I went into the hospital for my surgery on Monday, July 3. I did not have my surgery on that date, however. The doctor stopped by to see me later that evening and told me that they were going to try to get me into the operating room on Tuesday, July 4th. Unfortunately, there were a couple of major accidents that day that tied up the operating rooms (5 major surgeries) for the entire day. Dr. Perez said we would try for Wednesday. I called Mom to tell her what he said, and early on Wednesday afternoon, Mom showed up with my sister, Karen. Karen works for a doctor so she asked questions and told me exactly what had happened to me two weeks earlier. It seems that the acute pancreatitis could have killed me if I hadn't gotten treatment so quickly. Mom, Karen and I watched the Cubs game on television. The nurses were checking in with us every few hours. Finally, at 7:30pm, the chief surgical resident, Eric Woo, came into my room to tell me that if I had the surgery on Wednesday, it would be close to midnight. He felt we should just go ahead and do it on Thursday, so I sent Mom and Karen home. The doctor ordered a heavy duty sedative for me so that I could get some rest.
The next morning started with a bout of vomiting and pain. I was only allowed ice chips in preparation for the surgery. I asked when it would be, because I promised Mom that I would call her before I went in so that she could come to be with me when I came out of the surgery. No one knew the answer. I talked to Mom about four times during the day. Then suddenly, at about 7:30, the orderlies showed up to take me to surgery. I told them that I had to call my family, and one of the nurses said that she would do it. I showed her the phone number and asked her to call for me. Then off to surgery I went. I was brought back to my room at about 11:30 with an IV in my neck (all of my other veins had been blown by the nurses and aides drawing blood over the previous three days). I asked if my mom had been called, but the night nurse didn't know. What I didn't realize was that I had been put in a different room (my second in three days). When I woke up on Friday morning, I thought it was odd that Mom hadn't called to check on me. Finally, about 11 am, the phone rang, and there was Mom crying. I asked her what was wrong. She told me that she thought I had died because she had been calling my room for hours and hours and couldn't get anyone to answer. She finally got the main phone number for the hospital and got through to the surgical floor nursing station. That's when they told her that I had gone to surgery the night before and been put into a different room. Mom was frantic trying to find me.
I was furious (even if I was still groggy from the anesthetic). I called for the nursing supervisor, who showed up two hours later. I told her that I had been promised by the nurse that she would call my mother to let her know that I had gone into surgery, but that not only had the nurse not called her, no one had bothered to answer the phone in my old room to tell Mom that I had been moved. I told them that my mother had cancer and was not in good health, and what they had put her through did not help. The supervisor apologized for any stress, but said that it wasn't the hospital's policy to call relatives. I yelled at her that I would have called myself, but the nurse and the orderlies wouldn't let me have five minutes to do it. I had been in that hospital for three and a half days waiting for surgery, and the f***ing staff wouldn't let me have five minutes to make a call to my family. By the time I finished my tirade, the nursing supervisor was much more apologetic and had changed her tone. I think I even threatened a law suit for emotional abuse.
The nurse who was assigned to me that afternoon was a sweetheart. She asked me what I did to scare the nursing supervisor. I told her about what had happened the night before and the supervisor's attitude when she had finally showed up to talk to me. The nurse laughed and said, "good for you. Some of these people around here forget that we're here to help the patients, and they don't treat them very well." I agreed with her. She became my favorite helper during the rest of the ordeal that I went through. You see, because of the pancreatitis, I had developed a life-threatening infection in my blood. I was on antibiotics for almost three months to get rid of it. I spent the first 16 days of that time at St. James, during which time there were no less than four doctors taking care of me. I had test after test to try and figure out just exactly what was ailing me. All the time, I kept throwing up or having diarrhea. My blood sugar went crazy because I wasn't taking my medication. The doctors ordered insulin boosters, which, once I started taking my glucouphage again, caused me to crash in the middle of the night a couple of times. One night about 2am, I rang for the aide to help me get to the commode next to my bed (all of my IV tubes were tangled up) and I asked her when my blood sugar was going to be taken again. She asked me why, was I feeling funny. I said yes, I'm not feeling too great, so she went to get the meter and tested my blood sugar. It was 64 (normal is 100+) and she went running out of the room. She was back in a flash with two cartons of orange juice, and told me to drink both of them.
