We arrived at the ER. Dr. Shmootz wasn't there yet. The nurse who was taking all of my information and insurance told me she was going to need to check my vitals. I could literally hear my heart pounding in my ears. My head was hot. The pain in my legs jolted through me like a surge of electricity every time I moved.
First she checked my temperature. 103. Not good. Not dangerous. But, certainly not good. I stretched out my arm as she cuffed it to check my blood pressure. Due to the ensuing calamity that was happening in my brain and the panic that was driving me, I can't tell you that I remember the bottom number of my blood pressure reading when the nurse initially took it. But, I specifically remember the look on her face when she read the top number: 220. She looked extremely nervous. Now I know why...
For those of you not familiar with blood pressure readings...Anything below 140 is cool for my age. 180-200 is Hypertension Stage 1-Stage 2. Anything over 200 is a risk for stroke or heart attack.
My body was clearly reacting to all of the physical pain and the emotional turmoil that I was going through.
I was immediately wheeled into an exam room and the ER nurse ran an IV into my arm and started pumping me with ativan to calm me down. Dr. Shmootz arrived. By then the nurse had already taken a Sharpie pen and had outlined the red streak on my left leg. Dr. Shmootz was anxious. He examined my leg. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my mother pacing back and forth. She was glaring at Dr Shmootz. I just kept praying she didn't say anything abusive to him. As much as I disliked this man, I fully realized that he was completely responsible for my life. My mother realized this as well. I believe that is the only reason why she was keeping quiet.
Dr Shmootz finished examining my leg and told us the obvious... He said that these were the symptoms of an infection. He hinted that he suspected I had picked up the infection at the Physical Therapy office. God, he was such a deutschbag! Whatever was in my leg was probably born during the initial surgery, but I knew this man would die before he ever admitted that. He muttered something to the nurse about getting blood samples immediately to make sure that the infection hadn't spread into my blood. Then he quickly left the exam room. As the nurse was drawing blood from my arm, I asked her if a blood infection was bad. The nurse responded that it could be stopped if found in time. I asked her if it could be fatal. She looked at the ground and then looked up at me and replied, "Yes."
I felt the blood drain from my face. The situation just seemed to be getting more and more grim. I was trembling. Shaking with fear. The ativan was doing nothing to control the pain or panic that I was in. The nurse could see that I was visibly terror stricken. She quickly left the room and came back with a syringe. She flushed my IV, and then filled it with a syringe full of dilaudid. Finally, the pain started to subside.
Dr Shmootz re-entered. My mother was asking Dr Shmootz what was going to happen next. He told us that I would be admitted to the hospital until they figured out what bug I had picked up. Then they would treat it with IV antibiotics. He said he was going to need to perform another surgery soon afterward. He said that he would prefer it done at his office. I quickly replied, "Absolutely not. Whatever surgery that needs to be done, I want done here in the hospital." He tried to reason with me.. He explained how much more expensive surgical procedures were in the hospital. Without so much as even looking up at him I replied, "I have good insurance. We're doing the surgery in the hospital." He simply shook his head. I don't think he was used to not getting the last word.
Dr Shmootz went on to explain that this "small surgical procedure" would entail him opening up the incisions behind my knees again. He said he was going to take out the implants, irrigate them, then put them back in. And he finished by putting his hand reassuringly on my shoulder and saying to me, "Then, you will be just like new."
Just like new?? Are you fucking kidding me?!? It was almost laughable that this man would have such nerve to refer to me as coming out of this "...just like new."
I told him he was absolutely right. He was going to open my incisions back up again. And he was going to remove the implants. And they were staying out!
Dr Shmootz' eyes bugged out of his head. He assured me that he could save the implants and that it would be a terrible mistake to take them out at this point. He said that taking the implants out indefinitely would leave a depression in my calves from the stretched skin. Basically, he implied that my little calves would dip inwards and look worse then they had prior to surgery. I might have been pretty doped up from the dilaudid and ativan, but I was coherent enough to see through his bullshit. Scare tactics was what this man had resorted to. What was really going on inside this lunatic's mind: He desperately wanted to save the implants because that would still make this surgery a success on his part. If the implants came out and stayed out...He had failed.
My well being, future health, and safety were not on his list of priorities. His ego and reputation were all that mattered to him.
He said that I was going to be in the hospital for several days, so I would have time to think about it before I made a decision.
