The Tale of Two Nurses or How I Ended Up With a Double Colostomy, Part II

Subtitle: The Art of Being a Healing Presence

 (To read part 1, go here.)

"I DON'T WANT THAT NURSE ANYWHERE NEAR MY WIFE!" That mild-mannered husband of mine had walked over to the nurses' station, informing them of this after I let him know of the nurse's cruel (and untrue) remark.

After that, she steered clear and I never had contact with her again. (Good thinking, Nurse.)

My doctor's partner, Dr. M., would stop by once a day, stick his head around the curtain pulled across the doorway for privacy, and say, "How's it going?" As I mentioned, my belly was constantly increasing in size, I was still on big doses of morphine, and I could neither eat nor drink. How do you respond to a question like that, when you're in a confused state of misery without being given any answers or hope? He never came to my bedside, never examined me. He did order an ultrasound, which showed some bubbles moving around in my abdomen but no one explained to us what that might mean.

On Wednesday, my own Dr. N. returned, and in his gentle manner he came over to my bed and expressed his concern over what had transpired since he'd been gone. He told us, "I'm having a surgeon come in," and within the hour, Dr. B. came in and introduced himself. He asked me a few questions, then announced, "I'm responsible for your care now." He told me I'd be going for an MRI soon, that he believed I had a hole in my colon but they would need to confirm it, see it's location, and determine the next step. Neither my husband nor I understood the significance of that statement or what would lie ahead for us.

I had the MRI and it was determined that I indeed had a hole and a nasty infection. In fact, said Dr. B., we'd need to wait awhile before they could operate (not telling me until a long time later that if they had opened me up at this point, the infection would have immediately spread and killed me). In the meantime, I was on numerous antibiotics, and eventually I had the great displeasure of discovering what it's like to have an NG tube inserted up through my nose and into my stomach WHILE FULLY AWAKE. Following that most nasty (read PAINFUL) procedure, I vowed I would never again subject myself to torture and that if they ever wanted to put one in again at any time during the rest of my mortal life, they'd have to put me out first! (And I highly recommend you do the same.)

For nine days I laid in that bed, unable to eat or drink, losing track of hours and days and, as the antibiotics did their work, the contents of my backed up intestines. It was horribly embarrassing, but when you're that sick and fighting for your life, you sort of just surrender. I'd have to call a nurse in to clean things up and thankfully they were very good natured, especially my 70 yr. old night nurse, who would come in and proclaim, "Oh, you've got the s**ts!!" Not a word I would choose, but I didn't blame her and she'd make me laugh, which was a very good thing.

My husband and parents kept vigil in that little room by the elevator, making sure I got help getting up, getting a med change when the morphine made me see strings hanging from the ceiling and flying horses out the window, and protecting me from too many visitors that wore me completely out. My days were sometimes bearable and at other times downright nightmarish. On a better day, my good friend, who had gone to see Phantom of the Opera while it was in town, brought me the CDs.

Our bishop's wife came for a visit on one of my more awful days. She was a nurse and my visiting teacher, and she took one look at me and went off to call her husband, saying, "You have to do something! We're going to lose her if we don't do something!" He came soon and gave me another priesthood blessing, one of many that I received. And I was very grateful.

Then, Dr. B. announced one day that it was time for another MRI and possibly surgery in the next day or two. So off I went, tucked safely into my hospital bed with the side rails up, being pushed by a young male orderly. Down the halls we went and into the elevator. He tried hard not to bump and bang my bed around, but it sure didn't take much. I certainly had learned that pain meds can only help to a certain degree!

The MRI showed that the grapefruit-size infection had finally encapsulated and it was time to have surgery. Dr. B., the man who LOVED doing surgery (and repeatedly said that any doctor that wasn't a surgeon wasn't a "real" doctor!) told us that it might be a "possibility" that I would end up needing a colostomy, but that he hoped he'd be able to get in there, clean things up, repair the hole, and I could go on my merry way. Ha! Just kidding about that last part. Either way, I was going to have a very long vertical incision.

I was nervous but anxious to get this over with. My children were a little frightened at the sight of me (with good reason), and I missed them, my big yellow Lab, my home, temperature changes from daytime to night, eating food, uninterrupted sleep, and just being able to do the everyday things a mother and wife does for her family. I had no warning that I was going to land in the hospital for weeks, and it really messes with you. I wouldn't recommend it. :-)

Once again, the orderly showed up to wheel me and my bed through the halls, but this time we were headed straight to the OR . . .

To be continued . . . (part III: the nurse & the baby, Chinese food, the dog!)