How I Spent My Summer Vacation 2002
It was to
be the best August in years. Three weeks of luxurious idleness, the 
reward
for twenty-six months of non-stop anatomy teaching and course development.
A long-overdue break for R&R with my husband Bob, and all the kids
home for a family reunion at the end of the month.
Aug 7: Up at dawn, and the day is mine. What shall I do first? Of the infinite possibilities, the one whose voice speaks the most compellingly is the one saying, "you want to go back to bed". Well, ok, just for a few minutes, then, but the next time I look at the clock, it says 2 p.m., and I recognize that slightly tipsy, aimless and not altogether unpleasant sensation that signifies the onset of a fever.
Just a fever, no sore throat, nothing except for maybe a mild headache--must be one of those "24 hour bugs"; I'll sleep it off, and tomorrow I'll be good as new...
Little did I know.
Aug
17: Bob is driving, fast, clearly in no mood to talk. But that's fine,
because I'm not in shape to make pleasant conversation anyway. We are
en route from our fizzled vacation in Quebec, headed to the T-NEMC emergency
dept. After 10 days of denial (I! AM! NOT! SICK!) and ibuprofen, I'm ready
to throw in the towel - the daily fevers, spiking to 103, have taken their
measure, the headaches are worse, and now my eyes are starting to hurt
from the sunlight.
We get to the hospital at 4:00. By 8 p.m, I'm an inpatient.
Mentally, I'm not at my best. But enough lucidity remains for me to appreciate the irony of my situation. My room looks out on the Atrium courtyard - which I cross every morning of my working life, clutching my Au Bon Pain bagel and coffee. In the ER, and here on the floor, I am under the care of a medical team which includes two of my former students. I've been asked if I am willing for them to examine me, and I wonder what especially egregious sin I have committed to be consigned to this particular little corner of hell. But it's amazing how quickly false pride can vanish when one is truly ill - and although I'm unmade-up, unwashed, and most unfashionably attired in standard patient garb, I consent to let them approach with their stethoscopes and their questions:
Any allergies?
Have you noticed any skin redness or rashes?
Do you have a cat or dog?
Do you live in a wooded area?
Have you any joint swelling or tenderness?
Muscle weakness?
Loss of vision?
Shortness of breath?
Any travel outside the country in the last six months?
The inquisitions are long, and repetitive - I am asked the same questions by each group of physicians: infectious disease specialists, rheumatologists, neurologists - often by all students, residents and fellows from each team. It's exhausting.
But everyone is so very kind. The students, especially, are considerate and concerned; they tell me of their Medline searches, as they vainly try to find some link between my various symptoms, and help me to feel that I am a participant in my own diagnosis. Although I am quickly losing any intellectual curiosity about my condition - I just want to feel better - I appreciate the extraordinary level of care. And while it may seem to me that I am being cared for by children - albeit incredibly wise and compassionate ones - I am grateful for their training, skills and dedication. I learn to welcome their involvement; it makes me feel that I am still useful as a teacher, even if the venue is different from my accustomed position in the anatomy lab and lecture hall.
I quickly learn that the attendings and doctors-in-training get you through the day. They keep you mentally stimulated, and provide reassurance and control in a situation which can easily lead to negative speculation, fear and panic that no diagnosis will be found, that recovery is uncertain. But it's the nursing staff that gets you through the night. When the fever, with its alternating chills and drenching sweats holds sway, they are there with extra blankets and cold compresses. Debi changes my sheets twice during the course of one particularly hellish night, and Rose Ellen brings me coffee from Dunkin' Donuts at the start of her morning shift.
Within a few days, word is out regarding my whereabouts, and I find myself honored and flattered by the number of friends and colleagues who take time to drop by. Even though I haven't washed my hair or had a proper shower in almost a week, I'm glad to see everyone. There's a lot of comfort in knowing that people care.
The test results and blood work continue to be negative, except for the erythrocyte sedimentation rate, which is off the charts at 125. Because some of my symptoms point toward temporal arteritis as a possible diagnosis, I am scheduled for a (superficial) temporal artery biopsy.
The O.R. is a happening place. Surgeons, nurses and students work energetically, in camaraderie and mutual respect. An anesthesiologist administers what is described as "a mild tranquilizer," and I embark on the most pleasant and surreal hour of my hospital stay: while I am still aware that I have a problem, I stop caring that I do. For a brief respite, I am relaxed, euphoric. I feel silly, whimsical, and oh-so-clever, as I threaten to grill Druce on the branches of the external carotid artery.
The biopsy turns out to be negative. But the decision is made to start me on prednisone therapy, and within twenty-four hours, the fevers are gone. After nine days, it's time to go home.
While I wait in the lobby for Bob to bring the car around, standing guard over my wheelchair full of flowers and balloons and contemplating my new, spindly limbs - more fitting for an adolescent than a grown woman - I watch the approach of a colleague who didn't know I'd been hospitalized. It's clear that he does not recognize me until I say, "hello there" - and the shocked look on his face reveals more than any mirror: the last three weeks have taken their toll. Fasting for procedures, accompanied by a total loss of appetite, has caused twelve pounds to melt away. It dawns on me that this is not necessarily a good thing: hard-won muscle mass has disappeared, and I've been warned that steroid use can lead to bone loss. I'm going to have to make a concerted effort to eat well and sufficiently; this will be a novel experience.
Aug 26: I'm not feeling well enough to make the trip to Logan to meet my son's plane from London, and the disappointment is crushing - I'd been looking forward to that airport reunion for months. But at least I'm out of the hospital, and am in the driveway as soon as the car pulls up. It's wonderful to have my family complete once again, and I try not to dwell on how well they hang together and function when I can't be the primary source of family energy and activity. Instead, I try to appreciate my success as a parent in creating independent, self-sufficient children, and there is great joy, along with a measure of poignancy, in this.
Sept 5: The first day of Dental Gross, and I'm not there, for the first time in over twenty years. Everyone has been very patient with me, telling me to take all the time I need to get my strength back - but as I tell my co-workers, it's not that I fear they can't do it without me - it's that I'm afraid they will find out that they can! I'm getting restless at home, and that's a good sign. One can watch only so much tennis, and I'm spending way too much time wondering if Cooper should have a show of his own. I definitely need to get back to work!
Sept 9: I've never enjoyed being in the gross lab so much. And I understand that there is at least one virtue to having been sick: now that I am firmly on the road to recovery, I recognize the sweetness and wonder of the return to normalcy. I am grateful for the body's drive to heal itself, my everyday life, and for all I've learned along the way. I've been loved, nurtured and supported throughout my ordeal - by family, friends, students and colleagues - the knowledge of that is something I'll always keep. And very importantly, I have realized: if you must be a patient in a major medical center, it's nice to be at the one where everybody knows your name.
Photo courtesy of www. nemc.org
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