(Also shared to social media)
It’s been… a week.
Not to bury the lede: I was recently discharged from a hospital after checking in through the ER with a perforated appendix. Stupid vestigial organ.
It took me longer than it should have to realize something was truly wrong. I went in for vaccine updates on Saturday morning, and I generally have some kind of reaction to them. That’s why, on Saturday night, when I started getting profound chills that kept me under a heated blanket, I didn’t really think twice about it. “This is just a typical vaccine response;” I thought. “It’ll pass after 24 hours.”
At roughly 1:30 a.m. Sunday, I was awoken with intense, lightning-strike, cramping. I thought it was a clue to go to the bathroom, so I got out of bed and walked there in a doubled over stagger. Once I got there, I slid to the floor, and broke out in an unstoppable sweat. “I’m probably dehydrated. I just need some Gatorade,” I told myself.
After I pulled myself together, I hobbled over to a recliner and sat. I was aware that the stomachache felt more intense than usual, but I simply couldn’t conceive that something catastrophic had happened.
I spent Sunday in bed, unable to resolve the gripping, breath-taking, cramps I was experiencing. I couldn’t focus on anything – books, TV, whatever. I was just focused on waiting out the misery and staying hydrated throughout. The idea of food became absolutely repellent. I tried to eat some rice pudding – I love rice pudding – and had an immediate gag reflex.
I stole bits of sleep throughout the day: 10 minutes here, an hour there (if I was truly lucky), but I clearly wasn’t heading toward any kind of resolution; and yeah, it was getting worse. The vaccination was a red herring all along. This was something different.
Monday was more of the profoundly uncomfortable same, made more alarming by an at-home blood pressure reading well below what’s considered “normal.”
The decision was made to visit my PCP on Tuesday morning. As a new twist before heading that way, I had a “spill your soul” dry heave session at home that likely woke up the neighbors.
My PCP’s response was one of disbelief. With a facial expression that communicated “why the fuck are you here,” she urged me to head to the hospital. (It’s worth noting at this point that everyone in my family was more pressing in my need to go to the ER much sooner, but my stubbornness slowed the gears a bit.)
The ER was crowded, so much so that once I was “admitted,” I was never given a room. I spent five hours on a gurney in the hallway, admiring those who were given rooms. I learned to let go of modesty fairly fast, as doctors examined and poked at me, for all to see.
I also learned the art of visual avoidance in that situation. Every time I saw a gurney headed my way, I made a point of looking the other way. I had no interest in seeing the horrors others were facing.
After a few hours, I was wheeled into the CAT scan room, which was a first for claustrophobic me. The worst part of the experience turned out to be that I had to hold my arms over my head for the scan, which made my abdomen feel like an MMA fighter had just snap-kicked it.
As I waited for my results, I threw up in the ER hallway. Look, I didn’t want to do it, but I could have been more discreet had I been given a room.
At some point late in the afternoon (time and details became a lot more fluid as the day progressed), the doctor in charge came by and asked, “How long did you say you weren’t feeling well?” “Since Saturday night,” I said. “That’s interesting, because you have a perforated appendix.” And then, as God as my witness, he kept walking. Total bomb drop. Weird bedside manner, right?
I wanted to talk with someone at that moment. Instead, I waited moments far beyond that to learn that appendicitis led to the perforation and that surgery was required. The initial suggestion was that I might go in for surgery that evening. Instead, the plan was that I would be admitted and given regular antibiotics in an attempt to fight the current infection and mess that had been made of my abdomen.
Apparently, it’s a common approach. The antibiotics calm everything down over the course of 10 days and make things “normal-ish” enough that the appendectomy can be scheduled as an easy laparoscopic surgery once things are more settled. As the surgeon explained, “It’s such a mess there right now and everything’s clumped together. If we were to go in, we’d risk also removing a part of your large or small intestine.”
The hospital stay was rough, but entirely due to my discomfort. The staff was kind and empathetic; really everything you want and expect from a health care team. I struggled with sleeping as I managed through the pain and late night intrusions for medical business like BP checks and IV bag changes.
The craziest feeling I experienced throughout was an absolute inability to focus on anything. I did a lot of laying around and clock watching. It was a slow descent into madness that I couldn’t manage to correct.
I was released Thursday afternoon, and have been moving slowly since. I had a great night’s sleep (for the first time since Friday), but it’s not like I’m out and about. I’m currently in sweats, watching videos of Gary Numan live at Wembley and eating a bagel with cream cheese. On that note: I’m on a seriously low-fiber diet (don’t want to aggravate ANYTHING down there). The most dramatic part of the diet is zero caffeine intake for the next 14 days. I can handle it, but I’m already thinking of what that iced quad venti skinny vanilla latte will taste like on the other side.
All of this is the longest way imaginable to say that I’m going to be slow to respond to everything, from personal messages and emails to Car Con Carne podcast pitches and outreach. Please allow me some grace as I get back to normal. Thank you!
