The Recovery Ward, Part Deux

Tue early morning - Wed 5:30p

When I was re-admitted, I was given a new room. This one was set up differently from the others; the two beds faced each other (each with curtains), and my previous concern about having a roommate assigned was ratcheted up a notch or two. Once again, I bucked the odds and entire room remained roommate free. Well, sort of.

We arrived pretty early in the morning, and had been through a rough patch down in the emergency room. Stacey was with me, and the nurses went out of their way to wheel in a reclining chair for her to sleep in. They didn't have to do this, especially given that visiting hours were technically over (or hadn't yet begun), and it was greatly appreciated. One more reason why the staff's performance far exceeded my expectations.

Based on my symptoms and some early lab results, it looked like I might have an infection, so I was hooked to another IV for a few rounds of antibiotics.

Let me briefly say something about IVs. How quickly one forgets the sheer enjoyment of having an IV placed in one's arm. I was reminded of that sheer enjoyment multiple times, as over the course of my second stay my IVs kept failing. I ultimately went through four more IVs before being discharged, with both arms having the privilege of partaking in this event.

The problem with IVs is that when they're hooked up to something, that something is typically some sort of fluid dripping into your body at a slow, steady rate. That fluid, once inside, combined with other fluid, eventually needs to find its way back out. Getting that fluid back out, when hooked up to an IV, requires the assistance of a nurse. I felt like I was clicking the "nurse buzzer" every two hours to get up and use the bathroom. I'm sure it's common, but I couldn't help feeling like a major pain in the rear.

So back to the problem at hand. They were doing a blood culture to confirm that my body was fighting an infection, or to determine whether I had an infection in the first place (I'm still lost on this part). Either way, what we wanted to hear was that the results were negative. The problem was that we wouldn't get the results until Wednesday evening, and our flight was Thursday morning.

By Wednesday midday, we had to decide whether to hope for good news and squeeze out a rush trip to the airport, or just reschedule our flight, our hotel, and our car. We chose the latter, and spent 30 minutes getting everything arranged. Within the next 60 minutes, the PA who had been checking in on me informed us that everything looked good and we'd probably be discharged in the next few hours. Of all the times NOT to procrastinate!

The good news was that we'd get a quiet relaxing day at the hotel and plenty of time to get organized. The bad news was that it came with sticker shock.

Over the next couple hours, we were visited by several others, including Dr. Oro's nurse practitioner Kimberly -- who was consistently wonderful and offered encouragement at every step -- and Dr. Oro, who was also fantastic, and concluded that things had gone well, I was in good working order, and we were okay to leave.

We stuck around long enough to get one more free meal which Stacey ordered for me (meatloaf, not pancakes), and we were discharged for the second time. I promised I would not be back again, Stacey again pulled the Jeep up to the exit, and I again took the wheelchair trip through the corridors and down the elevator to my ride waiting outside.

We arrived back to the hotel, and from what I recall, I more or less crashed. The next day was Thanksgiving, and Stacey made a delicious dinner for us. Unfortunately I wasn't feeling 100% and turned in early, but the next morning (Friday) I was back to normal (or as normal as you would feel with 20+ staples and Percocet flowing through you), and we were ready to get home.

Coming up Next: The Airport