And Healing Begins Again - My Hospital Journey Continues

Plus an evolution on whether I think "everything happens for a reason"

Greetings all- I know it’s been a difficult couple last posts. Life sometimes serves up plot twists we just don’t ever see coming. Start on this entry to catch up: read here.

But from here on out, things get better… healing begins again.

And I have a newfound vision on what “happens for a reason” in life…

Thank you, Levi, for these beautiful photos.

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Part 3 - Bring On Healing

The updated pain schedule allows for good sleep in two hour increments. Only the phantom tube, haunts me. Outside my sleep-mask, I feel the tube that’s no longer there bizarrely protruding from nose. It wakes and startles me until I reassure myself of its absence.

As the sun rises, the sensation goes away but the pounding headache remains.

I can tell my gentle giant nurse doesn’t want to give me more Dilauded - but nothing else is prescribed until my hematologist drops in.

My hematologist Dr. Rhodes and my nephrologist Dr. Sherif aka my medical “Hall and Oates” have been hovering quite a bit over the whole affair, consulting and making sure this patient they’ve worked very hard to keep alive doesn’t go south.

They visit each day and sometimes twice a day in the maelstrom - which helps me to not worry about my kidneys or my disease.

But additionally, Dr. Rhodes gets me a migraine medicine which finally relieves my headache. The sweet solace instantly improves my mood.

I can now get up, look at my phone, and feel human again.

Even better, the surgery team has given me plaza privileges and I get to see July today.

Two year olds are not allowed on the hospital floor. Most children are not allowed. Which breaks my heart a bit.

But she is allowed to visit me outside. Sidenote: Hey, Cedars, how about installing a small playground?? Just a thought!

I hadn’t talked to July since saying goodbye in the emergency room Sunday before dawn. Now it was Tuesday.

I couldn’t speak well with the NG Tube and I didn’t want to FaceTime her with it - way too scary for a two year old. But now, I was craving her so badly. I needed her as much, if not more, than she needs me.

My dear pal Levi brings me lavender tea and rolls me down to the lobby of the hospital where Zach waits with a rambunctious July. The lobby is busy with a volunteer playing lulling sonatas on the grand piano.

July sees me, but I sense her hesitation. I don’t look well. I’m in a wheelchair with IV’s coming out of my arms and neck. I’m puffy and attached to fluids going into my neck complete with medical tape on my cheek. My hair is in messy braids and my arms are covered in bruises and blood draw sites.

She runs a lap to the gift shop and back and hides behind Zach as I greet her. I grab her small hand and she begins to soften to my presence.

When our hands touch, the comfort memory in our cells is stronger than the scary look of sick mommy.

As a team we roll outside, Levi on my IV pole and Zach pushing the chair with July’s tiny help. We move together like a stumbly machine, so wide we create a cumbersome traffic jam - no one can walk through the sliding entrance doors when we attempt to go through.

But we make it to a table on the cool plaza outside the Starbucks. The usually sunny Los Angeles sky is grey and on the edge of a drizzle. Zach runs to the coffee shop for a snack, leaving July and Levi with me on the patio.

I spy one of the surgical residents on my team and we wave. He smiles at July who’s crawling around on the benches. She is very curious about doctors these days.

I feel a longing for her. A pulling toward her like my sense of gravity has shifted and she’s my new earth’s core. I just want to scoop her up and hold her, but I know I can’t yet.

“Come hold my hand, would you?” I call to her. “Have a seat next to me.”

She awkwardly gets into the chair and we chat a bit as I hold her hand.

“I missed you so much. Did you miss me?”

She nods.

“Was it scary to leave mommy at the hospital?”

“Yes, scary.”

“But now you can see, I’m okay and I’ll be home soon,” I say wondering if any of this is making her feel better. “Sometimes people have to go to the hospital, but then the doctors fix them and they go home.”

We all know that’s a half truth, but my goal is reassurance and she doesn’t understand the concept of death fully just yet.

I put my hands on my heart and I tell her to do the same. Her little hands cover her Minnie Mouse shirt.

“Whenever you miss me, just put your hands on your heart and think of me. And know, I’m doing the same.”

She says with a smile, “I feel mommy on my heart!”

“I’m always with you.”

Meanwhile, Levi tears up as witness to this tender family moment. I wish I could lay claim to the idea of the hands-on-the-heart idea - but it came from my brilliant hospital chaplain and friend, Reverend Peggy.

I asked her for some wisdom since she often works with children and she suggested it to help comfort us both. Holding your hands on your heart is relieving to the brain on a neurological level.

As the chilly air starts to penetrate my thin hospital gown, despite a blanket and a pillow on my lap, Zach returns and wraps his coat around me and I sip on warm tea.

July snacks and is her easy self again, but I know our time is short. I feel the pull and tug of pain begin in my body. I eye Zach scarfing down a ham and cheese croissant and say, I’m not sure how long I can stay. This is has been the longest I’ve sat up in days post abdominal surgery and along with the pain comes exhaustion.

But goodbye is hard.

“I don’t want you to leave!” she argues in her little furtive voice. It’s clear she didn’t realize this visit would end.

“I don’t want to leave you either. But I promise I’ll be home soon.”

Zach chirps up with “Hey, how about ice cream??!”

“YEAH!” And she is lured with him into a cafe as Levi rolls me back to the 8th floor.

When I return, I’m both emotionally and physically depleted. I thank Levi for his help and my life-long friend Barbara arrives.

The nurse gives me another dose of meds and I fall deeply asleep, knowing I don’t have to entertain Barbara. She performs Reiki on me and floats over me like an angel keeping watch.

I’ve talked being about how I don’t think these medical catastrophes and challenges happen for a reason. But I want to amend that idea a small bit.

I do think love and support happens for a reason. Barbara, Levi, Tori, Chaplain Peggy, everyone who watched July so Zach could be with me, my dedicated medical team, our whole community of support - they all are here with us because of love. And I desperately hope I can make everyone proud and pay it forward.

They are my good karma. And for every moment of bad luck and unfairness, they are love in action showing up to combat the dark and the scary.

And as I dream away, healing, I am so grateful for everyone who’s stepped up to help us.

And I thank you, reader, for being here as well.

I don’t know when exactly I’ll be home, but I know I’m on my way.

To be continued.

YOU MAY HAVE MISSED IT

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If you’re new here and wondering, “what happened to this lady?” read:

I started writing this when I was on dialysis. It’s intended to be both memoir and a practical tool to help folks who might be going through something similar or those caregivers and family supporting someone with a challenging diagnosis. NOTE: This is not intended to replace actual medical guidance. Please consult your doctors on your individual challenges and situations. Please talk to your clinicians before adjusting any of your care protocols. Also names have been changed for most of my medical staff.

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