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The Parathyroid
Adventure
I’m participating in the Insecure Writer’s Support Group Blog Hop. This is my first post. What am I insecure about? Mostly of what/where/when to promote. I’m an indie author and all marketing is on my
shoulders. I’ve tried a plethora of avenues: ShoutLife, Twitter, Facebook,
LinkedIn, GoodReads, Google Plus, forums, interviews, emails, book signings,
newspapers, book trailers, business cards - and this is only the beginning.
Plus, I’m also supposed to find the time to write.
And in the meantime life happens.
Such as my husband being diagnosed six months ago with
parathyroid disease. I’m curious. How many of you have heard of this? I hadn’t.
Thyroid disease, yes, but not parathyroid.
For years he complained of extreme exhaustion, mental
confusion, grogginess. Last summer he knew something was wrong other than just
‘growing older’. Since there were still several months until his yearly checkup
with the VA doctor, we visited a walk-in clinic. Labs were performed. The nurse
practitioner made the statement, “Your blood calcium is a little high but it
appears your thyroid is a bit out of whack.” She prescribed medication.
The symptoms remained and my husband felt no better.
When the time came for his annual with the VA, the doctor
noted, “Your calcium has risen for the last three years that I’ve seen you.
Let’s take more tests.” A chest x-ray was ordered, an EKG, a 24-hour urine
specimen.
This alerted me that obviously too high blood calcium was
not a good thing so I went searching on the internet. And sure enough, the
doctor confirmed what I learned - the culprit was more than likely a tumor on
one of the parathyroid glands.
The diagnosis meant even more tests. A bone scan/density,
ultrasound, nuclear medicine. And the tumor was found on the lower right side
of his neck. To be cured, surgery is the only option.
With the VA you’re scheduled only as they’re able to fit you
in. Though the four-month wait was bad enough, the distance we had to travel to
Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville was worse. The continual trips grew
exhausting.
Before I relate of the events of April 18, 2013, let me
state right here: Everyone at the hospital was fantastic. Each doctor, nurse,
technician, volunteer -anyone that I asked for help willingly and patiently
gave their assistance. And I thank them all.
April 17 - The night before surgery. While we rested in a
motel room about 20 miles away, we watched the local Nashville news. Yikes,
there was a bomb scare only about a block from Vanderbilt Hospital.
My husband had to fast after midnight. He doesn’t do fasts
well. Next morning, light-headed and weak, he drove to Vanderbilt. And we met
gridlock traffic. Miles of cars on each enter ramp fought to merge into our
lane. What should have been a 30 to 40 minute drive took an hour and a
half.
Knowing fore-casted severe storms threatened later that
evening (we would spend the night in Nashville), we sought a parking garage to
shelter our car. We chose the only one we saw across the street. No attendant
was anywhere to be found. The money machine said each business day started at
midnight. Another driver walked up to pay for his parking slot and we explained
our situation, asking were we supposed to be present at midnight to feed the
machine its required $10??? He suggested we get a permit from the hospital.
Once we arrived at the information desk, what do we learn
but that Vanderbilt has their very own parking garage for free and the covered
walkway connects right to the hospital.
Hubby walked back to where we left the car and spent fifteen
minutes driving around on the different levels as he sought to find the ‘exit’.
Before his check-in, we visited a social worker office. We
inquired for assistance with booking a motel that night. She said she couldn’t do
that unless and until he actually became admitted. (the surgery was termed as
out-patient) But we were assured that shuttles ran continuously to deliver us
to the downtown hotels.
Nothing to do then except to check-in. Surgery was scheduled
for noon and about ten minutes past they called us to pre-op. Hubby scowled
when he learned that he had to strip off and wear the famous split-tail gown.
When he wrapped that cloth around him, plus plopped on the ridiculous
shower-type cap, and having a face full of unshaved whiskers, I collapsed to my
knees in helpless laughter. Because my cell phone didn’t have a camera, that
was a missed Kodak moment.
Male nurses came in, asked all the usual questions, hooked
him up to wires connected to machines that beeped, buzzed, and blinged. At
fifteen minutes to one they wheeled him to the operating room.
I had no choice but to sit where they directed me. Waiting
in the main lobby where all the busy traffic of family, veterans, vendors, and
service dogs meet in one noisome knot is sheer Babylon to a hearing-impaired
person like myself. And I’m supposed to listen for a surgeon’s phone call in
all that chaos?
