The Appendix Stump

This week my appendix stump acted up again, but instead of seeking medical help, I treated it on my own w/antibiotics I had laying around. I know this was stupid, but I didn't want to go through what happened a year ago. The following describes my nightmare. I was working a temporary job in Germany and living in a hotel while my husband was deployed.

It’s the Thursday of Memorial Day weekend and I am ecstatically happy. I am flying to Brussells, Belgium to see Bob for the weekend, we have been apart for 11 months and haven’t seen each other for four months. I get off the plane and my belly feels a little queasy. That evening, we had dinner with a few other couples from NATO and I ate like a pig. At the end of the meal, I proclaim, “I’m so full I feel like I could blow up.”

A few hours later, I wake up with an extreme stomach ache and I know it’s that old appendix scar tissue acting up. Twice before since my appendectomy, I have had leakage into my abdomen from the area where the appendix once was and had to be treated with heavy doses of antibiotics. This leakage will cause an infection that will be extremely painful.

On Friday morning, Bob and I go for a walk and after about five blocks I am out of energy and cannot go on. I have a lot of pain. I don’t want to go to a hospital here cause I don’t know if they will keep me and I don’t want to sacrifice the few days I have with my husband. So I decide I will wait until my return to Germany to go to the doctor.

Tuesday morning, I call a friend, Bobbie, and ask her if she could take me to the medical clinic. She has no idea I’m on my 5th day of peritonitis (infection). She gives me the number to make a doctor’s appointment. For 15 minutes of redial, all I get is a busy signal. Then, the phone finally rings, “Press 1 for a doctor’s appointment.” I press 1. “Sorry, all lines are busy.” Click. It hangs up on me, no queue or apologies. This is not going to work.

I call Bobbie back and tell her I’ll just go to the Emergency Room. She picks me up and takes me to the Clinic. It’s so small there is no ER. I’m told it’ll be a few hours until I can see the doctor. I sit down and in ten minutes a young kid calls me in. I assume it’s to take my vital signs. It turns out this is the doctor. I think he graduated med school yesterday. He’s like 27 years old. But he sees the urgency in my case and sends me on to the German hospital. Good thing Bobbie stayed with me, or I’d be hitching a ride.

At the German hospital, they decide I will need to get surgery within a couple of hours. They can see on the ultrasound (this hospital is not into CT scans) that my bowels appear to have a problem where the appendix used to be. I ask them to just give me antibiotics but the doctor says no. He also says he’ll try to do the surgery through my belly button, but I may wake up with a large scar. The tears start to roll down my cheeks.

Then the ultrasound lady translates the ‘all that can go wrong, cover your ass legally’ document that I need to sign. We always have to sign these in American hospitals, too, but I’ve always signed and never really read them. She gets to the part “You may require a blood transfusion.” And I start crying…the crying gets worse with each statement. I recall one that said I may wake up with my colon attached to the outside of my stomach. I’m full-blown crying now and look at my friend Bobbie, who is loaded down with her purse, my purse, my water bottle, my jacket, and my paperwork. She looks empathetic and says, “I’d hug you but my hands are full.”

I tell this lady that I have terrible reactions to pain killers such as percocet, darvon, vicadin and that I will need Tylonol III. She knows none of these names. So Bobbie calls the Patient Liaison to have her translate. In spite of the Liaison’s guarantee that she can be reached any time, day or night, it’s lunch time and the phone goes unanswered. Bobbie then leaves a message with the emergency number and also a message on the Liaison’s machine. I hope this message gets through, I don’t want to see giant spiders and get violently ill.

Wheel me to my room. Strip off the clothes and put on the Johnny. Then a German nurse comes in and wants to put a tube up my nose and down my throat. I tell her this is done after the anesthesia gets administered and I’m asleep. Oh no, not in Germany. She sprays numbing spray in my nostrils and in my throat and eases this 75 foot long (at least that’s how long it seemed) tube up my nose. When it snakes to the back of my throat I get the gag reflex going and now I’m crying again. I know I am making it harder on myself so I try to think nice thoughts, but they are interrupted with each inch this tube makes down to my belly.

