I had been sick for quite a while, but rather than go to the doctor, I took whatever pain medication I could get my hands on. I was taking a cocktail of ibuprofen, Aleve, Tylenol, Alka-Seltzer, Excedrine, Bayer, and any and everything else I could get my hands on to help deal with the pain. Even worse, I was taking no fewer than six pills at a time or I would take a dose of Alka-Seltzer and then turn around less than an hour later and take six Tylenol.
I hurt on the lower right side of my belly, and I was throwing up every day, sometimes several times a day. I was in a lot of pain, but I refused to heed the warning signals.
The Sunday prior to my visit to the emergency room, I woke up in the morning, unable to breathe or move. I took some pain medication, as per usual, and forced myself to go to church. I continued to self-medicate over the course of that next week. Somehow I survived the week in spite of being in extreme, severe pain.
Then, Sunday morning, November 22, 2009, the pain again woke me up. I took something like six or eight Ibuprofen (I have no idea exactly how many--I was half asleep as well as in a LOT of pain) and tried to go back to sleep for a little while. In only a few short minutes, the pain was still so bad, I threw myself off the couch (the pain had been so severe that I had been sleeping on the couch for quite a while) and curled into a ball on the floor. I immediately knew I was in trouble, but I was unable to catch my breath enough to call out to my husband. All I could do was pound on the floor until he finally came in to see what in the world was going on.
I was able to breathe out that we had to go to the emergency room. Because of the late hour, or early rather--it was about 4:00 am--and the fact that I was in as much pain as I was, we had to leave immediately which meant that my son, who was 9 at the time, had to go to the hospital with us. Every turn of the car around the curves along the road was pure agony. My husband tried to drive slow so it wasn't so bad on me, but I indicated that he needed to drive faster rather than slower.
Thankfully, there wasn't anyone at the emergency room ahead of us. I was taken through triage and put in a room almost immediately.
I tried to smile and make light of the situation because I did not want to panic my son. To this day, I have never asked him what was going on with him during that horrible time. I'm honestly afraid to ask.
A male nurse (I love male nurses, btw) came in with two bottles of banana-flavored barium and told me that once I drank both bottles, I would be taken for a CT scan.
(I still can't eat or smell a banana without gagging.)
The CT scan showed that I had an abscess in my colon. I was admitted to the hospital. Almost as soon as we got to my room, I told my nurse that I had to go to the bathroom. I did not make it. (To all the CNAs out there: I'm sooooo very sorry. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! I love you!!!) The barium came out of every orifice it could come out of. I was put on heavy drugs in an attempt to lessen the infection. From Sunday, November 22 to Saturday morning the 28, I spent the vast majority of my time passed out.
I remember some friends of mine coming in to visit. I know I talked to them and we laughed and that they combed my hair for me, but the only other thing I remember are my hallucinations. I was in a beautiful meadow with butterflies, rainbows, clouds, and Gerard Butler.
My boss came in with his wife, but all I was able to do was wave at them before I passed out--again.
I remember that my nurse asked if I would agree to move to a different room, one that put me across the hall from the nurse's station.
My sister arrived at some point. As did my mom. And other family members. I remember my sister-in-law sitting with me, but since I was so in and out of it, all she really did was read. I think she read a whole book.
On Saturday morning, November 28, one week after I'd first gone to the hospital, I had to drink two more bottles of banana-flavored barium so my doctor could attempt to drain the infection while I
I was, of course, put on even more extreme pain medication after my surgery, Dilaudid. My hallucinations as a result of such a strong medication scared me like nothing else during that scary time had. I saw demons flying around my hospital room, attempting to attack me. I know they were demons of death come for me. Thankfully, there were also warrior angels surrounding my bed, fighting to save my life.
Guess which won?! 🧡
I stayed in the hospital for another week before I was allowed to go home. A CNA changed my bag for me throughout my stay in the hospital. I didn't do much with it at all. I walked the hospital halls as much as I was able, which wasn't much because I was simply in a lot of pain from my incisions.
I had to take my IV stand with me on my walks at first. And my pee bag. So picture it: there I was, walking down the hall in my hospital gown, slowly, with an IV stand and my pee bag in one hand, my other hand clinging to the wall, all the while attempting to hide the fact that I was pooping in a bag on my left side. Mom often walked with me. I loved talking with her, at least.
Mom and Dad stayed with me for the first several days once I was home to help me. I was still on some pretty potent pain meds and unsteady on my feet as well as unable to take care of my bag by myself. I was unable to do many normal, every-day activities like bathing by myself, cooking, and even eating was a struggle because we had to be sure I could actually handle it.
Good times. Yeah. Good times.
Not.
The first time I had to change my bag at home by myself, I almost passed out. If an at-home nurse hadn't been with me, I would have hit the floor. Thankfully, one was here and she saw me go white and helped me get to the bed.
After a while, working with the bag became "normal"--whatever that meant. As we very often hear when we go through trials/tribulations/suffering of any kind, my "new normal."
I still hated it.
Three months later, my doctor reversed the surgery and removed all need for the ostomy bag, Praise the Lord. Even now, though, touching my belly hurts something awful. I cannot lie on my belly for longer than a few minutes and even at that, when I do roll over, my belly--the incisions--burn with pain. It typically takes a few minutes of breathlessness before I am able to move again. Needless to say, I avoid lying on my stomach as much as possible. I have also recently learned that I have two hernias near my incision sights. (That makes a total of 4 hernias in my belly area. *sigh*) I also had my gall bladder removed a few years; the same doctor who did my previous surgeries performed this one too. I joked with him that I was just going to get his name tattooed on my belly area, "Created by Montgomery Cox."
The beauty of this story, if you choose to see it that way with me, is that LIFE won the tug-of-war over DEATH for Polly Anna!
I am Alive! I am here today, alive and full of the Joy of the Lord! Hallelujah! My God is a GOOD God and He loves me. He sings over me with JOY. He has a plan for me. I'm alive because He has something He wants me to do that I haven't done yet. I don't know exactly what it is, yet, but I'm working on figuring it out. I believe it has something to do with writing and/or teaching.
What do you think?
Works Cited
Shen, Jean. "Series 1: Healing of Wounds of the Bride and Growing Intimacy with the Lord." Invitation to His Garden. Prophetic Art. Web. 6 Sept. 2014. <http://www.jbrushwork.com/html/paintings.html>.