A couple of nights later, the same thing happened. I was given an insulin booster at about 9pm (after the last blood sugar test for the day), and I woke up around 1:30am, again feeling really weird. I rang for the aide and asked her to test my blood sugar. I told her that I thought I was crashing, and sure enough, the blood sugar level was only 78. She got me some apple juice and I felt better. The next night, the nurse came in after the blood test and said that she had to give me an insulin booster. I asked her if I really had to have it. She told me that it was my right to refuse any medication that I wanted to. As far as she and the other nurses were concerned, they thought the doctor's orders for insulin if my blood sugar was over 140 was not right. Normally, they would not give an insulin booster to someone unless their blood sugar was over 180. So I refused the insulin, and slept through the entire night without a problem. After that, if my blood sugar was below 160, I refused the insulin. The nurses were with me. I was taking my other medicine and that was doing the job. No more insulin.
On top of the problems with crashing, the insulin was also causing me to retain fluid and my legs swelled up very badly. My skin was so stretched that water started seeping from the cells. I had a towel under my feet to catch the drips. My feet were freezing because they were wet and the room was air-conditioned. It was so cold in my room because it was so hot outside (the temperature during my stay in the hospital had been in the 90's for almost two weeks). One of the med students who looked in on my every day told her internal medicine supervisor about my swollen legs. He came in and asked if anything was being done for them. I said, no, and I had told the nurses that when my legs started swelling, I was taking 20mg of furosemide to get rid of the fluid, but I wasn't getting any in the hospital. He said, I'll take care of that and ordered an immediate injection of 40mg of lasix to start the process. After that I would get a 20mg tablet each day. Of course, that meant that I had to start running to the bathroom a lot, but at least something was being done.
Speaking of my room, by day ten, I was in my fifth different room. I kept having to call Mom and tell her the new room number and extension. The problem was that all of the rooms were two beds and most of the patients were women, so when two guys came through emergency surgery, they needed a room for them, so they kept moving the women around in order to free up a room. I ended up with several new roommates during my stay, once I was finally settled in my last room. One was only there for one night (she was the nicest). There was one old lady who had had hip surgery that came in on Saturday evening. She was in my room for two and a half days. The old woman's daughters (one was a nurse) kept trying to bully her into doing what the doctor wanted. She refused to do therapy so that she could be moved to rehab and had been making every roommate that she'd had miserable. They put her into a machine that moves the leg and hip joint, but she kept undoing the straps and getting out of it because it was uncomfortable. Of course, that meant that she was screwing up the surgery and causing herself a lot of pain, so she was constantly ringing for the nurse to get painkillers. The problem was that she was not letting them take effect before she'd start yelling for the nurse again. On Sunday night, I was trying to sleep and this old woman just kept screaming. I pleaded with the nurse to please, please give her a sedative to put her out so that I could get some sleep. By the time the morning shift came on duty, I had a serious migraine and was close to screaming at the old bitch to shut up. The nurses finally got her out of the room to therapy, then they gave me a heavy duty painkiller and closed up the area around my bed so that I could get some sleep. They also had some words with the woman's daughter. Luckily, she was moved to the rehab facility that afternoon and I didn't have to put up with her any more.
By that time, I had been in the hospital for two weeks, and I wanted to go home. They had put a PICC line into my right arm because I no longer had any viable veins to use for my IVs. My body was covered in bruises from all of the blood draws and IVs. My right hand had swollen to double its normal size because of an IV that blew out and a nurse who didn't believe me when I told her that. She just wiggled it around, causing me mucho pain, and said it was fine. The problem was that the needle had slipped out of the vein and the IV fluid was simply going into the tissue of my fingers and hand. My fingers were nearly purple when the night nurse came on and I showed her. She ran to get a doctor. The took out the offending IV and ordered alternating ice packs and heat pads. The doctor told me to keep the hand as elevated as possible to promote the release of the excess fluid. My fingers looked like purple sausages and I was afraid that I was going to lose the use of my right hand. After one of her visits, my sister, Karen, told my other sisters that they needed to get me out of that hospital before it killed me. I agreed with her.
I was finally able to find out exactly what was going on that Monday after I woke up from my much needed nap. A new intern came in, Christina, and introduced herself. She asked me what was going on with me, and I told her that I didn't really know. There was a constant stream of doctors in to examine me, but they never told me anything. They just seemed to be writing conflicting orders in my chart at the nurses station. I told her about the so-called infection and that I didn't know why I couldn't go home since the surgery scars were healing nicely. I also wanted the PICC line out of my arm. She promised to look at my chart and come back later to discuss it with me. She returned about four hours later and that is when I finally found out just how deadly the infection in my blood was. Christina also told me that I would have to keep having IV antibiotics for a couple of months after I left the hospital. I called Mom and told her what Christina had said. Mom said, come home and we'll take care of it. So I called for one of my doctors and said that I was leaving the hospital on Wednesday and that they had better get busy and make it happen. He didn't want me to leave. I pulled back the blanket and showed him my feet and held up my right hand, and I said that if he and the hospital didn't want a multi-million dollar lawsuit for what they had done to me, he'd better make sure that I was allowed to go home within the next couple of days with the necessary in-home care - or else.
