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.

Another haunted house

When I was growing up, I was terrified of the attic and the basement. When going into either, I made a lot of noise to scare away the ghosts or murderers that may linger there.

My bedroom was on the second floor, off the attic. So, when I went to bed at night, I'd run past the attic and then when I got to my room I would turn the light off and jump from the light switch to my bed. That prevented anyone lurking under the bed from catching my foot as I crawled into bed. I guess I never thought about why that person would just sleep under my bed and wait for only a foot.

I was convined there were vampires, so I slept every night with the sheet up around my neck. You may laugh, but that sheet kept my neck pristine. Not one bite mark.

I was also afraid that Sampson, the gorilla from the Milwaukee Zoo, would escape and come to my house. I imagined he'd swing from the cherry tree into my bedroom window. So, in the summer, I would only raise the window a few inches to keep him out.

Last night, I was alone in the old mansion I now live in. It was a stormy night and I had the windows open only a few inches. The wind howled through the windows and the doors kept slamming and rattling. I even heard footsteps. I just hoped there would not be a tornado because I was too frightened to go into the basement. At one point, the room turned really hot, I think that was a spirit crossing over me. Or maybe a hot flash.

Thank God I learned a lot of coping techniques when I was a child. First, I kept my eyes tightly closed so I wouldn't see the horrors that awaited me. Next, I was able to gain courage and turn the TV on really loud (funny shows only) and finally, I was brave enough to get out of bed to close the windows.

Somewhere, late into the morning, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I felt like a fool. Or maybe a child.

Jag Repair Woes

It's been over four months since I hit the deer with the Jag. Because I hardly tapped the deer, the damage to the car was minimal. Just a broken headlamp glass and the grill was cracked. The grill is plastic. I guess if it would have been chrome the car would have been priced out of the range of most luxury car buyers.



After the accident, I did a police report and intended to file a claim with the insurance company. But then I thought about it and figured that I could probably have it repaired for less than my deductible, which is $500. This damage could not amount to that much and I could probably do the repairs myself. I guess I came to that conclusion after I had a beer or two. That same night I probably thought I was a good dancer and singer as well.



So, I got on eBay and found a used grill in perfect shape. Only $175. Sold.



Then I was so ticked off to learn that the headlight glass could not be replaced, the entire two light giant component needed to be replaced. The thing still worked, just the one small glass was broken. A new one is $775, just for the part. I want environmentalists to get involved in this, if Jaguar just made replacement glass think about how much less would be in landfills.



I finally found a used headlight for sale on eBay, from somewhere in California. I bought it for $200. It said it was waranteed. But when I emailed the guy with a question he answered me back with an attitude. I'm afraid I may have bought this from some gang and a chop shop.



I finally got the headlight and it matches the car except it looks 15 years older than the one that it will replace, which has been lovingly cared for and garaged. Oh, well, I think it may be able to be buffed out.



So, Saturday comes and I take Bob out to the garage to install the parts and finally fix the Jag. We open the hood and just stare inside. Hmmm...this isn't like replacing a lightbulb. There are a bunch of wires and it's way too confusing. He begins to pull on a wire and I tell him to stop, we need to hire an expert. All I can picture is him getting electrocuted or doing more damage than good.



Today, I took it to the local Shell Station, Peach's in Phoebus. The man there was really nice. But after an hour he called to say that the headlight could not be installed there. In order to attach it, it requires removal of the bumper! He did attach the grill and didn't charge me, so I bought him some donuts as a thank you.



To summarize, I now have spent $375. The grill is finally fixed. But, I have to go to a body shop and have the bumper taken off so the used headlight can be installed. Then, it may not even work, I doubt that chop shop took great care in removing it. The warranty on the headlight may be bogus, backed by a bunch of thugs who want to break my kneecaps or I could wake up with a horse head in my bed.



I guess then I'll call the insurance company.

Fountain of Youth

I’m back at the Lakehouse in Wisconsin and watching the lake turn from ice to liquid again.

I discovered that my basement was flooding, it was the sump pump, which had stopped pumping. So I chose a plumber the way most people do. I saw a nice clean truck driving around that had “Plumbing” on it with a phone number.

I could have called the plumber down the street, but his sign is hideous. It has those slide in letters and they are all worn, faded and in different colors and stages of decay. He also has an unsecure wireless network, which is another indicator of half-ass and sloppy.

So, my new plumber pulled up and I was really happy until he backed his trailer over my little flower bed. Oh, well, nothing is blooming yet anyways.

While the plumber was here, I also had him reroute the drainage pipe because the other one drained into the lake, which is supposedly against DNR rules and also caused the land behind my sea wall to be soft and when the ice push came, blew it all apart. (That repair is on tap for next month.) You can see the sea wall in the picture.

The new sump pump is in and when he turned it on, it pumped enough water to raise the lake an inch. It turns on every 3 minutes (yes, I’m timing it) and pumps more water out. Now the side of my house is like a small creek. I’m hoping this will evaporate. I’m also throwing some bird seed in it so the birds take baths and fly off with some of my water on their feathers.

I am beginning to think that this house is on a spring. The plumber told me that there are artesian springs in the area. Maybe I could sell this stuff as some kind of fountain of youth water. I just would have to wear a veil over my face so the customers won’t see it’s a farce.

One thing the plumber told me as we were standing outside watching the sump pump gush water from the fountain of youth is that the eagles eat the ducks that fall asleep on the lake and get frozen in. I was horrified by this story, and I watched the eagles fly all along the icy parts of the lake, looking for their weak prey.