I was admitted to the hospital. I was wheeled upstairs. Every time a nurse, doctor, friend, or loved one came into the room they had to wear special gloves (purple) and special aprons (yellow) because I was considered "infectious". I felt like someone in one of those killer virus movies who gets sequestered from the masses. It was awful. I was poked and prodded constantly. Blood drawn. Pissing into a portable urinal. IV taken out of my arm and put in to a new vein. Tears. Excruciating pain. This had become my life. This was the gift that I had given myself. The gift that I had visualized just a few months prior to be the answer to all of my insecurities. This gift was supposed to make me a whole person again. This gift had come with one hell of a price.
I was being held prisoner in my own flesh. Every shift of my body brought some sort of physical pain.
My boyfriend came with flowers. I cried. I wailed from the pain. More dilaudid. I was pumped with so many IV pain meds that sleep was soon inevitable. And welcomed. The only peace I had from this living nightmare was whilst I lay unconscious.
The following day I was greeted by the head of infectious disease at the hospital. He was an elderly man. Soft spoken. And very kind. He informed me that the lab results showed I had a Strep and Staph in my left leg. My mother asked what that meant. He replied, "They are both bad actors." He did say that he had good news, though. Neither of these bugs had found their way into my blood. So, we were dealing with two bugs that were hanging out in my left leg. Most likely in the actual implant. He explained to me that this was usually the case because the immune system does not attack or work on foreign material in the body. "The infection likes to hide out in the implants", he said. The doctor named off the three different antibiotics that I was going to be treated with through IV. They would be rotated. In between that, more pain meds. Food. Sleep. Silence. Pain. Impending doom. I stared blankly at the TV. I tried to gather my thoughts. But, they had become muddled. I was truly lost. This was the dark night of my soul.
My mother was there for me day and night. Holding my hand. Playing cards with me. Helping me eat. My sponsor was there often as well. Strangely enough, she once dated the doctor who was head of infectious disease at the hospital.
But, my boyfriend was somewhat scarce. This whole nightmare had taken it's toll on him and he hated coming to the hospital to see me. He had watched his father die of heart disease in the hospital, and unbeknownst to me, he was now caught in the delusion that his own personal nightmare was recurring-this time with me. He thought he was going to lose me, too.
Yes, I took it personally. But, what could I do? We argued. But, I really didn't have the will to argue much with him. I was so exhausted and worried what was around every corner for me.
3 days passed. 4, 5, 6 days. I lay there. Waiting. I hated when they would have to change the IV. I was so bruised and battered that every poke of a needle made me wince. On my 7th day in the hospital, a PICC line was strewn inside an artery on the inside of my right arm. It went into the center of my chest. It was a much more effective way to administer the antibiotics as well as any other drug they needed to get into my system. I hated it. It was uncomfortable. It had 2 plugs coming out of it that were taped to the inside of my right arm. One plug was used to draw blood from, the other plug was used to deliver the powerful and very nauseating antibiotics that were being rotated into my system to treat these infections. I felt so vulnerable. I could not walk. I needed assistance to get to the bathroom when I needed to eliminate waste other than urine. My legs were wrapped in stockings that were tight and uncomfortable. I felt like I was starting to go crazy.
I remember looking at myself in the mirror for the first time since I had been admitted to the hospital. It was Day #5. My reflection in the mirror had become the face of a man I never knew. Drawn. Dark circles. Unshaven. And my eyes...like two pools of sadness swirling in pain and desperation.
The nurses came in often to change the antibiotics and administer more pain medication. They were all very kind and gentle with me. My friends came to see me. .
Dr. Shmootz came in every day to check on me. He brought me pictures of patients who had acquired infections in their implants, with whom he had saved. I looked at the pictures and nodded just to see Dr Shmootz get his hopes up. Then, I would say as he was getting ready to leave, "They are still coming out." My mother just glared at him.
The surgery to remove the implants was set for the following afternoon. I had already been in the hospital for 7 days at this point. Dr Shmootz said the procedure would be relatively quick and easy. I had heard that line before!
I was terrified. I felt how weak my body had become from the infections, the stress, the lack of exercise, but most of all from the powerful antibiotics that were constantly being administered into my PICC line-day and night.
I was so weak and unstable. I felt unsure about being put under again. I was afraid I might not wake up. I was fearful that my body would just give out. My organs might simply fail. It was a rare occurrence. But, it certainly happened.
I cried. My sponsor held my hand and told me that I was in God's care and that all would be well. The next day arrived. I was anxious. Yet, I was so exhausted and beaten down by all that had happened. There really was nothing left for me to do. About 45 minutes before I was to be wheeled into surgery, I started having another panic attack. Same symptoms. Throat constricted, shallow breathing, couldn't swallow. I rang for the nurse. My mother rubbed my back as I sat up, trying to catch my breath. Another shot of dilaudid was administered. I was calm again.