Suddenly, there were people from the patient services department coming in and out and making the arrangements that I wanted. I told them where I was going to be for my recovery and which home nursing organization they should call. For people who are supposed to take care of patient needs, these folks didn't have a clue if the patient was going to be outside of their immediate circle for recovery purposes. Finally, everything was in place. Mom came to the hospital on Wednesday afternoon with Diana and Ken (bless them for being such caring people), and I was finally discharged. Kenny pulled the car up to the front door and I got out of the wheelchair into the front seat. I hooked up my seat belt, Mom and Diana got into the back seat, and we pulled away from the hospital. I burst into tears. Ken asked if he should take me back. I said, no, I'm crying because I thought I'd never get out of that place alive. I got myself under control and we headed home. I was so weak, I didn't believe it. When we got to Kankakee, we stopped to drop off my prescriptions at the Walgreens, then Ken and Diana took me to Mom's and went on home. That's when I really lost it. Mom understood and just held me. I had been so scared that those people were going to kill me with all of their conflicting orders. I really was very happy to be out of that hospital. Mom made me go lay down on the bed while she ran back into Kankakee to pick up my drugs. I went to bed at 8 o'clock that night and it was the best sleep I had had in over a month. After that my healing really began.
The following morning, Mom went to get her hair done and to get her allergy shots with my sister, Janis. I let the guy from the home health care in. He was bringing all of the supplies that I would need to give myself my IV antibiotics. Mom got home around 12:30 and the visiting nurse showed up right after that. She was a wonderful young woman and helped Mom and I set up my first IVs. She stayed with us all afternoon while the IVs were dripping. She had her computer with her and took all of my information. Mom and I were a little nervous, but the nurse was very good at showing us everything that we had to do. Mom wrote it all down, step by step. Later that afternoon, my cousins from New York arrived for a visit. Judy, who is an inhalation therapist, looked through all of the stuff that I was taking. She checked me out thoroughly and said, what did that hospital do to you? I told her the story of my last two weeks and she was horrified. She said that you had to have someone there looking out for you or the hospitals would take advantage. She told about what she had to do when her brother, John, had his heart attack. She fought with the hospital personnel in order to get John the necessary treatment. His doctor told him that if Judy hadn't insisted on the one test that the hospital didn't want to do, John probably would have died. Anyway, Judy was telling my sisters and my Mom what I should be getting and what support I was going to need. I excused myself at around 8:30 and went to bed. It was so nice having all of those people looking after me. My healing was really happening. More later.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
My Horrible Summer - Part One
As posted previously, 2006 turned out to be an awful year for me. First, I lost my job, but that was just the high point. I was laid off in May and in mid-June, I got sick. I had been scheduled to have a gastric by-pass on June 6, but the insurance company insisted that I do a year of doctor-supervised diet first. It wasn't like my regular doctor and I hadn't been trying to get my body to shed weight for years before. I eat a healthy diet, but because of the degenerative joint disease that I suffer from, I cannot maintain a good exercise program. I've had both of my knee joints replaced, but now the DJD is settling in my hips and lower spine, which makes it near impossible to do cardio exercises for any length of time (standing in one place for 10 minutes causes me pain). So we made the decision that I would look into having the surgery.
I found a surgeon at Rush University Hospital that a friend of mine had used. Anne had a gastric by-pass in 2004. She lost 103 pounds and in late 2005 she had plastic surgery to remove the last 30 pounds of excess skin. She went from a size 24 to a size 8 and looked great. I was hoping to lose about 130 pounds, too. I weighed in at 265, and at 5'1", that extra weight was just too much for my poor bones to carry. Oops, I mean my poor joints, because, you see, exercize helps to make your bones strong, and carrying around an extra 130 pounds every day made my bones pretty good. Tests confirmed that I have good bone density. It's the stress that the weight puts on my joints that is bad. So, anyway, I went through this whole series of tests (I took 2 personal days to get through them all), and was scheduled for surgery on June 6. Then I got laid off.
