Here's The Bad.
I'll start by telling you about the singular event that really defined this hospital stay for me. The one story I will take away with me, and I can't imagine ever forgetting. Afterwards I'll do a run down of the negative changes in my life that have come about since and because of this hospital visit.
On January 15th at approximately 11pm PST Orion Christopher Hinkle died. He drowned in his own blood, the result of a burst blood vessel in what was left of his right lung. Contributing to his death was a nursing staff that, despite their best intention, didn't know what they were doing. Despite his attempts to cry for help, they continued to force air down his traecheostomy, causing the blood to clot before it could be expelled, and closing off his only opportunities for air. Thankfully they also administered some powerful drugs just in time to render Orion unconccious before death took him. It was close. I saw lights. Lots of lights, shining through everything.
The last thing I remember before darkness is looking at the clock. It was 10:49pm. I hadn't been able to speak for a while, and I'd given up trying to mouth to the nurses "Help me. I can't breath. I'm dying. Please." because they weren't listening. They held my arms down to stop me from trying to fight off the balloon they were trying to use to force air down my traech. All the while they chanted, "You're ok. You can breath. You're fine." While slowly the blood coagulated in my throat and windpipe, unable to be expelled, and choking off my air.
It's a frightening and painful thing to drown. Now imagine drowning slowly. Each painful, fruitless breath drawing in less and less air, and the knowledge that no matter how hard you try you are going to die soon. At some point you know - know, beyond any doubt - I am about to die. All there is the thumping of your heart in your head, the pain in the chest, and the knowing... just the knowing that every breath is futile. But you can't stop trying.
When I woke up it was a day a half later. I was in ICU, and I was alive. Things are very blurry here. I remember being wrapped in blankets, head to toe, fighting the chills. I remember nurses and tubes and needles and pain. I remember my mom with me, and I'll always remember that too. The point where everything becomes clear again for me, is a conversation I had with a doctor. He saved my life. He cauterized the broken blood vessel in my right lung, and stopped the bleeding. He fixed me.
"Thank you," was all I could think to say, "I thought I was going to die."
"You did. We had to bring you back."
and I didn't have anything to say after that. The nurse asked me if I wanted a chaplain, or some other kind of religious advisor. I just shook my head. Even dead, I still didn't see anything to sway me to a religion. She offered the next best thing.
"How about we set you up with a Dilaudid drip? I'll set it up with unliminted charges, and you can use the button every 10 minutes." Yeah, I'll take my opiates straight, thanks. Where religion fails, narcotics always come through.
And from there begins 11 days in St. Vincent's hospital. A lot of bad things came out of this visit. I don't want to go into a lot of detail about them because dwelling on these things is hard on me.
I lost the peritoneal catheter. It turns out my body doesn't heal well around plastic, and the exit site never healed right. As such it became infected, and had to be removed. Because of my body's problem healing itis unlikely I will ever have another catheter, or ever be on peritoneal dialysis again.
Since peritoneal dialysis is gone I'm back on hemo dialysis. Unfortunately due the shape my arm is in (13 years of hemo on the same arm have taken their toll), a new vein fistula had to be implanted in my leg. Those of you who have seen my arm know what it looked like, now that's going to be my right leg. It goes all the way from my knee to my naughty bits, and three times a week someone will be stabbing me along that vein for dialysis
Due to the multiple surgeries, the infection in my arm (a whole other story), and the trauma of the whole experience, I've become addicted to painkillers. I can see it as clearly as this screen. I know when the drugs wear off because life looks like shit, and I can barely stand to be awake let alone alive. That is until I take two more dilaudid, and then things are ok for a while. It's going to be a fight. Another fight at a time when I don't have much fight left in me.
So there's The Bad. Despite the horror and disappointment of it all there was also some good that happened while I was in the hospital. Little things and big things that keep me hopeful enough to keep on fighting the fights I have to fight. I'll write about those soon.
