Saturday, February 11th, 2012, started off like any other day, but it was not to end like any other day and has forever changed me in ways I didn’t think possible. I wasn’t really feeling myself all day. With GP, who really does have a normal day? What is normal? I was still trying to figure out that very question when I became very abnormal. I have issues controlling my temperature so being insanely cold is really not that out of the ordinary. The uncontrollable and massive shaking attacks that happened that night before bed probably would have been my first clue that something was horribly wrong. Again, what is normal and what requires a doctor appointment? I bundle myself in every single blanket, haul the personal space heater upstairs to the bedroom, set to high and also sleep on a heating pad set to high and attempt to sleep off whatever it was that was making me feel like crap.

The night was very surreal. I would wake up but feel very weird, delusional and disconnected. It was 3:00am during one of these awake moments that my loving husband checks on me. He realizes right away that I was burning up. I’m not entirely responsive but adamant about NOT going to the ER for what is probably just the flu, especially at this time in the morning of February 12, 2012. He is not happy about it either but takes the stand that if something needs to be done, just get it done and over with. Little did he know that many somethings needed doing and it was going to be awhile before they’d be over with. He runs downstairs to get the trusty SpongeBob thermometer and finds out that it read a very convincing 103.6 (both times). That thermometer never works quite right and if it was reading a temperature, then more than likely, the actual temperature was much higher. He says to me that we have to go to the hospital right now. Ugh, I roll over and refuse. My energy at this point is rather pathetic so it doesn’t take much to convince me to grab what I could and get in the car for a ride over to the Redmond ER. *Side note: we will never again be visiting the Evergreen Hospital due to their enormously high error rate when it came to diagnosing and treating patients. So we will take the extra 15 minutes just to be in the Swedish network with doctors we know and trust.*

As I walk in bundled in my favorite blanket, half-awake and probably looking a little like death, the receptionist, upon seeing me, simply says, “Oh no.” Not exactly the words you want to hear and definitely not something that conveys any sort of positive attitude towards this downhill situation. At 3:00am the ER is not all that full and we are seen immediately, stats taken, blood taken, IVs started and the decision is made, though not as hastily as I would have thought they would be, given how obvious it is that I was septic from an infection in my port, to transport me via ambulance (yay, my fourth one) to my favorite hospital, Swedish Issaquah. My temperature continues to rise and my self-awareness continues to decline. I vaguely remember the ride to the hospital, my arrival to the ICU and the number of tubes they placed (urinary catheter, NG tube for suction – my stomach began to fill with fluid at a rate that had doctors overly concerned that I may aspirate that fluid along with it forcing me to use more than necessary energy just to breathe, breathing tubes and many PIVs for fluids, pain medication, broad spectrum antibiotics, etc.).

It would be three or four days before they would get a correct identification on the infection quickly taking my life, and for the antibiotic to bring me back from an almost coma-like state. I remember during the first few days, that I was not breathing well. I was sleeping but in my sleep I hear the nurses telling me to take a breath. For me, at the time, breathing and not breathing were the same. There was no urge to breathe and because of that, I would stop breathing periodically requiring nurses in my room 24/7 just to tell me to breathe. I was in such bad shape that the doctors discussed placing me on life-support. Life-support…in one single night I went from one extreme to the other. I was very unaware of how bad things were, who all was involved, though I do remember Dr. Patterson being there – love his accent, so I never experienced fear, the fear I’d lose my life after so many years I spent fighting for it.

The fog lifted a few days after my mom arrived. She jumped on a plane that same day Victor called her and informed her that I was not doing well. From his voice she could tell things were desperate. I will be forever grateful to have had her there with me. She fought to get me the things I needed. It was the first time I had someone else in my room with me all day. None of my family lives here and Victor has to work. I think it was Friday of that week that I began to stabilize. Well, they had gotten me on the right antibiotic and my temperature lowered to normal for the night. Waking up was a different story. I had begun to spike another high fever, my O2 stats were dropping as my heart rate escalated above 170. I was shaking from pain and fear. NOT ONE NURSE OR DOCTOR responded to my help button. I pressed it several times. Each time I’d get someone talking to me, “OK, I’ll send your nurse in…” and then another 15 minutes go by, “OK, I’ll send your nurse in…” 30 minutes go by and I’m getting worse. Scared to death I’d die alone. It was too early for my mother and husband to be by and my doctors were not yet doing their rounds. It was a half-hour after nurses changed shifts so I know they were around. But they were not by me. I desperately called people just to talk to someone, anyone so I wouldn’t be alone should I die. My husband’s phone is dead, my mom doesn’t answer, but my GI does. I’m in complete tears and hysterical by this moment and told him what is happening, he asks, “NO ONE is in your room right now?” Nope, not a soul. He told me he’d call the hospital. At that point, while waiting for Dr. Patterson to shape up the nurses (Hello, I am in the ICU – why are you all taking so long in the first place!), I called my dad. He is at home because of the flu and wouldn’t be allowed in the room anyway, even if he had made the plane trip with my mother. I told him what had happened and how scared I was and that I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to talk to someone. He couldn’t handle it. He told me that everything was going to be fine and in that, I found enough peace to end the conversation with him as it seemed to be entirely too much for him to handle, being so far away. I took my camera and made a short video for insurance purposes to prove a severe lack of ANYONE in my room or even at the nurses station which I seemed to have a straight shot of (because those darn nurses NEVER close the darn doors!). It is slightly upsetting but I offer it here. NEVER let your ICU room be void of nurses if you are in shock. It really is common sense but for whatever reason, today, common sense failed them.