The lay-off wasn't going to hurt my getting surgery, though, since the firm had agreed to pay the Cobra on all of my insurance for six months. So, I went ahead with my plans to have the surgery. Then, the week before the surgery was scheduled, I got a letter from the insurance company saying that they would not pay for the surgery unless I did a year of doctor-supervised diet. I called the surgeon's nurse and was told not to worry about it. The insurance companies send those letters all of the time. She was working on it. The week before the surgery, I still had no time for the surgery start so I called the nurse back. It turns out that she was on vacation, and the nurse covering for her told me that they were still trying to get the approval from the insurance company. This was on a Thursday, and my surgery was scheduled for the following Tuesday. I asked when the other nurse would be back. I was told she would return on Monday. I asked to speak to the doctor and was told that he was on vacation, too. I said, fine, then tell them when they get back that I've decided to do the year of supervised diet, and since I already have an appointment with the dietician set for the end of June, I'll start it then. The back-up nurse was quite upset with me. She said that I should wait. I told her that if the surgeon and his nurse didn't care enough about my surgery to make sure everything was set before they left on vacation, then we would do it my way, and the hell with them. That was on June 1.
On June 17, I was out doing some shopping and I started to feel really bad. I recognized the symptoms - a gall bladder attack. I headed for home to do the usual "throw up a couple of times and have a horrible bout of diarrhea". I spent the rest of Saturday afternoon and night throwing up, but the diarrhea never came. My belly just kept getting bigger and I was in so much pain, I didn't know what to do. I called my regular doctor early on Sunday morning, and he said that it sounded like my gall bladder had really blown up and to get myself to an emergency room. I called my sister Diana and told her where I was heading and how to get there. My family lives about 40 miles aways from me and doesn't know the South Suburbs too well. Anyway, I asked Diana if she could get Mom up to see me, 'cause I knew that Mom would be upset and would want to come, and I didn't want her driving on her own. I then headed to the emergency room at St. James Hospital, about a mile from my apartment.
I got to the emergency room and checked in. They put me in a wheel chair to wait, since the pain was so bad that I couldn't walk any more. I was there for about an hour when my Mom showed up with my sister Diana and her husband, Ken. It was Father's Day, and Ken and Diana were headed down to Charleston to their youngest son's house for dinner, but they called to cancel to help Mom get to the hospital. We were in the waiting room for another hour when I asked Diana to grab the wastebasket sitting in the corner. I was about to throw up again. Diana got it for me, then went to the desk and told them that I was throwing up and how much longer it would be. The nursing staff took me back to a holding room immediately and gave me a little tub to use instead of the wastebasket. I emptied my stomach again, and sat there for about 30 more minutes before they got me a bed.
Once I got to a bed, I changed into a dressing gown and got on the bed. The nurses set up an IV and got me comfortable. It was another hour before I finally saw a doctor. History was taken and tests were ordered. Mom stayed with me constantly, but Diana had to leave when they started putting the needles into me. She can't stand the sight of needles and tubes, 'cause they make her pass out. Mom went out to check on her and came back and said that they were going to leave and that I should call once I knew what was going on. I said that it was okay. It was 7:30 pm and I had been at the hospital since 1:30 that afternoon. I had my calling card with me and told Mom that I would call her as soon as I had a room, but not to wait up that night because I had a feeling it was going to be a long wait. And long it was.
A second doctor came in to check on me at about 9:30. He said the preliminary tests were showing that I had acute pancreatitis. I said, "what about my gall bladder?" He told me that it was the gall bladder going bad that was causing the pancreatitis. They were going to have to get the pancreatitis under control before the gall bladder could be removed. I finally was put into a room at 2:15 am. I had been at the hospital for over 13 hours. They gave me more pain medication and started me on antibiotics. I slept fitfully throughout the rest of the night, and I kept waking up to throw up. They finally gave me something to stop the vomitting.
The next morning, I called Mom to let her know what room I was in and what the doctors had told me. I had a visit from a surgeon, but she did primarily breast surgery and her partner who did the abdominal surgery was out of the country, so she wanted to wait for his return the following week. In the meantime, they kept giving me antibiotics and pain killers and there were finally sounds in my bowels again, so they sent me home on Friday afternoon with instructions to call the surgeon on Monday morning. I called his office first thing on Monday, told them what I had been instructed to by the other surgeon and got an appointment for Wednesday. I told them I thought I could hold out that long. In the meantime, I was living on vicodin and levaquin. I'd take a 30mg of vicodin, which would put me out for about two hours. I'd get up and try to eat something. Yogurt was about the only thing I could keep down. I'd watch tv for a while, but the pain would start coming back after about four and a half hours, and I would start throwing up again. I knew that I had to endure it as long as I could. I was only supposed to take the vicodin every six hours. It never lasted that long, but I'd hold out at least five hours before I took the next one.
