The Drill Sergeant

 

 

I called Diane my “nanny” rather than my “caregiver” when she came to Alaska to help me through my hiatal hernia repair surgery.   I figured, knowing my propensity for pushing the envelope, that she would restrain me from doing things too early in my recovery.

 

Instead, she turned into a drill sergeant.

 

“This afternoon,”  she declared, “I want you up doing laps in the hallway.”    Dang, I thought, all I want to do is lie in bed.  Plus, that’s a long hallway.  But, I consented.   I knew I was supposed to be moving around to prevent pneumonia.

So it came to be.  The worst of the pain was gone, I was sticking to my Tylenol schedule, and getting out of bed was—well, it wasn’t easy but it was doable.

We made two complete laps of the long hallway and I felt pretty good.   Later, Diane went out to get food and I made one lap.   After her return, we started on another two laps and I noticed, when we paused at the end of the hall, that I was somewhat out of breath and we took a longer break before moving on.

I was again out of breath when we returned to the room, so I sat down.

I was awakened during the night, very short of breath and struggling to get enough air.   My respiration rate was quite high, and I was aware of having to take every breath, one right after the next.

I sat up as far as I could and struggled.   

Fifteen years ago, I fulfilled a lifelong dream and traveled to Tibet.  Three hours after arrival, I had a massive migraine headache.   During the night, I found myself lacking air.

With that experience in mind, I knew what was happening.  The extreme altitude (10,000 to 11,000 ft) meant there was a lot less oxygen in the air than my usual sea-level air.   Now, the cause was different but the feeling was similar.

Diane stirred and I told her we would need to go to the ER in the morning.   I don’t think she slept after that and early morning found us heading back to the hospital.  She lay awake listening to my breathing.

Test after test after even more tests.  I can tell you, though, that the chicken broth a nurse prepared for me in ER was far better than from the hospital cafeteria.

It was ten hours before I was admitted and put in a room.  During that time, I had 1.3^rd liters of fluid drained from the capsule around my right lung and I could breathe easier.  The tech who did the procedure was astonished at the amount.

 

The blood-tinged fluid was sent to the lab for tests.

  

The next day, a half-liter of fluid was drained from my left lung area, so 1.8 liters in total.   I told the techs in the ultrasound room where the pleural effusion was drained that I was supposed to lose up to 20 lbs. from the hiatal hernia surgery and that I was coming back for refund if I didn’t.  

 

We had done some quick conversions from liters to quarts and I remarked, “You just accounted for four pounds of that.”   It wasn’t, however, the weight I hoped to lose.

Finally, near 10 P.M., I was wheeled into a two-person hospital room, admitted until further tests showed I was okay. 

  I was hoping for a good night’s sleep after last night’s sleepless one, but an hour later they wheeled in a roommate, and that was the end of sleep.