Yet I did hear a voice over the PA system call, “Code Red.
Code Red.”
And I wondered what the ‘red’ meant. Not another bomb scare?
Five minutes later three uniformed police officers arrived.
Tensed and alert, I sat and watched. If orders came to evacuate the building,
how in the world could I reach my husband in the operating room?
But the officers merely chatted and laughed with a couple of
employees. The PA system announced, “Code Red is all clear. Repeat. Code Red is
all clear.”
I was told the surgery would last for an hour up to an hour
and a half. Time crawled by and I continually glanced at my watch. When two hours
passed, I approached the information desk.
“Is there any way I can find out if my husband is out of
surgery?”
“Let’s check on that,” the man said and dialed a number on
the telephone. He replaced the receiver and said, “He’s still in surgery. Just
sit tight.”
I again looked at my watch. It showed fifteen till four.
After another fifteen minutes, I again asked the man for any
information. He dialed the same number and then said, “He’s in recovery. The
surgeon is on the way to speak with you.”
I sighed in relief. Sure enough, the young surgeon stepped
out of the elevator and came over. She said everything in surgery went well,
that my husband’s PTH was now at normal and he should only be in recovery for
perhaps an hour and then be released.
Again, I waited. The lobby cleared out as visitors and
employees left for the day. The helpful man at the desk also disappeared. I was
alone except for an occasional volunteer who strolled by.
The recovery room was supposed to call when they were ready
for me. I scooted a chair over next to the desk so I’d be able to see the line
light up.
A volunteer saw me and asked if she could help. I answered I
was waiting for news from the recovery. She called for me and then reported,
“He’s having a hard time waking up. It’ll be a few more minutes.”
I grew anxious. An hour had already gone by and he wasn’t
awake good enough?
Another volunteer stopped and asked if she could help. Three
times a phone call to recovery was made. Finally, a male volunteer said he’d
take me down and allow me to speak with a nurse. That’s exactly what I wanted
to do!
The nurse assured me my husband was fine, that he was fully
awake and coherent. The only thing he needed to do was to urinate.
I could imagine myself throttling my husband and demanding,
“You’re worrying me to death just because you aren’t using a bottle? Do it! Do
it, do it!!!”
At least this time I was banished to a waiting room only a
couple of doors down. About 20 minutes later I received the call - hubby passed
the urine test!
Though awake, he felt awful. Because of how they must have
positioned him on the operating table, his neck killed him. Another volunteer
wheeled him to pharmacy to pick up his pain medication, then she left us at the
front doors and called for the downtown shuttle.
The hotel was probably three or four blocks away and the
drive no more then ten or fifteen minutes.
We waited for two hours!
A different volunteer called twice, I made 3 phone calls of
my own. Hubby was in torment. He needed to lie down, but he was forced to
remain upright. What kept that blasted driver???
It was now about 7 p.m. I saw a man walking from the parking
lot and recognized his employee badge. I grabbed him and asked for help. He was
in disbelief that we’d waited so long. He wheeled us to the Emergency
department and had the worker there to call, once again, for the driver.
It took almost an hour -and a couple of repeat calls- before
the van pulled up. This driver said he’d only received the call, so why the
other driver ignored our calls, I don’t know. This driver was helpful and
sympathetic.
Finally, finally, with dusk closing in, we reached the
hotel. I’d tried to make a reservation earlier in the day but -you guessed it-
I wasn’t in the system. I said, “Just please give us a room. I don’t care
where, we just need one.”
We got on the top floor, the fourth floor and -do you
believe it- the elevator didn’t work!
Poor hubby, weak from hunger, weak from surgery, weak from
pain, forced his legs to carry him up those flights of stairs. When I opened
the door, I met darkness and cold air. It took several minutes groping in the
dark to find a light switch. After flipping the temp control to heat, I helped
eased hubby down on a bed. It was 8:10 before this man was able to get the rest
he so needed.
So what does this parathyroid adventure have to do with
insecure writing? Let me say this:
I’ll gladly handle the promotion/marketing insecurity of a
writing job any old day as compared to the stress and worry of out-of-town/bomb
scare/code red/garage hunting/urine
testing/shuttle-driver-nowhere-to-be-found/elevator-not-working event that I
endured on April 18.
And, oh…good thing we decided against a shower in that hotel
room. There was no hot water.
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