WESTMINSTER WEST — “You'd really do that?” I had asked the night nurse. You'd make me an English muffin and a hot cup of tea?”
It was 4:30 on the third morning of my 10-day hospital sojourn. I was starved, and breakfast was many hours away.
She soon reappeared with muffin and tea, and left me munching wearily, in a rare, quiet moment. I thought, Dear Lord, please - bless her forever and ever as I sipped the warming brew.
Would I have prayed like that before all this? It was uncertain how much longer I'd have to remain in the hospital.
It was uncertain if I would leave alive.
* * *
This surreal hospital adventure, so to speak, began after my general practitioner in Brattleboro had conveyed the results of my rushed bloodwork and X-rays while I was lying on her exam table.
“You are going to Dartmouth-Hitchcock emergency room, straightaway” said the doctor. “No, you can't go home and get clothes - your partner is driving you there now.”
There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice. My bloodwork showed extreme levels - one result was more than 200 times beyond a normal level.
The physicians at Dartmouth-Hitchcock had been consulted, and were ready to assess, identify, and treat what appeared to be a massive infection spreading fast throughout my body. And the quick response of my medical team at Brattleboro Memorial Hospital would turn out to be essential to keeping me alive.
I was a ticking time bomb.
* * *
Sitting in the car, I could not help but think about the irony. So focused on a rampant public virus, a lurking personal bacteria was not on my radar.
I had eagerly gotten my Covid-19 vaccines and booster. Masks, hand sanitizer, and social distancing were our accepted norm. And here I was: healthy one day, on death's door the next - and not from Covid!
The infection had developed over several days at home. As it grew, so did my agony. With fear now in the mix, the pain was blazing in full color by the time we reached Lebanon, N.H. Like the results of my blood tests, my pain levels were off the charts.
In the ER, the suggestion of morphine was startling. My brother was on morphine while dying of cancer. I wasn't dying, was I?
The nurse gently assuaged my fears.
I watched, quietly wondering, as the medicating liquid flowed through the tubes into my arm.
It began doing its job.
* * *
Throughout the next week, first in the ER and then in my hospital room, different medical teams would appear at all hours. Because the infection was presenting in such an unusual way, identifying the bacteria was going to be a challenge.
Doctors would huddle around looking at the hot, swollen areas on my body, listening to my heart and my lungs, questioning me to glean some clue. Sometimes they shared the latest test results with me, along with their revised theories.
They kept asking their teams: What would cause a healthy, active 69-year-old woman to suddenly develop a severe, life-threatening systemic infection?
Their answer would be key to my survival.
* * *
While the doctors investigated, my mind raced. What could it be, this horrid bug wreaking havoc inside me?
Worst case: Meet me, “Patient Zero,” with some new untreatable disease, who would end up dying - along with scads of other people. No, not good.
Best case: Assume the bacteria is on a long list of usual suspects, throw a “kitchen sink” of toxic antibiotics at it, and hope that one finds the nasty bug - killing it, not me.
The doctors decided that a heavy-duty broad-spectrum intravenous antibiotic might give us all some breathing space while they searched for answers.
* * *
Meanwhile, my household had been turned on its head. Covid-19 restrictions allowed only one visitor per day, so my partner and daughter covered the visits as they could manage.
My older daughter, who lives out of state, kept in touch daily, sending texts and videos of my grandsons. Schedules were adjusted, time found, jobs put on hold to provide support - a heartwarming silver lining around a very dark cloud.
Everyone knew the truth of the matter. This was serious, and there was no guarantee I would survive the week.
Over hospital dinner trays one evening, my daughter leaned toward me, quietly saying, “Mom, I think it's time we had 'the talk.'”
I knew what she meant. This had to be so hard for her. My will and advance directive both needed some updating.
I thought for a moment, looking at this 39-year-old woman, wondering: Where did the time go? I saw this single mom with a toddler, this marvelous sixth-grade teacher, this amazing human being. I always loved her straightforward approach to life - and now to death.
“Yes, there are some changes I'd like to make,” I said, with a steady voice in a most deadpan way. “I have decided, I don't want to be buried in the backyard.”
“Well, that's a big relief!” she exclaimed, and threw up her hands.
We both burst out laughing.
Yes, what a huge relief. I sighed, as she pulled out a notebook.
