I've always been pretty healthy. I do what I can to take care of myself; I don't smoke, work out at least four to five times a week, drink lots of water, and watch my diet. I was in decent shape; certainly I wasn't completely ripped, but I didn't shy away from showing off my guns when the opportunity would arise. (Yes, nerds can have guns, too!) I was diagnosed with high blood pressure about 10 years ago, but I cannot think of a member of my family, on either side, who doesn't or didn't have high blood pressure. DNA wasn't on my side on this one, and the inevitable happened. My HBP is under control, so no worries there. Other than that, I was lucky up to that point.
So, this past November, when I was on my last day of a Carribean cruise (my first cruise, by the way), I didn't think anything of it when my stomach started to ache. I remember writing it off as nerves. I was worried about getting to the airport on time, not to mention that once I got on the plane, I had a three hour flight from Miami to get back home. My stomach pain was annoying, but tolerable. It also wasn't nausea, it was more like someone was stabbing me in my midsection with a butter knife.
The day after was Laundry-palooza, like it always is after one returns from a vacation. My stomach was still funky, but this time, I chalked it up to being back on land, getting my land legs back, etc.
Monday was the turning point. It was 8:30 at night, and all of a sudden, that subtle, mild, occasionally stabbing pain became a Freddy Krueger-like slashing throughout my entire abdomen.
I needed to lay down, and I didn't get out of bed until the next morning. But I'm stubborn, and didn't go to the ER, despite my spouse's pleas to do so. (We'll call my spouse C, for privacy's sake.) Two days later, I noticed that, along with the increase in pain, my upper abdomen was extremely bloated. But still, no nausea, no vomiting, and I thought for sure that it would all go away on its own.
Thanksgiving was the next day. I did my best to hide my excruciating discomfort at our family dinner, even though most of my family could tell that something was up. The defining moment was when I felt extremely hot, like I was going to pass out. I went outside to get some air, without a jacket and wearing a t-shirt. If you're from the Midwest, or at least familiar with the region, you're aware that it isn't exactly balmy in late-November in Ohio. I sat on my grandparents' front porch, on an old, iron bench, in the crisp, 40 degree air, not feeling the chill that I (or anyone else) normally would. I barely ate anything, and at Thanksgiving dinner, for me, that's highly unusual. But again, despite my promise to my dad that day, I didn't head to the ER that evening.
I finally succumbed to C's persistence that Saturday morning, after my temperature reached over 103 degrees, my bowels stopped working, and, as C explained, "your color isn't right. It's almost, like, gray." I still had the naive mindset that I would be sent home with prescription-strength Tums, or the equivalent. But, once a CAT scan was done, I received news I never dreamed I would hear from the ER doctor:
"You have a perforated appendix with an abscess. You'll need surgery right away."
Excuse me?
My appendix? Really? Aren't I too old for that? Or too young? How is that possible? Shouldn't I have had the requisite pain on my right side, and the nausea and vomiting? And is "perforated" the same thing as "ruptured"?
Apparently, my perforated appendix had been slowly trickling bacteria into my abdomen, like a tire with a slow leak, for about a week. I guess I was fortunate it didn't explode like something from the movie Alien, or I'd probably be dead. But even with the gradual bacterial infiltration, if I would've waited just a day longer to come in, I might not be sitting on my couch typing this. I was hours away from being septic, at the very least. My infection was to the point that the head of surgery at the hospital couldn't remove my appendix at that moment; she didn't want to risk spreading the infection to the rest of my body, and the abscess was right where she would need to cut. As she put it: "I don't want to have to take part of your colon with it."
I didn't want that, either.
Instead, I received a minor surgery in which a drain was placed in the heart of my abscess. I did get a good look at what was aspirated from the abscess before the drain was put in; the large syringe full of white goo was terrifying to me, even in my half-sedated state.
I spent next five days in the ICU. I was pumped full of every antibiotic the hospital had to offer, around the clock. Some of the antibiotics made me violently ill (oh, there's the nausea and vomiting!). One of the most freak-worthy aspects of this was that for two solid days, my urine was the color of iced tea. That might be considered TMI, but let that sink in for a moment. I was that messed up.
C was amazing. C was there with me, by my side, for almost the entire five days. C left only briefly, after my Mom came to stay with me, and returned as soon as our cat, Sylvester, was dropped off at a boarding facility. Although the hospital was only a few minutes from our house, it was a lot for C to keep going home to feed him, and he was stressing and freaking out about being constantly alone.
Finally, I was sent home, feeling light years better than the week prior. However, the antibiotics that were prescribed to me as I was on my way out the door continued to make me sick, even at home. I also had to keep the drain in for another week. I appreciate and can't thank C enough for taking care of me, particularly with the cleaning and flushing of that drain twice a day, as it wasn't a picnic for either one of us. The drain was removed a week after I returned home. All in all, I was off work for three weeks, which was not as enjoyable as it sounds.
I went back to the surgeon for a follow up visit two weeks later. She said that since I had recovered so well, I had a choice: I could have my appendix removed, or I could wait. The chances of re-rupture, she stated, were only 15%. Those numbers, while seemingly small, were too big for me. Who knew where I would be, or what I would be doing, if it did rupture again?
"Get this thing out of me," I demanded.
In mid-January, my damaged appendix was removed laparoscopically, and I was off of work for another two weeks. The surgeon took pictures, which were wild, and kind of grotesque. While explaining what was going on in each picture, she pointed out the dark pink blob that had caused me so much grief, and said something truly alarming:
"Look at how inflamed it is," she remarked. "It wasn't a question of if it would rupture again, but when."
Yikes. I was, literally, a walking ticking time bomb.
So, six months later, I'm still recovering. I thought I would be back to eating normally and kickboxing in a few weeks. I received not only a reality check, but also a reminder that I'm not as young as I used to be. My digestion is still jacked, and I'm more bloated than I want to be. My energy was, and continues to be, sapped. I've only gained a little bit of weight, but since I've been too weak to keep strength training in my regimen, I've lost muscle. To say that I'm frustrated and impatient with my body's healing process is an understatement. It took me quite a few years to get my body to the point that it was pre-appendicitis, so to see my hard work disappear so damn quickly just sucks. Exercise is also what I generally use as a mainstay for my mental and spiritual balance, so since I haven't physically been able to do it as much, those aspects of my life have suffered, too. But, I've been walking five to six days a week, for at least 30 minutes, so as to rebuild my endurance. I've cleaned up my diet, and have been taking probiotics in an attempt to tidy up my gut. It's been a long, slow process, but I finally feel like there's hope. I'm getting there. Reflecting on the experience, I can say that I'm grateful to still be walking on this Earth. My journey continues.
I guess what I'm trying to say is this: When your body is trying to tell you something, listen to it. Even if you find out that the annoying pain is nothing more than an annoying pain, at least you'll know for sure. And if it's more than an annoying pain, you've hopefully saved yourself from a scary ordeal like mine. Just remember: no human is immortal, and when you think "it can't happen" to you, that's when it usually does.
Incidentally, Kelly Clarkson had a recent bout of appendicitis, too. Although hers did not rupture, I couldn't imagine doing all of the things she did while being in that amount of pain, as I could barely sit up half of the time. I enjoy her music and admired her before, but I have nothing but respect for her now.
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