Death by Christmas Lights Saga III

Despite heavy doses of high-power antibiotics, my arm continued to swell and become even deeper purple until it looked more like it belonged to the popular kids’ show character Barney the Dinosaur than me. My temperature still spiked periodically.  My health continued its downward spiral.  Dr. Irvine decided on Friday night to take me to the operating room for an intra-operative incision and drainage on Saturday morning.

Hospital transport wheeled me to the OR the next morning.  They placed me in a private pre-op holding room.  My wife by my side holding my hand, provided comfort, strength, courage, and most of all love.  Through her touch, I heard “You better come back to me.  We need you.”  

A nurse fluttered around the room prepping me for surgery. The anesthesiologist joined us briefly asking me about previous surgeries, allergies to medications, any history of adverse drug reactions.  All to which I replied “no, except for an ‘appy’ (medicaleese for appendectomy) in 2002”.  Dr. Irvine came in briefly to answer any last minute questions.  A kiss on the forehead from My wife, and the procession to the OR began.

Even though I had been a surgeon-in-training in my “previous life” and had been involved in hundreds of surgical procedures, most much more serious than what I was about to experience, a small part of me felt fear. My thoughts and concerns were less about fear of not surviving the surgery, but rather how my family would go on living if I didn’t.  As my procession passed through the large wooden automatic double doors into the OR suite, my coherent narrative ends thanks to the preoperative sedative administered by the anesthesiologist prior to leaving my holding room.

Looking down at my arm when I woke from surgery and once the anesthesia had worn off, two things relieved me. The first, I was still alive.  The second, my arm no longer looked like it belonged to Barney but a plumper, pinker version of me.  Hospital transport returned me to my room and the “real fun” began.  By “real fun” I'm not referring to the daily physical therapy sessions or the uncomfortable sleepless nights with my arm elevated, pointing to the ceiling in the modified IV pole sling.

Antibiotics not only kill bad bacteria, like the presumed staphylococcus that was attacking me, they also kill good bacteria we need to maintain life.  Bacteria live in everyone’s intestinal tracts facilitating digestion and absorption of nutrients, i.e. food.  Much to most people's surprise -and sometimes disgust- bacteria is necessary to live.   Antibiotics can cause the healthy balance of the normal bacteria residing in the colon to become altered.  When this happens antibiotic associated diarrhea develops, resulting in a watery, frequent, and sometimes explosive diarrhea.  Being a mobility challenged person, I have difficulty outrunning the “runs” as it is.  Giving them a head start is just unfair and downright sucks!  

The first few times I found myself in the position of needing help with the “mess” I had just made of myself, my bed, and sometimes the floor was mortifyingly embarrassing.  After a while I resigned myself to the fact that it was outside of my control, a humbling experience.  I just had to accept that I needed these often times young, cute nurses to run washcloths all over my backside, perineum, and genitals, areas that I had reserved only for my wife. A concept to which my good friend, the older brother I never had, and best man, Don, later said, “Damn, I’d be shittin’ constantly”.