So, after he left, I drove around the entire lake and looked for stuck ducks that I might have to free. One more thing to worry about.

Cherry Blossoms

Bob and I were in DC Wednesday, peak time for the cherry blossoms. We drove down to the Tidal Basin area to see them. It was bedlam. People everywhere, horrible traffic, traffic lights weren’t working, and there was not one parking spot to be found. After an hour of driving around, we decided to head back to the hotel. As we entered the highway, I tried to snap a quick picture of the cherry blossoms from the road. I ended up with a close-up of the guard rail.

We ate an early dinner and I was lamenting that the day had such perfect weather and I was disappointed that I didn’t get some pictures of the cherry blossoms. Bob said, “Let’s take the Metro down there. We’ve got over an hour of daylight left.”

It was about a half-mile walk from the hotel to the Metro. We didn’t have a lot of small bills but didn’t want to put a $20 in the Metro ticket machine, because it gives change in those fake looking $1 gold coins. Bob put $5 on his card and I put $2 on mine.

We got on the Metro and asked a lady which stop would get us closest to the Tidal Basin. We got off at that stop and when I put my ticket in the machine to release me from the Metro, it would not take it. I asked the Metro cop why. He said I didn’t have enough money on my ticket. So I put the 85 cents I needed on and we were on our way. (And, yes, on the way home, we ended up with the gold dollar coins.)

Our hour of daylight was quickly evaporating as it took a half hour to get there and about 5 minutes to gather enough change to get out of the Metro station. The first thing we realized it that we had not gotten off at the closest Metro stop. We had to walk about a mile and a half to get to the Tidal Basin. By now we were in a very fast walk.

I wanted to jay walk and cut across grassy areas, but Bob would not cooperate. We had to stay on the sidewalks as the signs told us. We are in a slow jog and I am breathlessly complaining that we would be there by now if we just took my shortcuts. The sun is quickly dropping from the sky.

Bob suddenly stops and takes a picture of a random cherry tree. He explained that this was going to be the best we could do. By the time we got to the Tidal Basin, the sun had set. It was so beautiful but we were unable to capture it with a picture. Guess I’ll just have to buy a postcard

The Advice Giver

Yesterday, I had my hair done at an entirely new salon (for me it's new, but it’s been there 3 years). I told the owner that I liked the colors she chose for the walls, the items for sale, and the personnel (who were very friendly). I also told her she needed to move her awards to the front area of the salon and put her certifications and explanations of such on her website.

The owner of the salon asked me to please return because I brought so many laughs into the salon. (Maybe it was because I asked the man who was getting his hair cut if he used dye.) I found out from another patron that there are good furniture deals if I drive to North Carolina. I kind of broke one candle on display and when the owner said she’d have to mark it down to 50% off, I bought it. I told her I’d be back to break more things and buy them “on sale.” I love that salon.

Today, I went to look at granite for my house in Chesapeake and I met most of the crew and eventually the owners. The owners came into the room we were in because it sounded like a party. It was because we were telling funny stories and I have a loud laugh. Note to self: one day I may be able to get hired out for parties to make it seem like fun because of my laugh.

Once I met the owners, I had to tell them about the granite I liked, how terrific their employees were, what to think about in advertising, and how to reach people like me who do not know their established reputation because I have only lived here a month. I asked them what kind of houses they lived in, what kind of granite they had and why they didn’t hold a party for people like me to see it all.

One of the owners (they were brothers) walked me to my car (the Jag) and I asked him if he knew anyone who could fix it at a good price so my husband wouldn't get electrocuted in his attempt. He laughed, either at my comment or because there was still deer fur embedded in my headlight.

I suppose he could have been rude enough to give me advice like I did to him, but he did not. But I could read his mind…this car has been damaged since Thanksgiving and you still drive around this way?

The Inconsiderate Hostess

We have lived here for a month and we had our third set of houseguests last night. Last night’s guests were friends from Wisconsin. I told mom they were visiting and she said, “Don’t go overboard, but be good to them because their dad will spread it around town.”

Bob was out of town, so I was on my own.

The weather was beautiful so I suggested we go for a walk. After about a mile of walking, I noticed Kelly was limping. I asked her if she was okay and she said she had a bad disk in her back that made her leg go numb. Hmmm, I guess I should have found that out before beginning the walk. I wanted to carry her home, but she was a trooper.

We got back to the house and I opened the beer refrigerator and showed them the selection. Kelly doesn’t drink beer. So, I offered her any mixed drink that used grapefruit juice because that’s all I had.

For dinner I made pork tenderloin. I hadn’t thought to ask if they were vegetarians. Luckily, they weren’t. After dinner, we went out on the porch. We sat out there and talked until Kelly mentioned that she was freezing and could we please go in. I noticed it was already 9:00 so suggested we go to bed.

I got into bed, caught up on my emails, and turned on the tv. Damn, American Idol was on and Kelly and Rod and mentioned they really wanted to watch it. I shouldn’t have sent them to bed. I didn’t even think to tell them to make themselves at home. So, now I want to go and knock on their door and tell them that they can get up and watch American Idol if they want, but I am not sure that is a good idea.

In the morning, they hurried out of here. As they left, they told me what a nice hostess I was. Probably because they thought that if they didn’t, I’d make them write it on a chalkboard 100 times.

I wonder what mom will hear around town…that I force marched them, made weird mixed drinks, froze them out, and sent them to bed by 9:00 with no American Idol?