Getting Sick, Getting Better and Going Home

I've been writing this in my head for quite a while. Two weeks ago, I nearly died. No overexagerrating. I was transported by ambulance to a hospital, was in an emergency room with nurses rushing around me. I don't remember most of it, but I'm told that I had a temperature over 106 degrees. When the Mr. came home, firemen were surrounding me trying to revive me and I struggled hysterically as they tried to get me into the ambulance.

I was septic. Septisemia is measured by levels of lactic acid. Anything under four is fine. Four and above is considered septic and needs hospitalization. I was at a level ten. When I was told this, I was still delirious. The doctor who was telling me all this had to ask if I understood what he was saying. Suddenly, amidst all the flurry of needles sticking my arms and monotonous vital beeping, I felt dense. I hadn't felt just plain stupid in a very long time. I could feel my head spinning, and a part of me felt annoyed that it was. How was I to answer?

 It took me a few seconds, but I did understand and said so. The doctor continued with more medical talk about how they had to determine how I became septic and as I listened, I thought, "We could really use House." I spent that night in the ICU where I barely slept. I was still in shock that I was there. How could I be this sick? But at 22, that's how we think. As a mom, that is also how we think. We're not invincible, though.

On day two, I was transferred to Summerlin Hospital. Overnight, I stabilized enough to move and my vitals were able to be monitored with a battery operated pack rather than be attached to countless machines.

Day three was when my catheter was removed. Enough said there.

Day four was spent hoping to be discharged, but my fever had spiked the night before. My doctor wanted 24 hours of a steady temperature. That night my fever spiked again and I cried so worried and hopelessly saddened at the thought of staying in the hospital another night. Of being away from my kids another night. God, I missed them. Then I cried some more.

On day five, I waited for my doctor to come in to tell me I was staying longer. I felt sure I was staying and felt hopeless and doomed to more heartache and pricking and hospital food. But my doctor came in and said I could go home. My fever didn't spike high enough to alarm him. I was going home.

I think it was my excitement that did it, but that day my blood pressure was through the roof: 180/122. Scary. So, I was given a diuretic and spent the day peeing until my resting heart rate dropped enough to make the nurses happy.

It was heaven getting home to my family. My parents and Chris had cleaned all day and had dinner ready. That dinner felt like a feast. I don't remember what we ate. Didn't matter. Being around my loved ones and back home, I think, was the greatest nourishment of all.


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