*Enter Nurse From Hell – AKA: Crystal* My husband, mother and service dog, Ellie, had already arrived to help calm me down but in strolls Crystal. For whatever reason, before she even spoke to me, she had some sort of resentment towards me. She had no business being a nurse, and an ICU nurse at that. To be a nurse requires feelings, sympathy, empathy and a general care for the well-being of any human that walks through your doors despite their shortcomings or mistakes. She possessed nothing of the sort.

As she walks in, she informs me that the previous x-rays they did last night of my abdomen (yay for paralytic ileus), my PICC line was noticed to be out of place, dangerously close to the apex of my heart (where one of the pacemakers is located and if tampered with could cause the heart to stop entirely), and they could not use it. She then stated that she would be placing another PIV to allow for fluids and medication while we waited on the PICC line nurses to assess and fix my line. Fine, do it – I am in clear need of morning medications (including the life-saving antibiotic) and fluids. Crystal notices Ellie quietly laying in the corner behind Victor’s chair. I’m watching Crystal as she places the WORST IV EVER.


How she managed to find that tiny little vein is beyond me. I can only attribute it to her skill and my clenched fist. Fact is, the vein is small and my veins are already notorious for blowing (infiltrating) and she thought she could run everything through that little PIV, including D10. D10 is basically TPN minus the lipids and a few other things. It is thin enough to be given through a PIV. However, even if it is thin, my vein is still too small to handle it and as soon as she runs the pump, I scream out in pain, crying and pleading her to stop the pump. Slowly she does so and I, not being ignorant in the area of IVs, TPN or the tubing, quickly clamp it off. She gives me the stink eye and tells me not to touch my lines. I tell her then to clamp it and flush it because it is currently burning through my tissues. Crystal simply says, “I’m just following the doctor’s orders.” I don’t care what she is doing, I’m the patient. She clamps the line and flushes it and continues to push through the rest of my medications, one including my pain medication. Before she leaves, she tries to be all stealth-like and flips on the D10 pump while I am distracted. Again the burning, stinging pain comes back. I turn to her and ask, “Did you just turn the D10 BACK ON?” She nods. I said, “well you best turn it off because the pain is making me want to chop off my hand.” “That’s a bit exaggerated,” she says. Oh no you didn’t. I reach over and clamp it myself and then demand she flush it before she leaves. And, she does…so forcefully I notice the pain returning. I yell at her, “not so hard!” “This is just as hard as when I pushed all the other medications,” she lied. By this time I’m hysterically crying AGAIN, in pain and shaking from her mere presence. This has my service dog all upset too, and rightfully so! She is there to protect me. The nurse finishes flushing and leaves the room.

My mother and husband do what they can to calm me down so as to not die from a heart rate that is way to high. The charge nurse comes in and informs me that my service dog needs to be removed from the hospital. He states that a service dog can be removed from a hospital if the presence of the dog makes his staff uncomfortable to the level that they cannot perform their work. He stated that a nurse has complained that my service dog, Ellie…

whose sole purpose in life is to be happy and share that happiness with others, showed her teeth and growled at Crystal. Ha, never heard such a load of crap before in my life! Clearly this is her way at getting back at me for doing um, nothing! I did nothing and now I have a problem and she goes along her merry way. Before the charge nurse leaves I tell him I want a new nurse. He says, “I’ll see what I can do.” “Um, no…you misunderstood me, GET me a new nurse,” I demanded. He leaves the room, Crystal comes in and informs me that I have a new nurse. But not before belittling me some more by addressing my mother with the schedule of doctors appointments and tests that will be run that day. I’m not 2, you can talk to ME. I AM THE PATIENT! I still have a write up to do for her. No need for other ICU patients to be tortured by an arrogant nurse who shouldn’t even be a nurse in the first place. She is totally on my list.

The rest of the stay was pretty normal. I was there from February 12th – February 25th. We had some issues with pain management and sleeping medications but overall, things went as they should. My doctor never fails to remind me how close to death I came during my first week there. I was delusional and very much not myself. He said that if I had come in any later, they would not have been able to help me. My husband and the doctors and nurses of the Swedish Issaquah ICU saved my life. On the day of my discharge it was snowing. It was beautiful and perfect. I went home on IV antibiotics that were delivered via drip for another week and a half. I was then to have more blood cultures done to make sure the antibiotic was successful in eradicating the infectious bacteria. It wouldn’t be until a month or more later that I would receive permission from my wonderful infectious disease doctors to have my port replaced. And I did.

The monkey is its protector. This port placement was unlike any other. It meant something to me, I beat the odds and toughed it out. Simply stated: I SURVIVED!

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