*Warning: this post may be emotional and graphic for some people.
Written on March 25th in order to process the events of February 14-16.
Eli passed away…
After the D&E procedure I woke up groggy just like the previous day (I was sedated the previous day for dilation). Still cramping but not as severely as before the procedure. They gave me two medicines to take that morning that would start my uterus contracting and the cramps and nausea were so bad on the drive to the clinic that I threw up in the car- in my Nalgene. I still consider throwing that nalgene away and eating the $10 to buy a new one. I woke up but only vaguely remember them walking me from the procedure room to the recovery room across a very narrow hallway. In the recovery room I was cold. Still cramping. I just wanted to go back to sleep and not feel the cramps. Apparently bleeding but not so much as to be alarming- yet.
I don’t know how long I sat in the cushy chair bleeding. Josh was with me but had to leave when they brought another girl into the recovery room. I have no memory of the staff and doctors becoming more concerned as I continued bleeding, heavier. They brought me back to the procedure room and I have no memory what happened then- I was surprised later to find out that was because they sedated me again. My next memory was of being jostled from side to side as EMT’s put a canvas carrier bag under me on the operating table because the hallways were too narrow to get their gurney inside the room. I was vaguely aware of them but the pain of severe cramps and grogginess dimmed my awareness. Not remembered: while being carried in a bag to the rolling gurney the IV port was ripped out of my arm- this became a problem that became life threatening not too much later… rolling, turning, bumping, outside. It was a grey day.
I realized I must be going to an ambulance. Still my dominant awareness was of the cramping. I must have lost consciousness because I remember entering the ambulance but not: switching to a different ambulance; several failed attempts at getting an IV into my arms and feet including with a “cut down” method where they try slicing my skin open first to access the veins more easily, the doctor yelling at the EMT’s to get an IV in me, the doctor insisting they take me to the UW hospital, moms and Josh and people around. I don’t know when they do succeed in putting an IV into my shoulder just above the armpit. Then we are moving and where is Josh? The man with me tells me my “boyfriend” is up front. I correct him feebly. I look at him thinking how weird this all is. I want to ask his name and say something funny but I can’t speak much or loudly. Cramps.
Again I don’t really remember entering the ER. More Jostling and cramps. In the ER room it is a flurry of medical staff. 5? 10? 15? When I am awake several nurses and doctors introduce themselves to me. The head of the ER. The head of OB. The head of such and such. I think- these are important people in my room. This must be serious. Random observations, like my filter for the hierarchy of what matters is broken. My nurse has interesting lip liner. No one will unfold the blankets so they actually cover my legs to keep me warm. I’m. So. Cold. And my throat is excruciating. I want water. No. No water, no ice, no nothing. But they do give me some pain meds that help the cramping and I’m so glad to be more comfortable. It seems like there is waiting. People in and out.
Another nurse, and then another doctor, attempt an IV line. The OB doctors keep checking my bleeding. The resident shows a facade of optimism. The attending tells us straight: she’s bleeding too much. Bleeding is not as concerning to me as my sore throat and my cold legs. The IV port in my shoulder doesn’t function backwards (clinical term?). It won’t flush? Anyways, they are very concerned to get a new IV into me. Josh’s mom and my mom are in and out. Some time passes? I am between moderate comfort and more cramping. I keep asking for water. Maybe one of the many people coming into my room won’t know I’m not supposed to have any. Or maybe I can and the others were just too busy?
My blood pressure tanks. Josh and I are the only ones in the room right them when the machine’s beeping. We think that maybe it’s wrong. 70/30 and dropping. Josh leaves to tell someone, people start rushing. I ask Josh to call Deborah to come. I see Gena and her face- horrified, why isn’t anyone doing anything?! 67/23. My mom- blank, helpless. I’m told they are going to put a central line into the major artery in my neck and they start prepping for a tiny surgery. Josh is afraid I’m going to die. I can see that in his face, though he’s 6 feet away from me. I just look at him. I want to say something, to comfort him, and I can’t move or say anything. I think: do I want to ask God to save me? And looking at Josh I decide yes, and pray that prayer quickly, but with zero emotion attached. Then I am too dizzy to think anymore. The world tips backwards and goes blurry. I feel sick and almost pass out. Maybe I do pass out.
A blue paper sheet is placed over me and taped around my neck artery. The doctor makes a callous joke about how he used to be a real doctor. I presume before he had to do mundane things like saving my life? I’m confused and nervous about the awake-surgery and Mr. Grumpy slicing my neck open. That is the first time I have felt scared all day. Josh comes back thankfully. I didn’t want him to be away from me. I have some rest while the first of 3 liters of blood starts pouring down my artery through my heart. Deborah arrives while the doctor put in the central line and I hear later she was very scared to realize how serious it is. She has been an ER nurse and an ICU nurse and knows what the two crash carts waiting outside my room mean better than any of us.
I think the worst is past since I’m getting blood. Perhaps that is true as far as maybe dying goes but the worst of the experience for my pain level and trauma is coming. Since I am still bleeding the OB doctors decide to do a cervical exam to figure out what is causing the bleeding. Apparently the ER people wanted me to be moved up to ICU before that exam. The OB attending insists on staying in the ER to do it but due to the rush to empty ER rooms they start before any pain medicine has been given. Josh left and Deborah stayed at my bed, holding my head, reminding me to breathe, comforting. It is horrible. Torture, and I can’t imagine why they are doing such a thing to me at the time. Afterwards I only want to see Josh and I’m so mad and I cry and he cries watching me cry and Deborah cries having seen all of it.
The result of the physical exam, and simultaneous ultrasound, is that my uterus and cervix are not damaged so the bleeding must be a matter of blood not clotting. So I’m pumped with several bags of clotting factors and they prepare to move me to ICU. ICU is a breeze and once I have 3 liters of blood, clotting factors, plasma, fluid, etc. I improve rapidly. The blessed ICU nurse gives me ice chips and the rest is history. I have almost no emotions over the next 2 nights and days in the hospital besides mild interest about the medical events and a bizarre urge to make crass jokes about my own medical crisis. How does one realize, let alone respond, to such events? Before being released the OB doctor made the comment in passing “Since you were resuscitated…” Resuscitated? Was I there for that? I’m not sure about the definition of that word but it sounds like I very nearly died. I am just quiet and ponderous. But I don’t like the dark in my bedroom at night when I finally get home.
I’m released 2 days later to home and the confrontation of the greater trauma.
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