The year I almost died

A year ago today I was in the hospital.  It was day two of my three-day, three-night stay in a facility I gave 3 and a half stars to on TripAdvisor.  Service was outstanding, a solid 5.  Amenities were kinda lacking.  I mean, other than the medicines and equipment that likely saved my life.  So a 3.5.  Food and snacks?  I'd strongly recommend ordering in.

I had been home alone on Friday afternoon.  Mrs. Bone had taken the kids and gone to splitsville, er, Louisville.  (She came back... eventually.)  I was supposed to go but had been having stomach problems all week, and it had gotten worse.  

I figured I was badly dehydrated from my many toilet treks and was feeling weaker by the hour.  Mrs. Bone (and others) strongly suggested I should go to the walk-in clinic.  (The nearest hospital is 22 miles away, because you know, America!)

But, as has been rumored before, I am a man.  As a whole, our kind is not particularly fond of going to medical establishments.  Hospitals, doctors, dentists, proctologists... you get my drift.  We prefer to think we are mostly invincible.  Unless we have that plague known as the common cold.  Then?  We are at death's door.  Besides, if they don't check you for anything, they won't find anything, amirite?

So I was thinking I'd stay home and if it wasn't better by the morning, get up and go see someone then.

I really don't know what made me get up and go, other than Mrs. Bone's constant, um, encouragements.  There was a point, I think, when I realized I was feeling so weak I wasn't sure I could drive myself to the clinic.  And if it was that bad tonight, what if it got worse...

The clinic was not busy, thankfully.  I don't remember what they checked first.  I think my heart rate was 119.  And then I just remember hearing my blood pressure reading, and none of the numbers were triple digits.  Something like 92 over 52, maybe?  That kinda scared me.  I mean, normally I run hot... 135/95 range.  I'm a boiling kettle.  A ticking time bomb, some might say.

The early discussion was that the doctor could give me something for nausea, I could go home and hydrate and see if it was better by morning, or I could drive to the ER and they'd probably give me an IV.

Then my blood work came back.

There's a look doctors get when something is wrong.  Perhaps you've seen it, perhaps not.  But when you see it, you also immediately know something is wrong.

Now I could regale you with tales of astronomical white blood cell counts and bilirubin five times its normal level.  And who knows what happened to my lymphocytes???  But hopefully... (hopefully?), there'll be time for plenty of those as I amble through these golden years.  

I think I can sum up what was going on by slightly altering the lyrics to one of the great songs of all-time, the magnum opus, if you will, of Donald McLean III.  

Here goes.  

It appeared some of the organs I had admired the most -- my liver, kidneys, and lungs (the both?) -- had caught the last train for the coast.

I just remember the words, "You need to get to a hospital.  We are calling for an ambulance now."

I did talk them down to letting me go if I had someone who could pick me up.  Who wants to pay those exorbitant ambulance rates?  But I was not to drive there.  I thought about Ubering, but then I might get murdered.  Also, I don't have the app.  Mrs. Bone offered to turn around and come home, but I told her I was fine.  Besides, it wasn't like I had a cold or something.

So I signed some refusal of care document stating I had declined an ambulance ride (at just $900 per mile, I might add!).  Mrs. Bone got in touch with one of her friends to drive me to the hospital.  I was able to drive myself home from the clinic.  I mean, what were they gonna do?  I had signed the NDA.  DNR.  Whatever it was called.  They can't just keep me there!  This isn't Nazi Germany.... well... not yet anyway.

The ER also was not busy.  (Must not be a lot of common colds going around, I thought to myself.)  I was hooked up to an IV and put on oxygen.  Then after a couple of hours I was informed I would not be returning home that evening, and probably not for a few days.  

I was septic.  

Never been septic before.  I'd been allergic.  Rheumatic.  Arthritic.  I'd been called toxic by more than one female.  But never septic.  I didn't grasp the severity at first.

Then you hear phrases like, "Your organs are shutting down."  It starts to sink in pretty fast after that.  Like really organs?  How about a heads up next time, guys?

I asked the doctor, "How serious is this?"  Her response: "Let's just say it's a good thing you came in tonight."  

Yes.  Let's.

So I was admitted to a room, where I would spend the next three nights.  My mother and fave aunt had come to offer their support.  A mother should never have to see her son in this situation.

Anyhow, three different antibiotics and lots of fluid later, I was released.  Mrs. Bone made it back by Sunday.  She'll have to wait a little longer to collect on that $2,000 life insurance policy.

The good news?  I never had to have a catheter!  I will drink whatever you bring me, I told them.  Pedialyte.  Buttermilk.  Horse urine.  Whatever!

I was released on a Monday.  Out of work for a week.  But can we look at the big picture?

Still catheter free since '83!  

(Proceeds to do Cabbage Patch dance, pulls muscle in back.)