If I can compare the 20 days in the hospital to anything, it would be 20 days in enemy territory getting shot at and dodging explosions. In the movies, when the lead actor escapes the battlefield there is a moment of personal inventory. What’s bleeding? What’s broken? It’s just good to be alive. That’s the point. To survive no matter what. In the movies everything heals over time.
I’ve been taking inventory the last few days.
Hearing – more lost thanks to the 20 days of tobra. I can’t hear some high pitch sounds in our house like the alarm. The sound is gone to me. My ears play Jingle Bells 24/7. I left for battle and the explosions took their toll. When I returned, some of my hearing stayed at the hospital. Hasta la vista, high pitched sounds.
Lung function down over 20 percent according to the PFT in the hospital. Will it come back? Let’s hope.
O2 levels normal. That’s good news. So far so good.
Low grade fevers and chills. Still hanging on me. 5:00 p.m. rolls around and it’s time for a nap and baby bottle for me. I’m gone. The CF center seems content to let me suffer through them each day. It’s probably my anger talking. I’m still irritated about some of the decisions or delayed decisions of the stay. The CF team is solid though. I know they care. They just have a lot of patients to deal with.
Over 10 pounds shredded thanks to sitting on my ass doing endless IVs and a lack of an appetite for the same bland food every day. The endless fluids they gave me in the hospital masked the weight loss. At least I’m not peeing 20 times a day anymore.
No blood. That’s a good thing. It hasn’t returned yet. If it does, I can’t decide if I’ll go back in the hospital or just hunt down the people who couldn’t get it right after two embolizations. I’ll throw them on a table and cut into their groin and see how much they like it and educate them on the importance of getting it correct the first time.
Aches and pains. I could use a little time on a medieval torture rack being stretched right now. Or tie me between two horses and pull my limbs until my back pops and I get back the two inches in height I probably lost in the hospital. Tell me again why they don’t offer massage therapy in the hospital? I can get all the morphine I want while I’m there, but a little quality time face down with a certified member of the massage community digging her knuckles into my backside is verboten. That makes no sense.
All in all, I got my ass beat. And that makes me angry because it’s embarrassing to get beat up. Worst of all, CF didn’t do all of the beating. The doctors helped and I did my part with mistakes I made. Hindsight again. I wonder if I can have it removed? Life would be easier if I weren’t tortured by my errors. I should have seen the landmines, been more aggressive about getting the embolization done quickly instead of waiting six days. There were plenty of other errors I made. Where did my courage go while I was there?