Wednesday morning, I was getting myself ready for the visit with the surgeon that afternoon when my phone rang. It was the surgeon's office calling to say that his mother had died in Puerto Rico (which is where he had been the week before) and that he had gone back for her funeral. They would have to move my appointment to the following Monday. I cried and asked if there wasn't someone else who could do the surgery now. They said that they could contact his partner, but she had already told me that she wouldn't do it. So I had to survive another five days of pain and throwing up. It was the longest week of my life. I cancelled all of my job-search meetings and only went out of the apartment to get my mail. It was a never-ending cycle of pain killers, sleep, eating and vomitting. There were constant phone calls from my mom. She was so worried about me, and I felt bad that she was having to worry so.
Monday morning, July 3, I took a pain pill about 5am. At 8, I got up, took a shower and started packing a bag. I arranged for a cab to pick me up at 12:30. I didn't eat anything, just drank water. At 10:30 I took another pill and laid down for about 45 minutes. I got a call from the cabbie that he was at my front door at 12:15. I went right down and gave him the address to the doctor's office. I didn't mind being early because I knew that I was going to have to fill out papers. I did and was sent downstairs to Dr. Perez's office right on time. I was in a wheel chair, 'cause walking was very painful. I went in to an examining room and a few minutes later, Dr. Perez came in. He was looking over my chart from the stay in the hospital and asked if I was still in much pain. I said yes. He said that my gall bladder was indeed going to have to come out, but that we could do it one of two ways. He could treat me as an outpatient and then do a laparoscopic removal in a couple of weeks, or I could go into the hospital immediately and they would do the surgery as soon as they could get me into the rotate. My answer was to throw up all over the floor. I did manage to get to the sink for most of it. Dr. Perez said that he was going to call the hospital to arrange for a room and he sent a nurse in to help me. I got myself cleaned up from my just-in-case bag and the nurse helped me call a cab, which took me directly to St. James.
Once I got to the hospital, they admitted me. I looked for my phone card in order to call Mom, but I couldn't find it. The young lady working with me asked for Mom's phone number and she dialed it for me. I told Mom that I was being admitted and what room I was going to be in. I also told her that I had forgotten my phone card so I wasn't sure how often I could call her. She said get a pen and gave me her calling card info and told me to use it. She had over 1000 minutes on the card and not to worry about it. It was like she gave me a life-line when I got that number. A few minutes later, an orderly showed up to wheel me to my room. The nurses got me settled in and got an IV started. I settled in to await my surgery.
More later.
I found a surgeon at Rush University Hospital that a friend of mine had used. Anne had a gastric by-pass in 2004. She lost 103 pounds and in late 2005 she had plastic surgery to remove the last 30 pounds of excess skin. She went from a size 24 to a size 8 and looked great. I was hoping to lose about 130 pounds, too. I weighed in at 265, and at 5'1", that extra weight was just too much for my poor bones to carry. Oops, I mean my poor joints, because, you see, exercize helps to make your bones strong, and carrying around an extra 130 pounds every day made my bones pretty good. Tests confirmed that I have good bone density. It's the stress that the weight puts on my joints that is bad. So, anyway, I went through this whole series of tests (I took 2 personal days to get through them all), and was scheduled for surgery on June 6. Then I got laid off.
The lay-off wasn't going to hurt my getting surgery, though, since the firm had agreed to pay the Cobra on all of my insurance for six months. So, I went ahead with my plans to have the surgery. Then, the week before the surgery was scheduled, I got a letter from the insurance company saying that they would not pay for the surgery unless I did a year of doctor-supervised diet. I called the surgeon's nurse and was told not to worry about it. The insurance companies send those letters all of the time. She was working on it. The week before the surgery, I still had no time for the surgery start so I called the nurse back. It turns out that she was on vacation, and the nurse covering for her told me that they were still trying to get the approval from the insurance company. This was on a Thursday, and my surgery was scheduled for the following Tuesday. I asked when the other nurse would be back. I was told she would return on Monday. I asked to speak to the doctor and was told that he was on vacation, too. I said, fine, then tell them when they get back that I've decided to do the year of supervised diet, and since I already have an appointment with the dietician set for the end of June, I'll start it then. The back-up nurse was quite upset with me. She said that I should wait. I told her that if the surgeon and his nurse didn't care enough about my surgery to make sure everything was set before they left on vacation, then we would do it my way, and the hell with them. That was on June 1.
