Deep breath, stepped back, root of problem. Right...too late. No fixing the root of this problem. Last post I said that whole thing about things can always get worse...is this karma? Fate? A sick joke? What the **** did I do in my last life????
Okay okay. Big breaths. I know I'm not making sense so let me enlighten you to the last few days' events. I highly warn you that this is by far a very personal account and a post that will touch on death. I write from the heart and hold back nothing when it comes to describing my emotional connections to my experiences.
Remember I said hubby hasn't been doing well health wise? He's been off work for close to 3 months following an attack of severe pain on his right side abdomen.
The first time was about 5 years ago and it was much like a gallbladder attack. They searched for the problem but found nothing. It became a constant annoying pain that the doctors just monitored because there was just nothing physically wrong to be found. At the start of January this year he had another attack and this time it was very much like pancreatitis. Again there were tests, scans, scopes, and so on but again it was found that there was nothing physically wrong to be seen. They have no idea why he is in pain.
Out come the pills for inflammation and pain and nausea (from the drugs) and muscle relaxers. And and and....he starts to feel a bit better.
Being the stubborn man he is and our savings account nearing empty he decides to go back to work. 2 days pass and while he is sore from sudden activity again he says he's feeling pretty good. Day 3 he awakes feeling fine and goes to work. Does this job and that. Chit chats with some coworkers. Leans over a tire to pick something up (not heavy lean or anything, just leans) and WHAM! He's on the ground in severe pain. 3 guys have to pack him to the shuttle to take him to emergency.
I get the call. Yah, you know that one. The call.
Of course almost all my family is out of town for spring break or working. So, kids in tow I head to the hospital not certain what I'm walking in on. I get to his bed and put the kids into chairs with a snack to the side and start working my phone to find someone to take them. Damon is screaming in waves and covered in sweat. Between attacks he asks me to get his gear off. I finally get through to my brother and he is on his way.
The kids are crying so I soothe them between taking Damon's boots off as the nurse cuts his shirt off. My brother arrives just as another attack comes on so I bring the kids out to him and soothe them one last time before I go back in. The poor little ones. It really was too much for them.
The nurse is pushing more morphine and says to me that he has 15mg in now. You or me would be fast asleep at this point. He continues to scream. This goes on and she hits 25mg which doesn't even touch him. I have his hand clenched in mine and he says he is dying, that he loves me and then starts to convulse. I tell him I love him and that he needs to keep fighting whatever it is. Just keep fighting it.
I've seen those eyes before. A life long pet who I've craddled in my arms as she took her last look at me before the injection sent her to sleep forever. They are the eyes of a moose in it's final moments as I have given thanks for the life given. The eyes of my grandmother when she was no longer there but for the machines that made her breath. That look that sees something we don't. I command him to keep fighting.
They just kept pushing more drugs into him trying different ones to find one that would work. At that point the drugs were becoming a high risk to his breathing. The nurse said it was a fine line between helping him and doing more damage.
Over 2 hours he fought before his body stopped convulsing and over 6 hours before the waves slowed enough to let him sleep some. I never admitted it then but I thought I was losing him. Only once did my voice betray me when I cried out no as his eyes glazed over. And maybe that was the pull he needed to come back.
Two nights have passed now and he is up on a floor out of emergency now. He is stable and the mass of wires are gone save for his drip line. We pulled through and now we face a new path.
The Doctor has more solidified his recent diagnosis of inflammatory bowel disease (IBD) which includes both chrons and colitis in Damon's case. This is a nasty combo to have as surgery can help one condition but in doing so it would make the other worse. In other words, there is nothing we can do to fix this. Our best plan is to find a way to manage the pain and attacks. It all seems....just wrong.
I'm drained and my mood is all over from strong determination to disparity.
I've been told we are given only what we can handle. Perhaps I've shown myself too strong. Perhaps if I was weaker it would have all been less dramatic. I have been given a task to care for the people in my life and I won't fail them. I will need to do a lot more writing though to help myself through it all. This is my therapy. Right here.
