Mr. Spleen, Mr. Spleen AKA The Lost Summer (Part 2a)

Not all doctors are created equal.  In fact some doctors should have never been created

 

So here I am, driving to the ER against my will.  Almost as soon as I turn they key, I change the radio station to WCBS to hear the Yankees game.  Before I hear one solitary word from John Sterling’s mystical voice, Anita’s protests are met immediately by me explaining to her that I was obviously deathly ill and the only thing that had a chance at keeping me going was hearing a John Sterling homerun call.  She lets me listen to the game.  She loses some respect for me too, but she lets me listen to the game.

We arrive at the completely overcrowded ER and have difficulty finding parking.  What are these people doing here?  Don’t they know that I’m having a serious problem and waiting in line is NOT something that I’m into?  Whatever.  So, we walk into the ER and go to the registration desk.  I’ve been to the ER before, so it didn’t take that long.  The one HUGE mistake that I made when registering was when she asked me to gauge the amount of pain I’m in, I declared I was in no pain.  This will inevitably come back to haunt me.

Anita and I take a seat on the far side of the ER waiting for my number to come up.  I brought a bottle of Gatorade (or G, rather) with me to keep me hydrated.  Of course, Anita wants none of that and is drinkless.  She would later regret that.  One hour passes.  This is not abnormal for an ER and it does not raise any concerns in either of us.  We pass the time blabbering to each other only to be interrupted by me checking the Yankees’ score on my phone.  Finally, we are called into the triage nurse’s area.  As she was taking my vitals and asking me the reason for my visit, I ask Anita if I can have a sip of my Gatorade.  Before I can take the cap off the bottle the nurse scolds me as if I’m a little boy to not eat or drink anything until the doctor sees me.  I really REALLY plan on listening to her.  Seriously.  I do.  She issues me my pretty little hospital bracelet (an uneasy staple for the next two months) and we return to our seat.  Another hour or so passes (as does plenty of G intake) and we are not quite sure, but it seems as though some of the people that have registered after us have been going through the magic ER doors before us.  We aren't completely sure of this, so we ignore it for now.  Another obvious mistake.  A third hour passes.  Now it is plainly obvious that people that have registered before us have been admitted to the ER before us.  We realize what we did wrong.  When we were with the triage nurse, she asked me to measure my pain on a 10 point scale.  I wasn’t in any pain, so I said that my pain was a zero.  Let this be a lesson to you, kids.  Honesty does not pay off in the end.  By the time we actually went through the doors, it must’ve been 1:00am.

So anyway, we finally get into the ER and we’re both waiting for the nurse.  They immediately start me on an IV and draw blood.  We sit and blah blah blah for a while until the doctor arrives.  The doctor walks into the room, closes the door, and asks me what’s going on.  He’s not exactly intimidating, but he’s not exactly benign, either.  A middle aged man with a scruffy face with no distinguishable marks except for the military tattoo peaking out from under his doctor’s scrubs.  Sure, this wouldn’t scare other people, but I’m squeamish and tattoos are scary.  Especially on doctors.  Am I alone here?  Anyone?  Is this thing on?  Anyway, I’m not that scared because last time I was in this ER, I had the same doctor and he was great.  I explain to him that I had been bleeding from my gum for 2 days and I had noticed some petechiae on my feet and Anita noticed it over my body in general.  As soon as he sees the density of the petechiae on my feet, he looks up at me with a look of minor horror.  He looks at my mouth and sees the extent of my bleeding and tells me that there might be an issue with how many platelets are in my body and that he’d have to check the bloodwork and see if I will need any sort of transfusion or anything.

This is not completely foreign to me.  I’ve been having trouble with my blood since I was about 5 years old.  No one has been able to really figure it out (until recently) and I wasn’t completely afraid of the results.  I go through periods of low blood counts from time to time and I figure that this would not be any different.  I feel no fear at all.  Yet another mistake.

The doctor returns again after some time with another look of worry on his face, this time one more serious than the previous.  He looks up at me saying that my platelet count was around 2000 and that I would need an immediate transfusion of platelets.  A normal platelet count is between 150,000 and 400,000.  Apparently, at 2,000, a person is in danger of just bleeding out through his capillaries and stuff like that.  Real good news.  This was definitely something I was not suspecting.  I became worried now because I was on call from work this weekend and could not feasibly stay the entire weekend at the hospital.  Anita yells at me for not just worrying about my health.  Hey, when you’ve missed as many days over the last fiscal year due to this crazy illness at a job you’ve only had for 2 years, you’d be worried, too.  I convince Anita to go back to the car get my work laptop and the on call phone.  This way I can charge them and be ready the next day.

Now the waiting game, or rather another waiting game.  Apparently, the platelets had to be special ordered from another hospital because they didn’t have any there (really?!?) and I was waiting for a room to clear up in the ICU because that would be my home for the weekend.  It was not until what felt like 5:00 in the morning until they found a room for me and I was transported and started on the transfusion.  The bag, connected to me through the IV, was full of this disgusting, gritty, orange juice looking liquid that was slowly seeping into my blood stream through the hole in my hand.  Not that I could physically feel anything, but it was just…. I don’t know… Icky.  Not to mention I had to sign all these waivers absolving the hospital of any liability over contracting any number of diseases from the flu all the way up to the mighty HIV.  Doesn’t exactly instill a lot of confidence.

The worst part about this was telling my mom.  At first, I didn’t want to mention anything, but I decided on the car ride there that I would tell her in case something bigger actually did occur, it wouldn’t be as much of a shock.  In the end, I don’t think it made much of a difference.  Really, of everyone that’s been involved with this situation just over the last 2 months, she easily deserves the most credit.  And that’s saying a lot because everyone involved has done SO MUCH, but I don’t think anyone had worried, struggled, or felt the sting of everything I was going through as much as she did.  She’s a champion for having braved the storm as much as she did; I don’t know if I would’ve have been able to do it given her place.  She may not seem like a pillar of strength to look at her, but I don’t think I would’ve been able to handle the magnitude of everything I went through were it not for my mom holding my hand through everything telling me that it will be OK in the end and to trust in the doctors and in God and in the future.  She’s not a pillar of strength, she’s a mountain of it.  But I digress…

So here I am, wheeled into the ICU like some car crash victim, spleen enlarged to somewhere between 22-26CM (normal size is 8) and a platelet count so low that doctors were afraid of blood vessels bleeding out into my brain, rendering me a vegetable.  If they saw me on lazy weekends, they’d see it’s not too much of a change from my regular behavior.  I try to remain calm and strong, but inside I’m freaking out.  My condition has never put me in this much danger and I’m wondering if this is a signal of a worsening of the disease.  It would’ve been befitting my luck; A job that I like with people that I love, A woman that I want to spend the rest of my life, my own house, yeah.. My life’s almost complete.. Why not add a life or death battle with a disease no one has been able to identify for 25 years to the mix.. Just to balance things out.  Right?  Ugh.

If my recollection serves me right, I receive two bags of magic pulpy orange juice that brings my platelet count just about 10,000.  Still in the danger zone, but in any imminent danger.  Once morning hits, I begin being visited by doctors, of all shapes and sizes.  The worst of these is the hematologist.  I don’t remember his name, but it was clear to me that he was solely interested in stabilizing my condition and getting me the hell out of his hospital.  Great attitude to have, douchebag.

 

This is going to have to be continued in a 2b sort of way…  I feel absolutely exhausted…  I’m sorry.  I didn’t even proofread.  Bleh