* * *
I underwent a barrage of tests: X-rays, ultra-sound, CT scans, MRIs, echocardiograms, IR aspirations. They probed deeply into every square inch of my body.
The abscesses were pervasive inside me - even in my bones - and not pretty. They found nothing conclusive and eliminated MRSA, HIV, herpes, sexually transmitted infections, rheumatoid arthritis. Covid, too.
While a nurse prepped me for a third CT scan, I wondered aloud if I would end up glowing in the dark.
The nurse chuckled.
“I'm here all day, every day of my shift; I still sleep with a nightlight,” she said. “I glow when I smile, though.” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled under her N95 mask.
* * *
A couple of days after I was admitted, my roommate was moved. I was informed that my semi-private room had been blocked to incoming patients because of “staff shortages.”
The daytime RN arched an eyebrow when she told me the news. Having no roommate bordered on the miraculous, considering the surge of Covid patients.
Hmmm... maybe my imagination wasn't so far off. I didn't dare question the gift. My somewhat peaceful isolation lasted for nearly four days.
* * *
At first, the nurses' rounds had been annoying - they would burst into the room at all hours of the day and night. But their intrusions gradually became a calming balm, a welcomed reassurance, especially on the days I was alone.
The nurses were my advocates - inquiring about delayed procedures, paging busy doctors, arranging for meals whenever my pre-procedure fasting was lifted, cheering as I walked the hallway for the first time on my own.
They cared.
A traveling nurse at the end of her stint at Dartmouth said in a lovely, soft Southern drawl, “My, you look all comfy, perched in that chair.”
“That chair” was a recliner, my makeshift bed. I had nabbed it after escaping the hospital's alarm-wired, push button, adjustable contraption the night before.
With a few well-placed pillows, the chair fit my small, hurting body perfectly. And I could sleep.
She pointed to the hospital bed.
“You know, I slept in one of those when we got trapped at work during Hurricane Ida in Florida,” the nurse said. “They are sooo lumpy, and for all they cost - baah!”
“I'll get you some more pillows,” she said.
* * *
The outer world was in the throes of a third wave of Covid, and every hospital was filling up. New visitor restrictions were expected any day.
“They are turning this wing into a Covid unit,” the day nurse relayed quietly to me, staring straight at the computer screen as she entered her notes. As I heard her sigh, I felt her deep fatigue. They had all been through this before.
There were rooms in my unit with big red Xs taped on the glass windows - occupied; no entrance without PPE.
The continuous death and dying was here. Again.
* * *
Unfortunately, my mystery bug fell into the 30-percent bracket of cases: those that would not be identified. However, the doctors narrowed the antibiotic field and selected the best weapon to use against the beast.
Over the remaining days, my stats got closer to normal ranges, and I made enough progress to discuss going home.
For all the treatment's effectiveness, these bacteria were still lurking in hard-to-get places. The doctors warned me that the bug had truly done a number on my old bod. Further healing would require weeks-long bed rest along with home-infused antibiotics.
Even if the infection were to be totally eradicated - which we all hoped - a full recovery would take many months.
Worry would follow me home, but I was - thankfully - alive.
* * *
My experience opened my eyes; my last days in the hospital allowed me to see.
Memories would likely fade and meld together, yet I knew the nurses would remain as indelible images. Their faces were always masked, but I witnessed the genuine caring and compassion for every patient they encountered. I doubt I could have held a veritable stranger in such patience and love. These nurses do, day and night.
The Dartmouth-Hitchcock doctors had saved my life! I am forever grateful to them. The nurses and others on the support staff had saved my sanity.
I was discharged a few hours before the new visitor restrictions went into effect. The hospital was closing off public access to manage the mounting, infectious influx.
The dread was palpable.
* * *
As I tried to say goodbye to the nurses and other staff clustered around the unit's main desk, I faltered.
These beloved folks were about to do battle with a micro-fiend far worse than mine. They had no weapons, no medicine to combat it. There was no cure.
I nodded, tears building up, and put my hand to my heart.
In my mind they stood, dressed in their PPE whites - masked, shielded, and prepped. I knew them all: Hanna, Eric, Caitlyn, Nancy, Madison, Allyson, Olivia, Brad, and a dozen others.
What could I say? What can any of us say?
One “thank you” - or a thousand - will never be enough.