CAT
Okay okay. Big breaths. I know I'm not making sense so let me enlighten you to the last few days' events. I highly warn you that this is by far a very personal account and a post that will touch on death. I write from the heart and hold back nothing when it comes to describing my emotional connections to my experiences.
Remember I said hubby hasn't been doing well health wise? He's been off work for close to 3 months following an attack of severe pain on his right side abdomen.
The first time was about 5 years ago and it was much like a gallbladder attack. They searched for the problem but found nothing. It became a constant annoying pain that the doctors just monitored because there was just nothing physically wrong to be found. At the start of January this year he had another attack and this time it was very much like pancreatitis. Again there were tests, scans, scopes, and so on but again it was found that there was nothing physically wrong to be seen. They have no idea why he is in pain.
Out come the pills for inflammation and pain and nausea (from the drugs) and muscle relaxers. And and and....he starts to feel a bit better.
Being the stubborn man he is and our savings account nearing empty he decides to go back to work. 2 days pass and while he is sore from sudden activity again he says he's feeling pretty good. Day 3 he awakes feeling fine and goes to work. Does this job and that. Chit chats with some coworkers. Leans over a tire to pick something up (not heavy lean or anything, just leans) and WHAM! He's on the ground in severe pain. 3 guys have to pack him to the shuttle to take him to emergency.
I get the call. Yah, you know that one. The call.
Of course almost all my family is out of town for spring break or working. So, kids in tow I head to the hospital not certain what I'm walking in on. I get to his bed and put the kids into chairs with a snack to the side and start working my phone to find someone to take them. Damon is screaming in waves and covered in sweat. Between attacks he asks me to get his gear off. I finally get through to my brother and he is on his way.
The kids are crying so I soothe them between taking Damon's boots off as the nurse cuts his shirt off. My brother arrives just as another attack comes on so I bring the kids out to him and soothe them one last time before I go back in. The poor little ones. It really was too much for them.
The nurse is pushing more morphine and says to me that he has 15mg in now. You or me would be fast asleep at this point. He continues to scream. This goes on and she hits 25mg which doesn't even touch him. I have his hand clenched in mine and he says he is dying, that he loves me and then starts to convulse. I tell him I love him and that he needs to keep fighting whatever it is. Just keep fighting it.
I've seen those eyes before. A life long pet who I've craddled in my arms as she took her last look at me before the injection sent her to sleep forever. They are the eyes of a moose in it's final moments as I have given thanks for the life given. The eyes of my grandmother when she was no longer there but for the machines that made her breath. That look that sees something we don't. I command him to keep fighting.
They just kept pushing more drugs into him trying different ones to find one that would work. At that point the drugs were becoming a high risk to his breathing. The nurse said it was a fine line between helping him and doing more damage.
Over 2 hours he fought before his body stopped convulsing and over 6 hours before the waves slowed enough to let him sleep some. I never admitted it then but I thought I was losing him. Only once did my voice betray me when I cried out no as his eyes glazed over. And maybe that was the pull he needed to come back.
Two nights have passed now and he is up on a floor out of emergency now. He is stable and the mass of wires are gone save for his drip line. We pulled through and now we face a new path.
The Doctor has more solidified his recent diagnosis of inflammatory bowel disease (IBD) which includes both chrons and colitis in Damon's case. This is a nasty combo to have as surgery can help one condition but in doing so it would make the other worse. In other words, there is nothing we can do to fix this. Our best plan is to find a way to manage the pain and attacks. It all seems....just wrong.
I'm drained and my mood is all over from strong determination to disparity.
I've been told we are given only what we can handle. Perhaps I've shown myself too strong. Perhaps if I was weaker it would have all been less dramatic. I have been given a task to care for the people in my life and I won't fail them. I will need to do a lot more writing though to help myself through it all. This is my therapy. Right here.
CAT
RSS Feed