Time and Words
Six months ago, today I went to the ER because I woke up in severe pain and unable to breathe.
It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest and I had a fever of nearly 103 degrees. I was three weeks into recovery from a laparoscopic hysterectomy performed after recurring bouts of uncontrollable bleeding that went on for more than a month. By the age of forty, my womb had carried three children and bore the scar tissue from three cesarean sections. The first one took place a few months shy of my eighteenth birthday and the final was one a month before my thirtieth.
With my eldest child out of college and my youngest in middle school, I knew my child-rearing were well behind me as both physically and emotionally. My body could not bear the weight of another pregnancy. So, for the last seven years I was on birth control. Quarterly Depo-Provera shots were now coupled with daily low-dose estrogen pills to combat the intermittent and prolonged bleeding I began to experience about two years into my return to the use of prophylactics. While my gynecologist referred me to numerous specialists for testing, doctors found no more than a few small benign fibroids that could possibly be contributing to this ongoing issue.
When the latest bout of bleeding began last February, it seemed to go on endlessly despite my use of different birth control types. That’s when I knew that something had to change. I had also recently saw one of my closest friends battle and recover from cancer that was only discovered when a similar issue landed her in the hospital. This resulted in her own hysterectomy followed by months of chemotherapy. I’m more than happy to report that she remains recovered, in remission, and is healing well — but at the time this brought with it the devastating fear that I might be walking down the same road. Determined to avoid this possibility, I opted for a hysterectomy. I no longer wanted to have to worry about quarterly shots and daily pills, my family was set, and my womb was “closed for business.”
I went in eyes open to my surgery, literally. I never really looked around the OR the other three times I found myself in it bringing life into this world. I noticed for the first time how sterile it really looked. I never saw so much metal in my life. I lay my body down, began to count backward from a hundred, and I drifted into a deep sleep. I awoke hours later heavily sedated and womb-less.
When I was wheeled downstairs to my awaiting husband, my body felt heavy and yet lighter at the same time. The copious amount of medicine coursing through my system helped, and I somehow made it into the car — with ample assistance from hospital staff. However, at home I began to feel every ache and pain that came with my weighty decision. My devoted husband and eldest son helped me up what appeared to me to be a Machu Picchu number of stairs in our house to my bedroom on the second floor. They literally carrying me up the last flight as I cried in agony.
My husband lovingly tucked me in bed and brought me my first round of prescribed pain meds. I drifted off to sleep, waking only to try and shuffle to the restroom that is thankfully a few feet away. The next few days into my recovery went hazily by, with my mom moving into my other son’s room for the next two weeks to help support me and my family as my husband returned to work. Some days were good, some were not. I remember feeling well enough a few days into recovery to venture downstairs to my mother in laws on the first floor (yes, we are an intergenerational home) for her fabulous cooking — only to find myself too weak to make it back upstairs unassisted.
Three weeks into my recovery, I had already visited my doctor for a post-op appointment, started driving my sixth grader to and from school, cooking for my family, reading books I had been holding onto for years and itching to write something. My amazing mom was back in the safety of her own home, getting a full night’s rest. Everything seemed to be going well.
Until that afternoon, when my fever spiked and everything on me hurt. I phoned my doctor’s office, left a message and an email. Thankfully she called back quickly. She told me to go directly to the emergency room and letting them know I recently had a hysterectomy. Unable to drive, I took a cab with my eldest supporting me and made my way to the hospital.
Hours passed as I had little more than triage, followed by a trip to what was called the “white zone’, which closely resembled an urgent care waiting room packed to the brim with patients and accompanying caregivers. My name was finally called, and I was taken to an exam area where an emergency room doctor assessed me, took urine samples, drew blood, and ordered an MRI to see if I had some trauma in the area where my uterus once had its home. It was then I was wheeled over to another part of the ER. A far more active and clearly overwhelmed part where patient beds were doubled, tripled, and even lined up on the side of the nurse’s station.
There I lied down on another table while technician instructed me to position my body and to try and hold my breath while they took images of my abdomen. Struggling to breathe overall made this nearly impossible but luckily the procedure was quick, and I was once again escorted back to the white zone. By this time, hours had passed, and day had given way to night. My husband text me to say he there and trying to find me in the ER. With only one visitor allowed per patient, in this post-pandemic, masks required world, my son reluctantly swapped places with him at my side.
