Hospital for Days

Weekend hospitalists. Those in the know...KNOW! They don't understand your personal case, and they don't bother, so they give orders to take the most random junk meds that cause more harm than good. 

This time the hospitalist had a genius idea. I was anemic, so he ordered iron pills. Pills. Recall my visit with Dr. H, before all this started, was for an iron infusion. Well, I was stupid and took them knowing exactly what would happen. Stomach cramps, metal mouth, and because everything tastes like metal I loose my appetite. 

After three doses, I refuse to take anymore iron, but my appetite is already dead. And then the hospitalist freaks out because I'm not eating, so genius orders Ensure & sends in the hospital nutritionist. 

Ensure. Not sure if you've ever tried Ensure, I myself have only attempted the "juice" version. They should have named it Liquid Sand. It sucks all the moisture from your mouth and leaves behind a delicious gritty feeling. Lovely, right? Refused that asinine order without batting an eyelash. 

Oh, the poor nutritionist...

Before this tale you need to fully understand my mindset. I was admitted into the semi-ICU. At Gwinnett Medical Duluth, that means a room with windows for a door and a privacy curtain that no one fully closes when they exit. Basically an introvert's version of Hell. The drain tube made it terribly painful to move, so simply getting up and closing the curtain wasn't so simple (especially when attached to an IV pole). Hell I tell you. Visitors walking by looking into your room like you're a caged monkey. Pure Hell. Add in some nutty hospitalist's orders, and now the scene is fully set. 

I was not wearing my wig, so even if she hadn't reviewed my chart, it's pretty clear I've been on chemo. She asks why I'm not eating. Because everything tastes like metal. Because doc ordered iron pills that my personal doc wouldn't even think to prescribe. Oh boy, I gave her some attitude. She asks if I've lost weight recently. I'm not sure how I didn't bust out laughing, but I do turn and give Fred the "bitch lost her damn mind" look. (Sorry. That's what it's called. And you know that look because you have one yourself!) Eventually she leaves, probably thinking I'm pretty much the rudest person. Ever. Grace hit the escape button that day. 

Monday comes. Monday I'm told I'll get out Tuesday. Tuesday I'm told Wednesday. I'm getting frustrated. Stuck in a gerbil cage of a room with zero privacy loosing my mind. Tuesday night the social worker comes in and tells me Dr. H's office told her Friday. TEARS! Fred fills her in on why I'm crying. 

[We later find out the social worker flat out lied, and Dr. H's office never said Friday. In fact, she told them Friday because of paperwork she would need to file.]

Wednesday comes. Dr. H says it's up to the Russian (Dr. V, the infectious disease doctor). The Russian says I'm good to go, but wanted me to try a new antibiotic. One he wanted me to be using for several days, but never put in the order. 

My Aunt comes in for a visit, I get one IV bag in, the drain tube gets removed, and I'm out the door within maybe forty-five minutes. I'm scheduled to visit the Russian's office the next morning to pick up supplies, and learn the IV routine. 

Abscess Treatment Plan:  

IV antibiotic, 3 times/day, every 8 hours for four weeks. 

Meaning no chemo for at least six weeks. Meaning while I had everything perfectly scheduled, and my 12 rounds of chemo & reversal surgery would have been completed by year-end, that perfect schedule just blew up in my face. I wanted so desperately to start 2016 fresh. And more importantly, before our insurance deductible reset. So, after some tears, I edit my thought process:  I'll get my 12 rounds in & start 2016 chemo free!

The Infection

The day after liver surgery I had a blood clot and right lung collapse. No chest tube. They sent me to ICU, gave me high flow oxygen, and let it "reinflate" itself. This meant when I left the hospital, I still had fluid around the lung. 

Two weeks later I returned for a follow up MRI. The fluid was still there, but Dr. S's thought was it would clear itself naturally. And natural is always better than shoving a catheter into someone's back to drain and risk infection...hahaha. Ha. Infection. Funny story. 

Another two weeks pass, I'm cleared for chemo and knock out round #7. The following week the pain is worse. It's painful to breathe. I cannot hold my breath more than 10 seconds. Just getting to my doctor is a feat. Fatigue is one thing. I can push through the loss of breath...because I can breathe. When you're working with one and one third lung, walk 15 feet without stopping and you're a darn hero!

I had mentioned the pain was a little worse during my pre-chemo chat with Dr. H, but this appointment I complained more and was sent for a chest x-ray. I was also anemic, so while waiting for x-ray results the plan was to get some iron through IV. That didn't happen. The finding was an abscess, and I was immediately admitted to the hospital. 

And then the talking heads got together. Dr. H was generally uncomfortable making decisions about the abscess. (It's another doctors work, they know the area, what they did, blah, blah, blah.) So he calls Dr. S (liver surgeon), who explains only 10% of his patients need draining and he still thinks natural is best. And the infectious disease doctor (Dr. V, aka The Russian) says no temp, no infection. So while I'm still in pain, and after two days of waiting in the hospital, they decide to release me. If I run a temp, I go to the ER. 

Fun fact. It seems every time a doctor throws out a percentage, I am that stupid fun percentage. Hours after I get home I start running a low grade temp. And by that night we're minutes from going to the ER, and then the temp drops. I was taking Loratab with Tylenol and didn't realize it was causing the temp drop. The next morning another fever, so I call Dr. H's office and we're off to the ER. 

I'm admitted around 9:30 AM, and by 2:30 PM we finally get rolling and the abscess is finally drained. Up until this point I thought the abscess was in the lung area, but I find out it's actually located where the liver surgery was performed. Upper liver. Hard to get to..remembering the first biopsy. 

Thankfully they kept me pretty sedated for the drainage, but it was still painful. The catheter was inserted right under my boob, practically going through breast tissue. Yeah, pain! And then I see the syringe of fluid they are pulling. It's not fluid. It's blood tainted white gunk. Like "light chocolate milk" according to one of the nurses. And these are not small syringes that are being used. The doc instructs the nurse to admit me into ICU. 

Five gigantic syringes later, I'm moved to my side, and they start to drain the fluid in my lung. There was a problem with the catheter so they only remove 100cc, but it's all clear. Basically the abscess was causing the fluid build up in my lung, it was unrelated to the lung collapse, and would naturally clear now that it had been removed. 

The drain tube is left inside. It's about 2 feet of tubing that is shoved under my boob & ribs. This thing is painful. I learn as long as I don't move the pain isn't bad. Bathroom visits required a shot of morphine to manage to pain of moving. 

Dr. H stops by for a visit during his evening rounds. He's shocked that I was walking around with all that gunk, and not really complaining when I had every right to complain. "Oh, here's Heather with a football of abscess fluid...it kinda hurts here Dr. H." Before he leaves we ask when I'd be released, he said Monday.