I am 40 years old today. Officially as I entered this world at approximately 2:30 p.m.
Let's review. I am not where I hoped to be where I began this blog. I had rather hoped to have myself sorted before this auspicious date arrived; a date that I have been dreading since I turned 20 oh so many years ago. The only goal that I managed was to become blonde for a bit.
The last days of October and the first couple weeks of November may have been the most challenging, frightening weeks of my life. At the beginning of October, I had a "routine" surgery to have my gall bladder removed--an outpatient surgery where I was in the hospital for less than 8 hours. October 29 found me dressed in a ball-gown skirt and at the formal wedding of a colleague. Just as we sat down to eat what promised to be a sumptuous dinner in a room that looked a mirage in a desert, a sharp pain in the middle of my chest that radiated around my side to my back chased with an intense wave of nausea sent me flying to the ladies room and home early without dinner.
A long drive home; the pain abated by a bottle of Maalox procured from 7-11. A hot shower. The pain layered with nausea that intensified as the night wore on. A call to my surgeon on Sunday morning. Hospital admission, narcotic pain killers, anti-nausea medicine, and fluids by IV into my deep, tiny veins as I began to yellow--first my skin and then my eyes. The conclusion that there were gall stones in my main biliary duct. A scope down my throat that revealed and cleared out sludge but no stones. Devils' Night and Halloween in the hospital as the pain abated and my bilirubin levels began to drop. Discharged from the hospital with pain killers after 4 days....
Home sweet home or the closest thing to it--the place where my daughter is, where my heart is. The next day a blur of nausea and pain kept at bay by Vicodin and hourly baths in water just this side of scalding. The following day the pain even more intense than the first time. Urgent care at my doctor's office. Nausea medicine and blood work that revealed that my bilirubin levels had quadrupled since my discharge from the hospital. I am roughly the colour of the cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz. Admitted to the hospital with nausea-laced pain so intense that I can only crawl into a ball and pray to a God that I believe in but have neglected.
Caring kindness from a nurse ten years my junior who gives me peppermint-saturated cotton balls to keep the nausea at bay and wrangles a shot of morphine until they find an IV nurse to get the pain and nausea meds into my veins. Finally, sweet relief from a strong narcotic, anti-nausea cocktail that keeps the pain at bay for a couple of hours but not the four hours that I have to wait between doses as I hurl into a small, kidney shaped container the colour of Pepto-Bismol. Residents at a teaching hospital that look at me as part freak-show, part experiment convinced that there are gall stones somewhere in the tangled, messed up region of my gall bladder, liver, pancreas.
Terror and helplessness join the nausea-infused pain. The realization that I am mortal and that I have no control over my body. A longing to return to my basically good health. Envy at the healthy people who care for me, who control the pain and nausea. A late-night CT scan that combines my pain medication with anti-anxiety medication that knocks me out as I float in cylindrical space filled with strange lights and sounds--suspended animation that confirms two stones in the duct that once led to my gall bladder. Trapped by the clip placed after the gall bladder was removed
A second scope down my throat the next morning that removes the offending stones wreaking havoc on my body. The pain begins to abate and by Sunday, I am off the narcotic concoction that has made my last days bearable. I press the doctors to go home and am permitted to have clear liquids for the first time in days. I eagerly await Monday morning's blood test results, hoping that my bilirubin levels are on the decline and that I will be discharged. The bilirubin levels are on decline but my celebration is short-lived when the resident returns to tell me that my blood test shows that I am developing post-ERCP pancreatitis, which is a common-complication from having the scope placed down my throat. A complication from a complication that throws me into despair, hopelessness that means at least one more night in the hospital and a return to nothing to drink, not even water as food and drink aggravate the pancreas.
I turn to Google and further terrify myself as I read all about the pancreas and how vital it is too survival. I name my pancreas Polly and begin talking soothingly to her, asking her not to develop full-blown pancreatitis My dad died from pancreatitis, and it is incredibly painful. Yes, he had several bouts of acute pancreatitis brought on by drinking. Yes, it developed into chronic pancreatitis. Yes, he was 20 years older than I am and had many more health problems. Yes, my pancreatitis was sub-clinical and not full blown pancreatitits. And I was not in pain. But it felt like a bad sign. And made me relive losing my dad all over again. And made me think about my beloved daughter growing up without me.
Finally, I was discharged after 8 total days in the hospital. The pain was largely gone, save the occasional twinge, and the nausea was much improved. No caffeine or booze and a low fat diet for one month. My strength and energy are slowly returning. The fear lingers. The sense of my own mortality continues to press upon my psyche. I am still not quite myself. I am trying to be good. To be the "perfect" mom. To be a good daughter and sister and friend. I don't know.
I am incredibly grateful to be out of the hospital, to be on the mend, to be given a new chance to begin again. So, despite the fact that I have not fixed my emotional and financial issues, despite the fact that I am not where I wanted to be by this milestone, I am here and that feels like a pretty, damn good start.