On June 17, I was out doing some shopping and I started to feel really bad. I recognized the symptoms - a gall bladder attack. I headed for home to do the usual "throw up a couple of times and have a horrible bout of diarrhea". I spent the rest of Saturday afternoon and night throwing up, but the diarrhea never came. My belly just kept getting bigger and I was in so much pain, I didn't know what to do. I called my regular doctor early on Sunday morning, and he said that it sounded like my gall bladder had really blown up and to get myself to an emergency room. I called my sister Diana and told her where I was heading and how to get there. My family lives about 40 miles aways from me and doesn't know the South Suburbs too well. Anyway, I asked Diana if she could get Mom up to see me, 'cause I knew that Mom would be upset and would want to come, and I didn't want her driving on her own. I then headed to the emergency room at St. James Hospital, about a mile from my apartment.
I got to the emergency room and checked in. They put me in a wheel chair to wait, since the pain was so bad that I couldn't walk any more. I was there for about an hour when my Mom showed up with my sister Diana and her husband, Ken. It was Father's Day, and Ken and Diana were headed down to Charleston to their youngest son's house for dinner, but they called to cancel to help Mom get to the hospital. We were in the waiting room for another hour when I asked Diana to grab the wastebasket sitting in the corner. I was about to throw up again. Diana got it for me, then went to the desk and told them that I was throwing up and how much longer it would be. The nursing staff took me back to a holding room immediately and gave me a little tub to use instead of the wastebasket. I emptied my stomach again, and sat there for about 30 more minutes before they got me a bed.
Once I got to a bed, I changed into a dressing gown and got on the bed. The nurses set up an IV and got me comfortable. It was another hour before I finally saw a doctor. History was taken and tests were ordered. Mom stayed with me constantly, but Diana had to leave when they started putting the needles into me. She can't stand the sight of needles and tubes, 'cause they make her pass out. Mom went out to check on her and came back and said that they were going to leave and that I should call once I knew what was going on. I said that it was okay. It was 7:30 pm and I had been at the hospital since 1:30 that afternoon. I had my calling card with me and told Mom that I would call her as soon as I had a room, but not to wait up that night because I had a feeling it was going to be a long wait. And long it was.
A second doctor came in to check on me at about 9:30. He said the preliminary tests were showing that I had acute pancreatitis. I said, "what about my gall bladder?" He told me that it was the gall bladder going bad that was causing the pancreatitis. They were going to have to get the pancreatitis under control before the gall bladder could be removed. I finally was put into a room at 2:15 am. I had been at the hospital for over 13 hours. They gave me more pain medication and started me on antibiotics. I slept fitfully throughout the rest of the night, and I kept waking up to throw up. They finally gave me something to stop the vomitting.
The next morning, I called Mom to let her know what room I was in and what the doctors had told me. I had a visit from a surgeon, but she did primarily breast surgery and her partner who did the abdominal surgery was out of the country, so she wanted to wait for his return the following week. In the meantime, they kept giving me antibiotics and pain killers and there were finally sounds in my bowels again, so they sent me home on Friday afternoon with instructions to call the surgeon on Monday morning. I called his office first thing on Monday, told them what I had been instructed to by the other surgeon and got an appointment for Wednesday. I told them I thought I could hold out that long. In the meantime, I was living on vicodin and levaquin. I'd take a 30mg of vicodin, which would put me out for about two hours. I'd get up and try to eat something. Yogurt was about the only thing I could keep down. I'd watch tv for a while, but the pain would start coming back after about four and a half hours, and I would start throwing up again. I knew that I had to endure it as long as I could. I was only supposed to take the vicodin every six hours. It never lasted that long, but I'd hold out at least five hours before I took the next one.
Wednesday morning, I was getting myself ready for the visit with the surgeon that afternoon when my phone rang. It was the surgeon's office calling to say that his mother had died in Puerto Rico (which is where he had been the week before) and that he had gone back for her funeral. They would have to move my appointment to the following Monday. I cried and asked if there wasn't someone else who could do the surgery now. They said that they could contact his partner, but she had already told me that she wouldn't do it. So I had to survive another five days of pain and throwing up. It was the longest week of my life. I cancelled all of my job-search meetings and only went out of the apartment to get my mail. It was a never-ending cycle of pain killers, sleep, eating and vomitting. There were constant phone calls from my mom. She was so worried about me, and I felt bad that she was having to worry so.
