted me to see a neurologist "just to be sure."
On the way home from the appointment with Dr. P, my numb right foot slipped off the brake when I went to stop for a braking truck in front of me and I slammed into him. The little Passat, gawdbless'er, had only a few scratches. The truck was fine EXCEPT that the guy who was driving it (it was not his truck) told me that the little Passat had skewed the truck's bumper sideways. I looked at a big dent on the rear right of the truck, where the tail lights are, and said, "I did not do that." and he said , "No, you didn't do THAT, you did THIS", as he pointed to his bumper, which was pointing slightly upwards on the right. Now, getting testy, I said, "Oh, so you're magic. You can tell that I didn't do some damage but I did do other damage. You just want me to buy you a new bumper because you hit something else with it earlier today and now you can tell your boss that I did it!" Anyway, it went on like this for some time, as we exchanged information and I got angrier and angrier and more and more upset. End of story: Jack was not with me, I was fine (or at least as fine as I was when I started), the Passat was fine and my insurance will probably go up next year. Fuck.
After that happy scene, I went back to Kevin's work, where he had Jack and now had to drive me home because I was a wreck. I decided that I would just take Jack with me to the neurologist appointment the next day, because I am sick of Kevin missing work and me paying for a sitter and parking and everything else because of the illogic of medical care. And, plus, the visit to the neurologist, Dr. H., would only take a few minutes because I was fine, just numb from positioning, etc, etc.
So, yesterday, I arrived at Dr. H's office, dragging my right leg, with an unhappy Jack in tow. I had forgotten to change the stroller in the car, so I had the big, unwieldy jogging stroller and the doctor's office was in the oldest part of the hospital, with some chairs lined in a narrow hall. You get the picture. Jack is whining, I'm knocking everything over with the stroller, and this is 3 days at the hospital out of 4. I check in for my appointment and, of course, they ask me for my insurance card. I snapped.
"I don't want my insurance company to pay for something that is the hospital's fault. I had my gall bladder out on Monday and now I can't feel my right leg."
The medical secretary got the office manager, who was snitty. "Dr. H. needs to be paid for her services."
"I'm not arguing that," I said, knowing already that I was going to lose, but not without a fight, "I think that the anesthesiologist who let this happen to me can pay her."
"We have no arrangement for that," she said. "Dr. H. needs to get paid for her service."
I hated this woman, a little too intensely, and I was taking out all of it on her: the pain in my belly, the numbness on my right side, the car accident, the yelping toddler, the big awkward stroller were all her fault.
I handed over my insurance card.
Later, the same office manager asked me if I had called my PCP to get a referral. I snapped again, "I did. Don't worry, you'll get paid. I really appreciate your compassion and understanding, by the way." She looked at me, stunned, and said, "I got you this appointment yesterday." I wasn't done. "Oh, so that's where compassion ends? You got me an appointment to fix something that somebody at this hospital broke?" She said something that I don't remember and I stopped. Jack was shrieking.
Dr. H. had, of course, heard of this little diatribe by the time it was my turn to see her. She was brusque. She was also good at what she does. She took a thorough history and then did a physical exam, while Jack howled and shrieked and yelped and threw things. Why didn't I just suck it up and pay for a babysitter? Then Dr. H. looked at me and said, "I am fairly certain that you've had a stroke. I can either admit you now and you can have an MRI later as an inpatient or you can have an MRI later today and then get admitted once we are 100% certain that that's what it is. You will need a course of heparin and will be on heparin or Lovenox for the rest of your life. I think that an artery in your head or neck was torn during the surgery, when they positioned your head for intubation. If that's not what it is, I'll be floored."
I was still stuck on the first sentence. I am 42 with the cholesterol level of a vegan on Lipitor. I exercise (well, you guys know, I try), I eat well, I haven't smoked for years and never smoked that much when I did, I have minimal family history of cerebrovascular disease, I have low blood pressure, I never had a miscarriage (which is linked to stroke), I went through a vaginal delivery with no problems, etc., etc. How the hell could I have had a stroke? And then I remembered the clumsy 2nd-year anesthesia resident, who had barely gotten the IV and who dropped EKG leads on the floor and bumbled and fumbled and felt his way through. HE had hyperextended my neck. It was HIS fault! Then, how was I going to tell Kevin that I had had a stroke? How was I going to be away from Jack for a few days? How was I going to go back to work? What was my life going to be like with a blood thinner and a previously ruptured artery in my neck?
I called Kev at work and asked him to meet me at home. He left work early for the second day in a row, after having had off Monday and Tuesday. Jack and I found a picnic table outside and I fed him lunch and he was delightful. I put on my sunglasses so he couldn't see me cry.
We got home and Kevin and I came up with a plan. My goal was to keep things as normal for Jack as possible. So, we decided that Kevin and Jack would drop me off at the hospital for my MRI and I would bring a small bag with me for my stay. I would call Rama and get babysitting lined up for the next several days. Kevin would ask our neighbor to watch Jack that night once Jack was in bed so that Kevin could come see me in the hospital. I brought the bills that needed to be paid and the accident report that I need to fill out and a book and some New Yorkers. Carrying my little bag, I went through the admitting process for the second time this week and then went to wait for my MRI.
The MRI was awful I had had one of my hip once before, and it was uncomfortable, but nowhere nearly as bad as this. When they do your head and neck, they shut your upper body in a cage and pack it in with foam block and then back you into the tunnel where, for 45 minutes, you're subjected to grunge guitar feedback alternating with loud pipes banging and then, sometimes, scariest of all, silence, interspersed with whirring noises and then the technician's voice saying "Next one, 6 minutes. Stay still! Don't move!" I don't tend to be claustrophobic, but my skin was crawling by the time it was done. Oh, I forgot to mention that the contrast fluid coming in my left arm through and IV at the fold of my elbow burned and ached at times and, of course, I couldn't move it. I amused myself by doing yoga breathing and wiggling my toes.
When the forty-five minutes of modern medical torture ended 12 hours later, the technician, a Jamaican guy named Wolf, let me out of my cave and my cage and I was so relieved to be out that I almost started crying. But I was out of tears and emotion from earlier in the day, so I just got off the table and took my overnight bag and went to sit on some chairs to wait for the Dr. H. and the radiologist to do a 'wet read' of my MRI.
Dr. H. came out and said, "You didn't have a stroke. I'm floored. But the MRI is negative. Now I need to see the arteries in your neck. I'll be right back."
I DIDN'T HAVE A STROKE!!! I DIDN'T HAVE A STROKE!!!
Dr. H. came back a few minutes later and said, "Your arteries are beautiful. They're clean. No tears. No ruptures. I am completely surprised and now, I'm sorry to say, I have no idea what is wrong with you."
I called Kevin immediately to tell him the news and he had Jack in the bath and held the phone up to Jack's ear so that Jack could hear me say "Mommy's coming home!" They both met me outside the hospital and Kevin had dressed Jack in his *Mommy* tatoo t-shirt. I have never been so happy to be going home unexpectedly. I dropped the little overnight bag in the entryway and haven't touched it since.
So, I am still dragging around my numb right leg, which is getting better. The numbness in my arm and in my face is pretty much gone. And no one knows what's wrong. Today, my goal is to not go to the hospital for anything. We think that Kevin may get a full day's work in today. I think I'm going to see if Rama can come on Monday just so that I can take a day off. And I am loving every minute of being anywhere other than in the hospital.
12:40:32 PM 
|
|
