The Anniversary of the Worst Week of My Life
Last week marked the one-year anniversary of the first week of dialysis. Last year at this time, I had already heard if I did nothing, I would be dead by early June. Those words and the data from my nephrologist encouraged me into dialysis.Dialysis required surgery for an access. The access was a tesio catheter where one port went to the right ventricle of my heart and the other was spliced into my jugular vein. At the beginning of the worst week, I remember waiting all afternoon to speak with the vascular surgeon who was to perform the operation. The surgeon was held up in surgery. Waiting in his waiting room were many other people being held up - literally. As I looked around, I noticed I was the youngest person in the room and one of the few without a walker. This would be my first experience of skewing the age curve in waiting rooms and clinics.
After a two-hour wait, the receptionist entered the waiting room to announce the surgeon was having some “complications” in surgery and he would be another couple of hours before returning to the office. Hearing that the surgeon was having some “complications” did not do much to encourage some of us in the waiting room. Heads turned to loved ones to weigh the thought of waiting another couple of hours. Half the room ambled out within ten minutes. I wanted to walk out, but it was impressed upon me I had to start dialysis and the only way to do it was to have this surgery and the only way to have this surgery was to meet with the surgeon first. (I appreciate the concept that it is always a good thing to actually meet the person who plans to cut on you before you meet them in the operating room. Not that you will see the person cutting on you, but it is a nice thought that perhaps the surgeon will remember you and remember what needs to be done rather than just being “next” on the schedule and hope you have been wheeled into the correct OR and they will perform the correct operation on you.)
After another three hours, the surgeon arrived. A five hour delay takes its toll on a schedule and as we entered evening only an elderly man was in the waiting room with me. He went first and after another 30 or so minutes, I took my turn. At the end of the appointment, I had a surgery time. Little did I know, this would be the first of many waiting times.
The surgery was two days later. It was scheduled for 9:00 am. However, at 10:00 am I was still in waiting mode in the pre-op room. Finally around noon I was rolled into the OR area. It was an area with gurney after gurney lined up ready to be shoved into the appropriate OR.
At around 1:00 pm, after waiting in formation for an hour, the anesthesiologist came by to check on me. My anesthesiologist turned out to be the son of my sons’ pediatrician. I tried to talk him into telling me that I looked good enough and there was no need to start dialysis. My denial of the situation did not transfer to the medical community. After our conversation, he offered me “a little something to take the edge off” and I agreed to take a trip to la-la land.
Whatever he gave me was great. I woke up around 3:00 pm and began to feel my chest to see what had been done only to discover nothing had been done. I was still waiting. I wanted to ask him for another round when my surgeon appeared. It was now my time.
His nurse slowly guided my gurney into the OR and I knew this was the end of my denial. This was also the end of how I was to ever live life without some sort of assistance. From that moment on, I would never be able to sustain myself without the assistance of a machine or a donated organ and tons of drugs. It is amazing how with one short trip life can be altered forever.
Unfortunately, I was awake to remember the extremely cold feel of a metal operating room table on my backside, but before the cold steel could heat up enough for my comfort, I got another round of the lights out drugs. The next thing I remember was the incredible pain in my chest as I was coming back to consciousness. I remember feeling my chest to discover the two tubes hanging out. These two tubes would be the tethers to a dialysis machine and the only way I would be able to live long enough to have a transplant.
The rest of the day was pretty much a blur as I attempted to replicate lights out with the little pills offered upon departure from the hospital.
The next morning found me in a dialysis clinic submitting to the new reality that life was in a free fall and only these machines would be able to slow and steady the fall. I remember walking in the clinic and ushered through the protocol and procedures. Looking around, once again, my presence skewed the age. Many of the people were very elderly. Under my breath, I would refer to the clinic as “St. Peter’s Waiting Room” as I was sure the next venue for many was demise. It was my first recognition that I was on life support.
I don’t remember being fearful, but resolved. Resolved that this is the next phase of what I must do to stay alive. The clinic staff has made mention that I was the calmest new patient they had ever worked with. They asked me why I thought I was so calm in such a time of turmoil and trauma. It was a time to share about faith and sovereignty.
The first day of dialysis was short, only two hours. The following treatment was a three-hour episode the next treatment was four hours and it started the Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday schedule. It was only a week, but through the worst week of my life, I felt hurled and squeezed through a threshold that landed me in a seat in a dialysis unit.
It has been a year since that worst week and things are much better. Initial testing last week showed the donated kidney is functioning well – as long as it is helped with a couple of handfuls of drugs twice a day. People have puzzled over taking so many pills. But I tell them it could be worse.
posted by Jeff Waldo @ 1:12 PM
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