Sometimes support and kindness comes when you aren’t expecting it and from the least likely of places. For me, it was yesterday in the ER.
It all started last Sunday. The dining room here was serving vichyssoise, a chilled soup made from cooked and puréed leeks, potatoes, onions, and cream. I’d been making hay all day with the line “they’re serving us VICIOUS soup for dinner.” I got a few smirks, but mostly I just got those nervous smiles people flash at those who are losing (or have lost) their marbles. Bottom line, I didn’t want the soup, and had planned all day on ordering delivery from Grubhub. Around 5pm, I settled on Denny’s: the “premium” chicken tenders dinner with honey-mustard dipping sauce; I chose sweet corn and long-grain wild rice as my two sides, mainly because I’m sick of getting fries with everything, and a vanilla-Oreo shake.
By 10 o’clock that night, my nightmare had begun. I was watching the last season of Broadchurch, an absolutely brilliant English crime drama that takes place in a small seaside town in Cornwall starring David Tennant and Olivia Coleman. I’d seen it before, I know how it ends, but the storytelling and the acting are so good it was, this time, as gripping as the first time I saw it. I got up to go to the toilet, and when I did, my bottom let go in a fashion I can only describe as a faucet.
My first thought was – well, that dinner wasn’t very good, and your body agrees; a little unpleasantness, and you’ll be on to your next adventure. But I didn’t sleep a wink that night; I was up every ten minutes making identical trips to the toilet, each time Niagara Falls coming out from under me. And I should point out that a “trip to the toilet” is not a simple, and by no means fast, endeavor for me; though its only about 25 feet from my recliner or bed, that’s a good 5 minute trip for me on my walker – that’s five minutes of sheer terror, thinking to myself “no not yet… no not yet… hold it… hold it… c’mon man, you can do this… don’t rush, you’ll fall and break your hip… oooooh ooooooh… hurry.” And this went on all night. I did have one “accident,” but a quick press of the button around my neck called our NOC (nocturnal caregiver who works 10pm-6am) who came and “cleaned me up.” I’m grateful, but you really don’t know embarrassment till you’ve had a 20-year-old wipe your bottom and put you in clean clothes. All the while saying, “it’s okay Mr. Matt, I got you.” Johnny’s a good kid.
By midday Monday, with no let up in sight, and amazed that I had that much inside me to expel, I concluded (without any medical training I should add) that I had food poisoning, and started to consult Dr. Internet. Everything I read indicated this was likely a 24-48 hour event, but cautioned that if it lasted beyond 48 hours to seek medical attention. So I settled in for the ride. Things had not improved by Tuesday, and I was beginning to feel very “weak.”
When Wednesday morning rolled around, my backside was still behaving like a firehose, after another early-morning visit from Johnny hours before. We’d passed the 48 hour mark, so I thought it best to get qualified medical advice beyond my Internet sleuthing. All of my doctors are part of the Eisenhower Health System here in the Coachella Valley. It’s not an HMO, but it behaves like one. There is a main campus the size of a small city in nearby Rancho Mirage, and offices, called satellites, throughout the valley. Everything and everyone is connected. There is a triage nurse available from 6am to 9pm by calling your doctor’s office and pressing 4. So that’s what I did. If you call from the phone you’ve registered with them, your call pulls up your complete medical file, med list, history, etc. for the nurse, and all you have to do is give him or her your 4-digit code and you can get right in to the purpose of your call without a lot of preamble to identify yourself.
I described my symptoms and their duration, she asked a few clarifying questions, then said, “you need to go to the ER on the main campus, I’ll alert the charge nurse you’re coming, there are three people ahead of you.” I texted the executive director of my assisted living facility and relayed this; she called in our driver two hours early to take me. When Ricky arrived, he was smiling, despite being dragged out of bed.
When I got to the ER, it was exactly as advertised. They took me into a staging area where a phlebotomist inserted an IV port, then took me to a room where a nurse was waiting with what she called “IV fluids.” That was begun immediately, and as she went about getting my vital signs and asking diagnostic questions in a friendly but thoroughly professional and reassuring manner, she said their biggest concern before they got to the root cause was that I was severely dehydrated, and she concluded, “the doctor will be in shortly to discuss the next step.”
Meanwhile, the phlebotomist returned and said she needed blood to send to the lab to help the doctor figure out what’s wrong. I said, “I’m really bad with needles.” She said, “well you’re in luck Mr. Wilkinson, cuz’ I’m really good with them.” After about a half hour, the doctor came in. There was nothing to indicate he was a doctor and not a janitor, but he had an air of confidence about him, so I assumed. He was not to my taste, but I’ll concede he was generically handsome (only a gay man in the ER hooked up to an IV with an uncooperative butt would assess the relative attractiveness of the healthcare provider charged with his treatment!).
He introduced himself as Dr. Watson. I chuckled. He said, “yah, I get that a lot.” He went on to say, “I’ve been reviewing your file with my resident, and I’d just like to say that anyone who presents with your medical history and is still smiling… well, I think you’re amazing.” I blushed. He said, “I’m not flirting… I just think you’re a cool guy.”
In spite of everything going on, and it’s still going on by the way, that made me feel great. He explained that there was something called adenovirus roaming around the Coachella Valley and that I’d likely picked it up, either from the food or from contact with an infected person. It affects either the respiratory system or the gastrointestinal track, and I was the lucky winner of the nonstop watery poo option. There is no direct treatment but to deal with the symptoms, so for me that means staying hydrated, replacing electrolytes, and taking a drug called Loperamide (which is really just a prescription form of over-the-counter Immodium in tablets) in concert with Metamucil to try to firm up my leavings. Oh, and I’m supposed to get plenty of rest.
He said if my symptoms last more than a week, or if I develop other symptoms like bloody diarrhea, abdominal cramps, fever, difficulty breathing, or dizziness (beyond my usual and quite characteristic dizziness), I should come back to the ER.
He added, “ask for Dr. Watson, you I’ll remember.”
With this post I’m actively trying to develop my “attitude of gratitude.” Life is a minefield full of negativity; it’s easy to become cynical, bitter, and angry. It only took one person, a doctor, a stranger no less, to remind me to turn my frown upside down and put a smile on my face. From Johnny cleaning up me and my poo-stained pajamas at 2 in the morning, to the triage nurse on the other end of the phone line, to our quick-responding director and driver snapping into action two hours before their work day was scheduled to begin, to the phlebotomist who put me at ease, to Ashley the nurse with her bag of IV fluids at the ready, to a friendly doctor who just made me “feel” better though nothing (except the rehydration) had actually changed, I am “blessed” – not by a deity granting divine favors for piety, purity, or prayerful persistence, but by ordinary people going about their day, and caring while they do.
I am not given over to nor suggesting a naïve pollyanaism. I just think its important to look for the good in the bad, and acknowledge it when you find it.
