Twenty-First Century Medicine and the Voodoo Priestess

I've had many people listen as I've given the day by day blows of the past few months, from the bizarre to the completely unbelievable, and most have told me; "You should write about that!" I have to say, if some of the experiences John and I have gone through were put into a television show the TV audience would shake their heads and exclaim; 'There's no way."  I will attempt to start sharing a few stories here on my blog, but for right now just thinking about what went on frustrates and infuriates me to no end.  And I don't see how writing about it will be the soothing balm people claim it is.  But I'll go ahead and start this show, and wait to see if the flood gates open . . .

Our latest ordeal started while on our vacation last September, with John complaining of severe intestinal pain and cramping when he'd eat certain foods and particularly when he'd drink a new found lime-infused beer (which items he continued to eat and drink, despite the pain.)  This must be a 'man' thing.  Any woman I've ever known, when confronted with the knowledge something they were eating or drinking was going to plunge them into unbearable pain and cramping, would immediately throw any of these unused items in the trash with a snap of their fingers and a 'good riddance!'  John continued to eat and drink his poisons, followed by a Pepcid, explaining away everything with; "I must be getting food allergies."  Of course.  Right.  I never saw such stubborn denial in my life.  BTW:  Stubborn denial and testosterone also seem to go hand in hand.

 We arrived at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and John's condition worsened.  I took him to an urgent care facility there and they ran some blood work-ups.  Unable to find any infection, they concluded John probably had kidney stones and prescribed him muscle relaxants and an antibiotic.  Before we left Myrtle Beach I also had to take my Pomeranian Gidget to the vet with medical problems she was having.  They didn't find anything wrong with her, either.  We left Myrtle Beach for Savannah, Georgia to continue our tour.   By that time John could barely walk, so we said our good-byes to family touring with us and hightailed it back to Arizona, putting in over 500 miles a day in our motorhome, worried John was going to need hospitalization and we needed to get back in network for our insurance. 

We arrived in Phoenix on Saturday, October 2.  We were three hours from our home and had four Pomeranians with us.  Going home where there wasn't any medical care available wasn't an option, and wouldn't be for several months.  So we immediately found an RV park and set up, then rushed John to the local hospital emergency room (I'm not going to name names because what happened at that hospital was so unbelievable and ridiculous, if I publicly called them on the carpet my life would be full of more managers calling and stacks of reports to be filled out.  Been there, done that.  No more, thanks.)   Because of John's prior history of heart attacks they got him seen fairly quickly . . . one good thing I will say about the hospital.  Blood tests followed and this time it was found he had a raging infection.  More tests . . . scans . . . he was diagnosed with acute diverticulitis.  The surgeon assigned to his case said they were immediately pumping him full of antibiotics, and they'd re-evaluate him in the morning after the antibiotics had 24 hrs. to start bringing his white cell count down.  Next morning the surgeon brought the bad news that the antibiotics weren't making a dent in the infection . . . they were going to have to operate that morning. 

Two hours before the scheduled operation the surgeon examined John one more time, brusquely probing his fingers into John's lower left abdomen right where, we were to find out later, he had a goose-egg sized hole that had been eaten out of his colon.  Gangrene had been eating it away, and the gooey necrotic tissue around the hole actually stuck against his inner abdominal wall, so only a tiny amount of intestinal waste had been leaking into his abdominal cavity the past few weeks, which was what had been causing all the pain.  But in the surgeon's rough exam he broke the hole away from his abdominal wall, and John's condition went from painful to life threatening instantly.  By the time they could finish prepping him for surgery between his yelling and writhing on the bed, he had a small pumpkin-sized gourd swelling out of his lower abdomen where the hole was spewing out the contents of his intestines.  Nice.

The surgeon consulted with me when the surgery was over, pointedly stressing the point of how severe John's situation was.  He'd had a ' Very impressive goose-egg sized hole in his lower colon which necessitated several inches of his intestine being removed, the gangrene and infection some of the very worst he'd ever seen or smelled- John’s intestines had to be stretched out, hosed down and scraped as clean as they could get them - no possible reattachment of his intestines for two months.  A very difficult case.'

Then started the ordeal of recovery and the colostomy bag for two months.  John thought this was hell to have to deal with . . . it was child's play compared to what was coming.

The intestine reattachment surgery was scheduled for December 1st.  John came in to get prepped for surgery, excited and nervous as a young boy at his first baseball game, beyond ready to get put back together and his life back to normal.  In he went to the operating room.  Unfortunately no pre-surgery scans or tests were performed to see just how ready he really was.  Mentally he was great.  Physically, not so much.   Again the surgeon came out to consult with me, stating John's case was one of the most difficult reattachment surgeries he’d performed.  He’d seen worse in his years of surgery, but it was rare.  John’s intestines looked like a plate of spaghetti that had Superglue poured all over them.  Inflamed scar tissue everywhere, and once more he’d had to stretch out intestines, wash and scrape away remnants of gangrene infection.  Sections of his intestines were distended around and stuck to each other as well as his abdominal wall again.  Oh, joy. 

But at least the colostomy bag was gone.  He had the hope of recovery and back to life as usual.  Funny how hope can be so all-consuming, yet so elusive sometimes.   Life as usual was a brass ring kept out of John's grasp for several more months.  Now his supreme test of mental and physical strength was about to begin, as was mine.   More, later.  Love to all.