With the tube finally in, I am left alone in my room to await the call to surgery. Bobbie has left to go get my things for my stay here. I am crying again, this is hard to do with a tube up your nose. It is also hard to swallow without gagging on the tube in my throat. I try to think of all the people who are currently suffering more than me, but I find that my thoughts focus only on me and the pity I have for myself. After about 30 minutes, they cart me to the operating room. It is here that I meet the Professor. He is the main man, over all the doctors. He’s in his early 60’s and quite serious. He doesn’t have laugh lines, he has frown lines.

After the surgery and a couple hours in recovery, I am taken to my room, where Bobbie awaits me. She has assembled a bunch of my necessities, bought me some others, and has a smiley balloon to cheer the place up. There are also some gifts from other friends. What started off as a ride to the clinic has become an all-day project for Bobbie, who has also called my mom and emailed my husband with the news. She stays awhile, but then leaves to allow me to rest.

After a couple hours, two nurses come in and tell me I need to stand up, I am groggy, so they pretty much pick me up. I feel like Raggedy Ann. Then they have me sit on the bed and they spray my bare back with ice cold water. They tell me this is to help me breathe. It works, it takes my breath away.

My rest is interrupted by freaky dreams and waking up to think people are in the room with me. After one such nightmare, I look up at the IV bag and realize it’s pain killer. I buzz the call button to get the pain meds shut off. The call button is a modern marvel of the 70’s. It’s like a giant walkie-talkie. Once you push the red button, a voice comes over the walkie-talkie, “Bitte???”

“I want the pain killer shut off.”

“No. You can have no more.”

“I don’t want more, I want less.”

“No more, enough.”

“No, I want less.”

“I said ENOUGH!”

Conversation over. Lost in translation.

The following morning, Wednesday, Bobbie is visiting and I’m given a pain IV. I attempt to object/explain, but the nurse doesn’t understand. Bobbie calls the Patient Liaison and asks her to call the hospital and tell them I can’t take the pain killer. Shortly after, a nurse comes to the room and sits on my bed and says, “So, you need more pain meds?” I finally got her to understand the word ibuprofen and got my pain meds adjusted.

The Professor visits me and I ask him if I’m all fixed for good. “No. You had too much infection for us to get anything more done than to flush out all the infection and clean up your insides.” So, I am crying, because I know that at any time I will have this occur again and that I need to have surgery in the future to get this problem taken care of for good.

So, it’s Wednesday and I am allowed to eat. For breakfast, I am given soup, yogurt, and tea. I eat about half the yogurt. For lunch, I am given broth, yogurt, and tea. For dinner, I am given broth, yogurt and tea. I eat half the broth and within a couple hours I am sick and throw it up. I now hate broth, yogurt and tea. Especially the broth.

Thursday for breakfast it’s broth, yogurt, and tea. I open the broth container, get a whiff and have PTSD over the previous evening. My friend tells me this is called the Garcia Syndrome. Once something is associated with making you very sick, you cannot eat it again. Well, I have the Garcia Syndrome with each meal they bring me as the meal never deviates and broth is always the highlight. I have no appetite.

By Saturday, they have broken me. I should never get a top secret clearance because I can be broken by with-holding a shower and a normal meal. The Professor came by for his rounds and I started crying and begging for an American meal and shower. He had a weak moment and acquiesced on both requests. The next meal I awaited with great anticipation with my freshly washed body. In it comes, with the big domed plate. The nurse leaves and I imagine what good food must lie under the dome. I lift it and see two pieces of dry bread. Served with broth, yogurt, and tea.

I eat nothing on Sunday as the word never got to the kitchen that I was allowed to eat anything I wanted. I was still given the broth, yogurt, and tea. On Monday, I had an appetite so I begged the nurse for a piece of Swiss cheese (I know how to say this in German, “Suisse Kase.” ) I was given a piece of cheese on a plate and ate it like it was the best thing that ever went into my belly.

On Tuesday, the Professor gave me his approval to go home. A hotel room never looked so good.