Welcome to National Blog Writing Month! I'll be blogging every day during the month of October, just because I can!
As for this post, it was something that I had started working on a few weeks ago. The events that happened did so during the first week of September. I suppose I could talk about the government shutdown, but fuck that. Those assholes don't deserve anymore of my profanity laced tirades.
Onward!
Not one day after my job ended, I wound up at the hospital. Again. Same thing, because I don't learn and thought I'd still pull hairs out of my chin without repercussions. Yeah, that ended well.
I woke up last Tuesday morning with a sizable lump on my chin from pulling a hair. I figured I'd fight back before it had a chance to establish a hold on me. I went to the University ER instead of Mercy because I had to pick up my kid from school, so I wanted to be nearby in case it got late. It didn't take long to triage me and get me in a room, and by noon, I had seen a doctor. Actually, more than one doctor. The general consensus was that I needed to be hospitalized immediately at Mercy, so they could pump me full of IV Vancomycin and insert another PICC line. I couldn't help it, so I straight up started crying. That was the last thing I wanted to hear.
As I sat there crying and trying to get a hold of my husband, the doctor came back after consulting the head doctor (teaching hospitals.....gotta love them) and said that they could try to give me a super strong IV dose of Vancomycin, and then send me home with Bactrim and Keflex. I latched on to that, because the last thing I wanted was to be stuck in a hospital and have another PICC line. So they hooked me up to an IV and pumped in 3,000 mL of Vancomycin over 3 1/2 hours. When I was done, I felt chilled. When I walked out of the hospital with my directions and prescriptions, I felt weak and cold. When my husband picked me up, I was freezing, developing a headache, and aching all over. It took all of my strength to get the scripts filled and to eat something. I barely made it home before I collapsed in a shivering heap on the bed.
If you've ever had the flu, you will know how this feels. I don't know if this was just a reaction to having so much antibiotics pumped into my system, if something went wrong, if it was just things dying in my body. I have no clue. I will say, however, that that was three very bad hours of my life. I took a nap and woke up with a fever, but still shivering. I finally crawled into the bathroom and took a shower, then just soaked in a hot bath. It alleviated the symptoms eventually, but it was just a really fuckawful feeling all around. I went to bed and prayed for a miracle.
I woke up the next morning feeling fine. The lump was still there, still painful, but it hadn't grown in size. I did my usual things around the house, lots of laundry, all of that. I picked up my son from school, made dinner, chilled.....and I took my meds religiously. I was not going to let this thing win. Except it started to.
I woke up on Thursday morning. The lump was still there, seemingly bigger, and crap. It felt like it was spreading to the previously infected area. I started crying (I did that a lot this week) and woke up my husband. We got everything together for the day, and he took me to the ER. I packed some clothes and stuff to keep me occupied, because I KNEW I was going to wind up in the hospital for an overnight (or longer) stay.
It didn't take long for me to be taken back to a room. The doctors started trooping in at about 9:30ish and stood around questioning me, discussing options, etc. It was eventually decided that I would be admitted, Vancomycin would start being administered again, and that blood cultures, and an actual real MRSa test would be done to see if that was what was plaguing me. They also wanted me to have an ultrasound of the lump to see if there was pus in it. And then the words, "We're going to put another PICC line in." Son of a BITCH. I started crying. Again.
I waited out most of the day in the ER room because there were no rooms available. They gave me another bag of antibiotics, took blood for blood work and cultures, and then about an hour before I was sent to my room, they sent me to have a PICC line put in. I just had this overwhelming sense of dread on the way to the radiology rooms (they do them there because an xray must be done afterwards to ensure the line is positioned right). It would turn out that I had good reason to feel that way.
While the lady who placed my PICC line was very nice, something went very wrong. She scanned my arm with the ultrasound wand looking for a good entrance into my vein. She took a looooooooooong time. She eventually found what she thought would be a good place and got things ready. It seemed normal at first, but then the most agonizing pain shot through my arm and body and I literally screamed. She stopped for a minute and tried again. Same pain, same noise from me. I guess it was loud enough that the main guy came running to see what the hell was going on. They cleaned up the first wound, and he scanned my arm for a good spot. Within three minutes, he had found one, cut it, and had it in. I was still crying because that goof had just scared me, not to mention that it hurt like fucking hell. They sent me back to the ER to wait for a room, where I discovered that the PICC line site was dripping blood. Apparently normal, but I don't remember my last one doing that. The nurses got it cleaned up, and it eventually stopped. Then I was shuttled off to my room.
I'll admit it. The room was really nice. They had just renovated everything, so I had a gorgeous view of the lake, nicer floors, and it was private, possibly because I was a potential quarantine case. Doctors kept trooping in and out, as did the nurses. Right about the time my husband and son showed up, they took me down for an ultrasound of the infection, just to make sure that it wasn't full of liquid nastiness (which actually would have been preferable).
After I was returned to my room, I started begging for food. I hadn't eaten all day, and they had refused to give me food because they weren't sure what was going to happen. I eventually wound up with a tray of something that resembled chopped up meat shaped into a patty, and some green beans, which I loathe, so I passed them off to my husband. It was a slim dinner, but I felt better after eating something.
Once my family left for the night, I settled in with television, my new computer, and a book. Nothing held my interest for long, because one of two things happened: I was interrupted by a doctor or nurse, or I started worrying about the thing on my face and freaking out about it. Eventually, I just dozed off, lying in the most uncomfortable manner. I am not a back sleeper, and I had an IV in one arm, and a PICC line in the other, so on my back was the only way to go.
I woke up at about 10 that night because the kind nurse brought me a sandwich and a cranberry juice. The sandwich was sort of ass, so I just guzzled the juice and started watching PBS while vital checks, antibiotics, and random beeping went on (ah, machinery). I finally settled down for the night, but never really slept, just drifted here and there, always worrying about the what-ifs. It was a long night.
Second part tomorrow.
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