I honestly could write at least another five blogs about the adventures (misadventures?) I had while in the hospital this past month…but you’ll probably be pleased to know I’ve decided to spare you the details and finally end my saga with this one.
I mean, I think I’ve pretty much covered just about every bodily function known to science by now anyway (and even a few that aren’t).
Speaking of bodily functions, last week I left you hanging. I’m talking about the fact that everyone in my hospital wing, or so it seemed, was waiting for me to pass gas – a sign that my bowel blockage was unblocking on its own and I likely wouldn’t need surgery.
Alas, I’d been in the hospital since Saturday morning, and by late Sunday afternoon, the “big bang” still hadn’t happened. I was getting worried, thinking I’d probably end up celebrating Halloween, or maybe even Christmas, in the hospital at the rate I was going. So I decided I’d walk a few laps up and down the hospital’s hallways in an effort to stimulate my intestines into doing their thing.
First, however, there was something I really wanted.
“Is it possible to get pajama bottoms or maybe some drawstring pants like I’ve seen the male patients wearing?” I asked one of the nurses. “My hospital gown would fit a Sumo wrestler, and I’m pretty sure I'm flashing everyone! I’m also feeling chilly with my whole backside exposed.”
It was no surprise I was feeling chilled, and not just because of the huge gown that could have doubled as a tent for a family of five. My bed was located directly beneath an overhead air-vent that blasted cold air 24/7, even when the temperature dropped to 40F degrees outside at night. That also might explain why my temperature was 97.6F the entire time I was in the hospital. I practically could see my own breath.
“Hmm, I’m not sure if I can find any bottoms for you,” the nurse said, rubbing his chin. “But I’ll go look.”
He returned a few minutes later with an enormous pair of boxer-type shorts that looked and felt as if they were made of recycled newspaper. They also were men’s size XL. I put them on and they were so big, I pulled them up to my chest. And even then, they still were so baggy, they made me look as if I had two rear-ends…one in the front and one in the back.
My roommate and I were having a good laugh over the shorts as I modeled them, when another nurse walked in and asked where on earth I’d found them.
I was tempted to tell her I’d stolen them as part of my plan to make my escape that night by jumping out of the window and then floating gently to the ground as the shorts caught air and acted like a parachute.
“I’ve been feeling chilly,” I explained, ”so I asked for some pants, and these are what I got.”
“Well, those won’t keep you very warm,” she said, shaking her head. ”Let me see what I can do.”
To my delight, she returned with some thick, warm, fleece-lined sweatpants. They were so soft and cuddly when I put them on, I could swear I actually heard the goosebumps on my legs thanking me. They also fit perfectly. The nurse then brought me two new pairs of cushiony slipper-socks. I felt like a new woman.
And an hour later, following my walk through the halls, I was stretched out in my bed and feeling warm and cozy, thanks to the sweatpants. That was when it finally happened…the trapped gas made its grand entrance into the free world. It wasn’t the earth-shaking blast I’d anticipated, merely a tiny “poof.” But nevertheless, it was there. And I’d been told to be sure to let someone know the moment it happened.
There were two nurses in my room at the time – one tending to me and another tending to my roommate – when I made the big announcement.
You know, all of my life, I’ve always wanted to do something that would be worthy of excited cheers, thunderous applause and a standing ovation…but never could I have imagined it would be for something like passing gas. The response was so enthusiastic, I expected a bottle of champagne and a local TV news-team to arrive at any minute.
My victory celebration was short-lived, however. Passing gas meant the blockage wasn’t blocking me 100 percent any longer. That was the good news. The bad news was everything that still had been backed up in my digestive tract and hadn’t been sucked out yet by the NG tube, now was free to “go with the flow” and come out of my southern end.
In other words, the flood gates had been opened.
...All over my lovely, warm fleecy sweatpants.
Talk about a mixed blessing. I didn't know whether to celebrate the unblocking or to mourn the much-too-early demise of my precious pants.
I spent a good portion of the next six hours in the bathroom. And then, when the doctor decided to do another scan that required about a quart of contrast solution, which he said probably would cause diarrhea, I spent about another 6 hours in the bathroom.
Believe me, when I later saw a new patient being wheeled into her room and she was holding a four-pack of Charmin Ultra-soft toilet tissue in her lap, my first thought was, “This woman definitely has been here before." My second thought was to offer her all of the cash in my wallet for just one roll...or even just a few sheets of her private stash.
I commented to one of the nurses about how the toilet paper in my bathroom was rough enough to sand the rust off metal. She laughed and said, “That’s because our toilet paper here actually is paper…you know, like the kind you write on.”