Monday morning, July 3, I took a pain pill about 5am. At 8, I got up, took a shower and started packing a bag. I arranged for a cab to pick me up at 12:30. I didn't eat anything, just drank water. At 10:30 I took another pill and laid down for about 45 minutes. I got a call from the cabbie that he was at my front door at 12:15. I went right down and gave him the address to the doctor's office. I didn't mind being early because I knew that I was going to have to fill out papers. I did and was sent downstairs to Dr. Perez's office right on time. I was in a wheel chair, 'cause walking was very painful. I went in to an examining room and a few minutes later, Dr. Perez came in. He was looking over my chart from the stay in the hospital and asked if I was still in much pain. I said yes. He said that my gall bladder was indeed going to have to come out, but that we could do it one of two ways. He could treat me as an outpatient and then do a laparoscopic removal in a couple of weeks, or I could go into the hospital immediately and they would do the surgery as soon as they could get me into the rotate. My answer was to throw up all over the floor. I did manage to get to the sink for most of it. Dr. Perez said that he was going to call the hospital to arrange for a room and he sent a nurse in to help me. I got myself cleaned up from my just-in-case bag and the nurse helped me call a cab, which took me directly to St. James.
Once I got to the hospital, they admitted me. I looked for my phone card in order to call Mom, but I couldn't find it. The young lady working with me asked for Mom's phone number and she dialed it for me. I told Mom that I was being admitted and what room I was going to be in. I also told her that I had forgotten my phone card so I wasn't sure how often I could call her. She said get a pen and gave me her calling card info and told me to use it. She had over 1000 minutes on the card and not to worry about it. It was like she gave me a life-line when I got that number. A few minutes later, an orderly showed up to wheel me to my room. The nurses got me settled in and got an IV started. I settled in to await my surgery.
More later.
Friday, July 13, 2007
I'M BACK!!!
I actually finally managed to find my way back to this blog that I started in 2006. It was just a coincidence that I saw the blogspot.com website this morning, while I was checking out a quilt top made by one of the ladies who posts on the HGTV message boards. As I was looking at her pictures, I realized that they were part of her blog page, and it stirred my memory, so I tried logging on and discovered that my previous posts were still here!
So, what's been happening since I was last here - a whole lot. It started in May 2006 when I got laid off from my job at a law firm in Chicago. The firm had had a great 2005 and settled four major litigation cases. The bonuses that year were great. Unfortunately, as those cases wrapped up, it became very apparent that there were going to be a lot of attorneys with no work to do, and the firm decided to counsel about twenty attorneys to find jobs elsewhere. I lost one of my attorney, a fourth year associate. She was pretty much out of the office by November of 2005, but still on the payroll until February of 2006. My workload dropped. Then, in April, I started noticing that the partner that I had worked with for nearly nine years had started having "mysterious" lunches with other law firms. He announced that he would be leaving the firm on May 4. He told me that he could not take me with him at that time. I said not to worry about it because I had five years in at that firm and really wanted to stay there until I retired. So he left having been assured that I would be okay.
Three days later, on a Tuesday afternoon, I was to meet with the folks in HR. I figured it was to get my new assignment. Instead, I was informed that I was to be terminated as of May 12, the next Friday. I was given a settlement package that would be mine only if I agreed not to sue because of my separation. I was more than a little upset. You see, I was scheduled to have a gastric bypass surgery on June 6. The good news was that the firm was offering to pay the Cobra payments on my medical for six full months (the end of November) as part of my settlement. Needless to say, I didn't sign anything that day. The firm had my computer turned off while I was meeting with HR, so I couldn't even make copies of my personal stuff to take with me. I had to tell them what I wanted and they put it on a cd for me, which was shipped with the boxes of my personal stuff the following week. I went home immediately after the meeting and started calling My attorneys (the partner and associate that I used to work with).
The partner (Jeff) was absolutely pissed when he found out that I had been let go. He had been told by HR the previous week that I would be taken care of. The associate (Myra) was totally angry with the firm. Her fiance is a labor lawyer, so she had me talk to him to discuss what my options were. His advise was to get out of the office immediately, then wait a week before signing any documents. I was going to be paid for all of the vacation time I had coming, but I would not be paid for the 19 hours of personal time that I still had available. So, I went into the office on Wednesday (where, by the way, I was not allowed to discuss my termination with anyone). I finished packing up the rest of Jeff's files, then when my nosy neighbors left, I started packing up my personal stuff and putting the boxes in Jeff's old office. By 6:10, I had finished everything, so I took a bag of stuff with me and left five boxes in Jeff's office. Before leaving, I left a voice-mail message for the head of HR, telling her that "on advice of counsel" I was using 14 hours of the personal time that I had coming to cover Thursday and Friday, and that she would find the boxes of my personal stuff to be messengered to my home in Jeff's old office. I then left and caught the 6:38 train home.
