Picking up the pieces. It’s brutal. It doesn’t matter the circumstances. Divorce, loss of a loved one, a pandemic, catastrophic health issues, loss of a job, retirement, moving to a new house or city or country. Even if one wants change, it is almost always a challenge. It’s even worse if you never expected or wanted it.
I certainly didn’t. However, my world fell apart in February of 2021 and the pieces will never again fit together properly. I can only sit at my desk for very limited amounts of time without pain and no one knows if this, or my other residual problems, will all just be a part of my “new normal.” Eating is a challenge, pain an almost constant issue, depression is an ongoing battle, and the fatigue doesn’t seem to fade.
I spent approximately 265 days in the hospital last year because someone misread both my symptoms and a CAT scan, then rushed me in for unnecessary surgery about a week after an operation I did need. The on-call doctor spent very little time with me and came to a hurried conclusion. My surgeon, a woman I once admired so much that I followed her from Berkshire Medical Center to another hospital, was called about the surgery while on vacation and her only response was to be angry with me that I bothered her. It turned out that all I really needed was a wound drain.
Either Dr. On-Call’s incompetency, or the unnecessary procedure itself, left me with a hole in my intestines. The doctors explained I had a “fistula” and that it takes a very long time to heal. They never said how long — that little tidbit was kept from me. They probably didn’t want to hear me curse them when informed that it would be at least six months before they could repair it and even then I may just end up with another one, because now I am prone to them.
I was left to deal with an open hole in my abdomen that eventually eviscerated, leaving my small intestines protruding from my body. Never in my life did I think I would have a window into my own peristalsis. I was not allowed food or water for most of that time; I was kept alive through a high calorie solution pumped into my arm. The pain was off the charts and I have not been able to work, at all, since this began. Try living without an income; it’s not a lot of laughs. Recovery from the surgery was the most physically brutal experience of my life.
And no one apologized.
In all honesty, I’m surprised I’m alive. I am surprised that my mother did not torch the facility. I am surprised that my daughter made it through last year. She was very angry that Dr. On-Call stole our time together. She spent half of her junior year and part of her senior year living alone (though next door to my mother in the same building). She took care of the house, the pets, the plants, and cooked her own meals while attending school and multiple dance and voice lessons a week. At times her stress was physically visible. She applied for college without me there to help. Eventually she was allowed to spend one night a week in my hospital room, and we muddled through with phone calls and Face Time, but I was slow and drugged, which meant she was thrown into adulthood much too early.
And no one apologized.
So now I am starting over. It’s a new world; a disabled world, but I take a lot of comfort and satisfaction in knowing that they didn’t kill me. I cry a lot; I will never be the same person, but I assume I will adjust over time. I am still in the stage of figuring things out, but my daughter’s resilience motivates me.
Some good things did come out of this. I now have a lot of nurses in my circle of friends. I met a couple of Physician’s Assistants who advocated for me and kept me alive and whose faces I looked forward to seeing during rounds. I met residents and nutritionists and aides whom I will never forget. My family really stepped up and kept my life outside the hospital together. Both friends and family helped with my daughter, drove long distances to visit with me, and shored me up when I thought I could no longer stand hospital life.
My surgeon clearly didn’t like me any more than I liked her by the end of my stay, but I give her credit, she pulled off a very difficult surgery. I am much more fragile than I was before those three surgeries and may need another procedure down the road, but I am home and for that I am profoundly grateful.
Still, it would have been nice if someone had just said they were sorry.