I'll start by telling you about the singular event that really defined this hospital stay for me. The one story I will take away with me, and I can't imagine ever forgetting. Afterwards I'll do a run down of the negative changes in my life that have come about since and because of this hospital visit.
On January 15th at approximately 11pm PST Orion Christopher Hinkle died. He drowned in his own blood, the result of a burst blood vessel in what was left of his right lung. Contributing to his death was a nursing staff that, despite their best intention, didn't know what they were doing. Despite his attempts to cry for help, they continued to force air down his traecheostomy, causing the blood to clot before it could be expelled, and closing off his only opportunities for air. Thankfully they also administered some powerful drugs just in time to render Orion unconccious before death took him. It was close. I saw lights. Lots of lights, shining through everything.
The last thing I remember before darkness is looking at the clock. It was 10:49pm. I hadn't been able to speak for a while, and I'd given up trying to mouth to the nurses "Help me. I can't breath. I'm dying. Please." because they weren't listening. They held my arms down to stop me from trying to fight off the balloon they were trying to use to force air down my traech. All the while they chanted, "You're ok. You can breath. You're fine." While slowly the blood coagulated in my throat and windpipe, unable to be expelled, and choking off my air.
It's a frightening and painful thing to drown. Now imagine drowning slowly. Each painful, fruitless breath drawing in less and less air, and the knowledge that no matter how hard you try you are going to die soon. At some point you know - know, beyond any doubt - I am about to die. All there is the thumping of your heart in your head, the pain in the chest, and the knowing... just the knowing that every breath is futile. But you can't stop trying.
When I woke up it was a day a half later. I was in ICU, and I was alive. Things are very blurry here. I remember being wrapped in blankets, head to toe, fighting the chills. I remember nurses and tubes and needles and pain. I remember my mom with me, and I'll always remember that too. The point where everything becomes clear again for me, is a conversation I had with a doctor. He saved my life. He cauterized the broken blood vessel in my right lung, and stopped the bleeding. He fixed me.
"Thank you," was all I could think to say, "I thought I was going to die."
"You did. We had to bring you back."
and I didn't have anything to say after that. The nurse asked me if I wanted a chaplain, or some other kind of religious advisor. I just shook my head. Even dead, I still didn't see anything to sway me to a religion. She offered the next best thing.
"How about we set you up with a Dilaudid drip? I'll set it up with unliminted charges, and you can use the button every 10 minutes." Yeah, I'll take my opiates straight, thanks. Where religion fails, narcotics always come through.
And from there begins 11 days in St. Vincent's hospital. A lot of bad things came out of this visit. I don't want to go into a lot of detail about them because dwelling on these things is hard on me.
I lost the peritoneal catheter. It turns out my body doesn't heal well around plastic, and the exit site never healed right. As such it became infected, and had to be removed. Because of my body's problem healing itis unlikely I will ever have another catheter, or ever be on peritoneal dialysis again.
Since peritoneal dialysis is gone I'm back on hemo dialysis. Unfortunately due the shape my arm is in (13 years of hemo on the same arm have taken their toll), a new vein fistula had to be implanted in my leg. Those of you who have seen my arm know what it looked like, now that's going to be my right leg. It goes all the way from my knee to my naughty bits, and three times a week someone will be stabbing me along that vein for dialysis
Due to the multiple surgeries, the infection in my arm (a whole other story), and the trauma of the whole experience, I've become addicted to painkillers. I can see it as clearly as this screen. I know when the drugs wear off because life looks like shit, and I can barely stand to be awake let alone alive. That is until I take two more dilaudid, and then things are ok for a while. It's going to be a fight. Another fight at a time when I don't have much fight left in me.
So there's The Bad. Despite the horror and disappointment of it all there was also some good that happened while I was in the hospital. Little things and big things that keep me hopeful enough to keep on fighting the fights I have to fight. I'll write about those soon.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
prockgirlscout:
You amaze me.
mistersatan:
Sweet fucking Christ.