She was joking, but I and my extremely raw and sore backside were more inclined to believe she was telling the truth.
She then took pity on me and brought me a pack of wet wipes and a tube of ointment…for diaper rash.
The news turned out to be good, however. My latest scan showed clear sailing from one end of my body to the other. No more blockage! No surgery needed!
Actually, that really wasn’t news to me. After all, I previously had been experiencing the proof of the “clear sailing” all night.
I was sure I’d be allowed to go home the next day, considering the blockage was gone, but I soon learned it wasn’t quite that simple.
“First,” a nurse explained to me, “we'll want to make certain your NG tube is no longer draining anything at all before we remove it. Then once it’s removed, we’ll start you on liquids. If you can tolerate those, then we’ll try soft foods. And if you don’t feel nauseated or vomit after the soft foods, you’ll be able to try small portions of regular food. Of course, we’ll also want to make sure you can have a bowel movement before we allow you to go home.”
“Have a bowel movement?!” My eyebrows shot up. “What have I been doing for the last 250 hours?”
“Getting rid of all of the old backed-up stuff,” she said. “Now your system hopefully will be able process and digest any new food you put into it.”
I sighed. I was beginning to think I just might end up eating Christmas dinner in the hospital after all.
But things moved along pretty quickly, to my surprise. The NG tube didn't drain anything else – probably because all of it had raced out of my body in the other direction when the dam broke. So the tube, to my relief, finally was removed. My much-anticipated first drink of ice-cold Poland Spring water, however, hurt a lot because the tube had made my throat so raw.
And as a celebratory gift for the removal of the tube, one of the nurses went on a search that took her down three floors in the hospital until she found another pair of those fleecy sweatpants for me, as the only ones still available on my floor were a men’s size 2-XL.
I was thrilled to get the new pants and to feel warm and cozy again.
The other sweatpants, the ones I’d messed up, I tossed into the laundry bin in my room. I mean, they belonged to the hospital, and the laundry bin was where they flung all of our soiled hospital gowns and other washables, so I figured why not?
Well, the employee who gathered the laundry for washing, came into my room and was putting the laundry into a big bag when she suddenly came across the sweatpants and held them up using only two fingers. She cast an accusing glance at me and said in very broken English, “Thees belong you's?”
I said no, they were the property of the hospital. She only stared at me, not understanding. I could tell by her expression she thought I might be trying to get some free laundry service for my own street clothes, which made me wonder what the other patients who had those same pants did with theirs when they were dirty. Trash them? Hide them under the bed?
A nutritionist met with me a short while later and told me to call room service and order a real egg and have the cook crack it open and then scramble it in a dry, ungreased pan, for my first soft food. Not those eggs poured out of a carton, she said, just a fresh, plain egg, scrambled. So I called and ordered it. The person who took my order said it was no problem and they’d send it right up.
Ten minutes later it was delivered to my room. I lifted the lid on the dish and immediately could tell the egg had been cooked in grease...that had black specks of something in it.
“Is this a fresh egg?” I asked the guy who’d delivered it.
He shook his head. “Nah, it’s powdered.”
Normally, I would have complained, but these were far from normal circumstances, so I wasn’t about to be fussy…not if I wanted to go home before 2026. So I ate two bites of the egg.
Funny, but when you haven’t eaten any food whatsoever, not even so much as a breath mint, in over 5 days, even powdered eggs in second-hand grease can taste like gourmet fare. But I didn't dare to eat more than the two bites, just to be safe.
I was officially discharged from the hospital the next day. Hate to admit it, but I was in such a hurry to leave, I wore that second pair of hospital sweatpants home.
I have the feeling I’ll probably see them itemized on one of my bills...as designer originals for $500.
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NOTE: I’ve been home for nearly three weeks now and it’s taken me a while, but I’m finally feeling better. My body had to recover from the effects of the NG tube, the drugs, the rough toilet paper, and a diagnosis of severe malnutrition, thanks to the blockage. But so far, I've gained back 4 of the 11 lbs. I lost. The first week I was home, my stomach sounded like the Indianapolis 500 when the guy shouts, “Start your engines!” because it was trying to get back into the routine of digesting food once again. It actually kept me awake a few nights, it was so loud.
But now I’m finally back to feeling about 90 percent like my old self.
And tomorrow I have an appointment with a new doctor for a check-up and a follow-up.
So if you don’t see me on here next week, it might mean he found something else wrong with me...because he’s a perfectionist and 90 percent just isn’t good enough for him. 😉
Love you guys!
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