House arrest Bedrest has been prescribed for two weeks; no lifting, so stairs, no malarky, It was malarky that got us here in the first place.
Horrific details. Terrifying and humbling and frightening and horrible and hideous. Stop if you are squeamish.
At the end of September in 2010, we had dinner on Monday night. I ate the very same thing.
Tuesday morning, I went skipping downstairs to find Mike collapsed on the kitchen floor. I called 911 and he refused to go, so I canceled the call. Running out the house to get my neighbor to help me get Mike in the car, I find a FIRE ENGINE has pulled up in front of the house. He had heard my 911 and was on the way back to his station and thought he’d stop by. He took one look at Mike and saud, “Dude, there is something wrong with you.” So for him, Mike would get into an ambulance. I did however arrive at the ER before they did and had the paperwork taken care of before they got him into the ER. Maybe they strapped him in and didn’t drive like maniacs.
He spends about three hours in the ER and then they admit him. He looks a little peaked and I have to have some tests right there at the big hospital anyway, so I am in and out of his room all day. Every time I see him, he looks worse and worse. HE is struggling for breath and not always knowing who I am. That was Tuesday.
On Wednesday, he does not look good at all. His lips are blue. His hands and feet are like ice. He has blue splotches on his chest and back. It’s maybe two o’clock. I’m getting tests, two blocks away and I get a call. The nurse tells me they are moving Darling to the ICU, which is what I would have done way earlier in the day, myself, were I a doctor. I mean, even I can tell he is sick with something.
So I sprint from the car to the ICU. He’s not there. So I sprint to his original room, right down the hall. He’s not there either. Oh! He’s getting a CT and Dr. Really Good is going to do surgery. He and the anesthesiologist are sauntering down the hall, so I sprint down to talk to them.
It starts to get icky now. Stop if you are squeamish.
My husband, who was JUST FINE ON MONDAY is dying. The best odds? 30%. Of surviving the surgery. Optimistically. Realistically? 0%. At this point, my husband is on a ventilator. He is in terrific pain.The surgery is to find out what is dying in him, since he is jaundiced and septic and his extremities are turning blue. He doesn’t know me.
He had a fist sized hole in his intestines. He was septic, jaundiced and had two feet of gangrenous intestine whacked out.(Yes. Gangrene. Like the Civil War. Like Andersonville.) He has a better chance of living thru the night than he had of surviving the surgery.
He spent eight weeks in the ICU. That is where they send people who are going to die. He had dialysis and blood transfusions. He had a colostomy bag for 9 months. In June, 2011, he had surgery for that and was put on house arrest for a month.
Here it is Thanksgiving and he had yet another surgery on Tuesday to repair the four hernias he developed since that surgery. He had a hernia the size of my fist with his intestines attached to the inside of his skin, thru the muscle wall. I have the pictures and they are awful. He hasn’t seen them yet.
So this time, he is on house arrest until February. No marklarkey. No going up and now stairs, No lifting, No sweeping, no mopping, no taking the dogs out.
He is a terrible patient.I know that 48 hours out of surgery he still hurts. I’m trying to stay ahead of the pain, only because it doesn’t help healing if you hurt. He wakes up at night and talk to me, making no sense at all….I can’t tell if he is dreaming and talking or really talking. When he was in the ICU, he would go in and out of consciousness and do the same thing.
This is harder than when Ben went crazy. It is harder than watching my my parents die.
I don’t know if I’m up to this.