The HR lady called me on Friday morning about getting the documents signed. I told her that my attorney was reviewing them and that we would be making a decision on how to proceed in a few days. I would let her know then what my plans were. She sounded a little shaken. You see, the firm was hoping that I'd just take what they offered without any discussion. When I let them know that I had contacted an employment lawyer, they were more than a little upset. If I had been able to afford it, I could have sued them for age discrimination, discrimination against the disabled, and illegal termination due to health problems. If I could have afforded it, I would have tied them up in litigation for several years, costing them thousands of dollars in legal fees, as well as most likely forcing them to pay me considerably more than they were offering. In the end, I just made them wait a week and a half before signing the documents. That was the beginning of one of the most horrible summers of my life, but that's for another post. I've got to get going for now. Later, all.
So, what's been happening since I was last here - a whole lot. It started in May 2006 when I got laid off from my job at a law firm in Chicago. The firm had had a great 2005 and settled four major litigation cases. The bonuses that year were great. Unfortunately, as those cases wrapped up, it became very apparent that there were going to be a lot of attorneys with no work to do, and the firm decided to counsel about twenty attorneys to find jobs elsewhere. I lost one of my attorney, a fourth year associate. She was pretty much out of the office by November of 2005, but still on the payroll until February of 2006. My workload dropped. Then, in April, I started noticing that the partner that I had worked with for nearly nine years had started having "mysterious" lunches with other law firms. He announced that he would be leaving the firm on May 4. He told me that he could not take me with him at that time. I said not to worry about it because I had five years in at that firm and really wanted to stay there until I retired. So he left having been assured that I would be okay.
Three days later, on a Tuesday afternoon, I was to meet with the folks in HR. I figured it was to get my new assignment. Instead, I was informed that I was to be terminated as of May 12, the next Friday. I was given a settlement package that would be mine only if I agreed not to sue because of my separation. I was more than a little upset. You see, I was scheduled to have a gastric bypass surgery on June 6. The good news was that the firm was offering to pay the Cobra payments on my medical for six full months (the end of November) as part of my settlement. Needless to say, I didn't sign anything that day. The firm had my computer turned off while I was meeting with HR, so I couldn't even make copies of my personal stuff to take with me. I had to tell them what I wanted and they put it on a cd for me, which was shipped with the boxes of my personal stuff the following week. I went home immediately after the meeting and started calling My attorneys (the partner and associate that I used to work with).
The partner (Jeff) was absolutely pissed when he found out that I had been let go. He had been told by HR the previous week that I would be taken care of. The associate (Myra) was totally angry with the firm. Her fiance is a labor lawyer, so she had me talk to him to discuss what my options were. His advise was to get out of the office immediately, then wait a week before signing any documents. I was going to be paid for all of the vacation time I had coming, but I would not be paid for the 19 hours of personal time that I still had available. So, I went into the office on Wednesday (where, by the way, I was not allowed to discuss my termination with anyone). I finished packing up the rest of Jeff's files, then when my nosy neighbors left, I started packing up my personal stuff and putting the boxes in Jeff's old office. By 6:10, I had finished everything, so I took a bag of stuff with me and left five boxes in Jeff's office. Before leaving, I left a voice-mail message for the head of HR, telling her that "on advice of counsel" I was using 14 hours of the personal time that I had coming to cover Thursday and Friday, and that she would find the boxes of my personal stuff to be messengered to my home in Jeff's old office. I then left and caught the 6:38 train home.
The HR lady called me on Friday morning about getting the documents signed. I told her that my attorney was reviewing them and that we would be making a decision on how to proceed in a few days. I would let her know then what my plans were. She sounded a little shaken. You see, the firm was hoping that I'd just take what they offered without any discussion. When I let them know that I had contacted an employment lawyer, they were more than a little upset. If I had been able to afford it, I could have sued them for age discrimination, discrimination against the disabled, and illegal termination due to health problems. If I could have afforded it, I would have tied them up in litigation for several years, costing them thousands of dollars in legal fees, as well as most likely forcing them to pay me considerably more than they were offering. In the end, I just made them wait a week and a half before signing the documents. That was the beginning of one of the most horrible summers of my life, but that's for another post. I've got to get going for now. Later, all.
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