This time the waiting area was completely full, and we found ourselves seated outside of the exam area in a hallway awaiting results. Time ticked on, and the pain became unbearable. Unable to really advocate for myself above more than a whisper, my husband went to the nearby nurse’s station and asked for assistance. A nurse came and checked my vitals, then went to get a doctor. They called for an ob/gyn specialist to examine me. Finding nothing remarkable during the quick exam I was wheeled back to the hallway to await my MRI results. In my mind I replayed the events of the day, wondering if I had overexerted myself, returned too quickly to resuming normal activities.
Finally, a doctor came to me and my husband, it must have been nearly eleven o’clock at night by this point and I had been there since a little after four in the afternoon. She knelt there in the middle of the hallway and said, “you have blood clots in your lungs.” I was devastated as she seemingly walked away, muttering something else about me being admitted. I couldn’t even begin to process how heartless it was in that moment for her to share this news so flippantly, instead I began to think I’d never leave that place. I couldn’t breathe because there were literal clots in my lungs. I broke down in tears and anger in the hallway of that hospital with my husband holding me close. I imagined never seeing any of my children again, or my family and friends. I thought this surgery was going to make my life better but instead it felt like I made a horrible decision.
That was the end of the white zone for me. I was wheeled to a more active area of the ER where beds lined the walls with even more beds in front of them to await admittance. I could see the worry on my husband although he tried to keep a brave face. I was given a hospital gown to change into and an IV was hooked up to me in addition to oxygen as my levels were considerably low. A nurse came and gave me a shot to help with the blood clots and a very strong pain medicine to help me sleep as my husband watched helpless to change my circumstances.
That was the beginning of what would be a five-day hospital stay filled with twist and turns including the discovery an additional larger blood clot in my right leg, a transition to smaller ward, many more tests including an echocardiogram and a CT, daily doses of blood thinners, consultations with specialists, and a visit from my ob/gyn who performed my hysterectomy and didn’t foresee this happening.
The truth is perhaps that she should have prescribed me blood thinners on the outset of my surgery to offset the possibility of blood clots. As a woman who had been on numerous forms of hormonal birth control for years this already pre-disposed me to the likelihood of getting blood clots. In hindsight, maybe in a rush to find relief for a temporary issue I made a permanent decision without the full knowledge of these possibilities. I mean yes, we read the fine print before we sign off on procedures but do we really ask all the questions? I know now that I didn’t.
I never stopped to consider if my race played a factor in the care or advice I received throughout this ordeal. My surgeon was a woman, of color, and a parent, much like me. The ER doctor with horrible bedside manner who informed me in the hallway of my diagnosis, she was Black like me and could have certainly been invited to the family cookout. Every nurse that attended to me, every technician that conducted my MRI, ultrasound, and CT, were all people of color.
That doesn’t mean that we don’t at times write off our own pains and tell ourselves to suck it up and keep going. That is after all what we’ve learned throughout the history of our people in this majority white culture that has oppressed us systemically for generations. What if I woke up that afternoon and wrote off the fever and pain and just took a muscle relaxer and Tylenol? Would I be here, able to share about this experience today?
In the end I did get well enough to home, still in pain, and recovering not only from my recent surgery but also the blood clots that developed post-op. I spent weeks trying to catch my breath, wondering if I would ever do things I love and feel called to do like sing or act. I had numerous follow up appointments with my primary care doctor and specialists including my ob/gyn and a pulmonologist. I’ve had at least one other trip to the emergency room due to swelling to the affected leg that caused major panic only to discover during an ultrasound that the blood clot once there was now gone.
I’ve spent the last six months taking blood thinners daily, and living with the awareness that this can happen again. This can happen to me; this can happen to anyone. This realization led to a huge shift for me in how I live my life. I changed careers, opting to give up the stress that comes with being the boss, at least for a season.
I am singing, and acting, I am driving my family crazy at times I’m sure and laughing with friends, hard. I’m going on vacations and writing. I am finally writing. I’m committed to spending my time and words wisely knowing I can’t get them back.
I know their value and I know mine.
