My 23-Hour Stint, How To Deactivate a Pressure Bed, & Channeling Peter Brady

Of course, very little in life goes according to our plan, but it seems that I have done nothing but plan over the past two weeks in preparation for my ten days away from home.  I wanted to make sure that everyone was taken care of while I was away.  For the most part, I was worried about how the kids would react.  Surprisingly, as I write this on Day 4 away from them, they are doing just fine in my absence.  I decided that I wanted to do something special for them each day that I was away.  I purchased ten small gifts for each of them and placed them in labeled gift bags with the countdown day.  Along with each gift, I included a card for each child with one of the ten things I love most about them and a picture of us together.  From what The Husby tells me, this has been a hit with them and has worked as great motivation for them to get ready for bed in the evenings.  No bath, pajamas, and brushed teeth...no gift.  The power of bribery never ceases to amaze me.  It has made things easier for The Husby, The Fred, and StickyBun-Scotti to have my grandparents in town from Atlanta to help out.  They have taken care of StickyBun-Scotti during the day on two days that he was home with a cold, have handled all of the afternoon transportation for the kids, and have prepared all of their dinners.  They even watched both kids all day today since they were out for the holiday.  I am so thankful for them being there when we needed them, and it has made my absence much easier for the kids and The Husby.

Of course, I had arrived at the hospital around 8:45 for my 9:30 admission on Tuesday.  The Husby and StickyBun-Scotti, who was home with a cold, were with me.  After being admitted, I was taken by patient transport to my room on the Oncology Unit.  It was easy to pick out which room was saved for me...the one with the huge radioactive sign on the door.  When I walked in, I saw that most of the room was covered with blue chux pads.  I had to laugh.  I can't wrap a square box, so I can't imagine how you would begin to wrap a toilet.  I have to think that this is an art that takes a great deal of practice.  I'd be interested to know whose job description this falls under.  Food for thought.

After saying my tearful "goodbyes" to my boys, I sat waiting, patiently, for further instructions.  An hour went by without even a knock at the door, I was left to sit with the nothing more than the noise of the pressure ulcer bed, which is a story in itself.  I have to admit that I don't sleep well in general.  I am very sensitive to noise and movement.  I have had to sleep with ear plugs in my ears ever since StickyBun-Scotti was born and a good mattress is a splurge I can always justify.  If you know anything about pressure ulcer beds, you know that they are constantly moving, vibrating, and making noise.  I tried to tell myself that it would be okay.  I can stand anything for a few nights...right?

After two hours of waiting, a woman finally came in and introduced herself.  I knew that she worked there, but she gave me no clues as to who she was...nurse...patient care tech...not a clue.  She simply asked me when they were coming to give me my radioactive iodine.  Uhm?  Wouldn't she know more about that than I would?  I had plenty of questions...to which, she was able to provide no answers.  My most important question was about how to turn off the bed...to which she replied, "You can't."  Fabulous.  Instead, she told me to ask nuclear medicine any questions when they came to see me.  She simply gave me instructions to change into a gown and have a seat on the bed.  So, I sat and waited...and waited...and waited...with nothing but the air compressor noise from the bed and the constant vibrating movement.  At this point, I was ready to push the bed out of the window.  If you work in a hospital, you know that the beds can't be simply unplugged from the wall because they are hooked up to the nurse call system.  An unplugged bed will constantly call to the nurses' station.  I had to think fast, or this was going to be a long three days.

I had brought my phone in the bag that had my clothes to wear home, so I quickly downloaded the user manual for this type of bed.  I knew that there had to be a way to turn the thing off without unplugging it.  Of course, it can be done.  I memorized all of the steps to deactivate the bed and snapped a quick pic of my blue chux covered paradise before returning the phone to my bag.  Crisis averted!

At 1:00 that afternoon, an RN came in to draw some blood to make sure I wasn't pregnant.  No answers from her either.  At 2:45 that afternoon, nuclear medicine arrived at my room.  The doctor briefed me on the rules: stay in the bed behind the lead shields surrounding the bed unless you are going to the bathroom, don't step off of the chux lined path surrounding the bed and leading to the bathroom, drink lots of water, and you can go home when your radioactive level is at 5.  The more water you drink, the lower your level will be, and the sooner you can leave.  Simple enough, right?  I thought so.

My first low-iodine meal in isolation made me laugh...canned English peas, cooked carrots, white rice, and a slice of turkey.  This was funny to The Husby because I love vegetables, with the exception of two things...you guessed it, canned English peas and cooked carrots.  Not a good start to the culinary experience.  Let's just say that the hospital where I work serves five-star gourmet fare compared to this place...no comparison.

In an effort to make the stay as short as possible, I started drinking water constantly.  I told myself that I would drink a minimum of 10 ounces of fluid each hour and increase that to account for hours that I may be sleeping.  At 6:00 that evening my radioactive level was 26, and they told me that they would check my level again around 8:00 the next morning.  My wonderful endocrinologist came by after leaving his office to check on me.  A gesture that I thought was very kind.  The rest of the evening was uneventful.  I deactivated my bed in hopes of getting some sleep...willing to trade sleeping on a loud, moving bed for a metal slab that is the product of a deflated/deactivated pressure bed.  A trade that I would gladly make again.  Someone would come in every 4 hours to check my vitals and peer at me for a split second over the lead shields.  That was all.  I slept in 2 hour increments and drank water every time I woke up.  By the next morning, my neck was very sore, and I was nauseous.  I took a hot shower and waited patiently for nuclear medicine.

When I was measured by nuclear medicine at 8:00 my level was at 10.  Soon after, my endocrinologist stopped back by to check on me before he started seeing patients for the day.  I shared the good news, and he went ahead and wrote my discharge prescriptions.  By my calculations, if I continued to consume fluid at the same rate, my body should be at 5 or below by my next check after lunch.  At 1:30, nuclear medicine returned and my level had dropped to a 3...woohoo!!!  Escape!!!  I was out of there within an hour.  I have to believe that 23-hours is some kind of record since they were planning on me sticking around for 3 days.  If there was anything that I learned during my hospital stay, it was that hospital food is not good, I don't like being confined to a bed for hours on end, I really don't like drinking water, you can find a user manual for just about anything on the internet, and CSI and NCIS come on at least one channel at any given time during the day and night.

My first day out was pretty exciting because I was discharged with the instructions to resume a regular diet...hallelujah!  Unfortunately, I was so nauseous that nothing sounded good.  I drove myself to Montgomery, and by the time I got there, I had decided that Pizza Hut would hit the spot...it did.  When I woke up Thursday morning, I was shocked by how awful I felt.  My neck had become so swollen that I look like I have mumps.  It is difficult to swallow and difficult to breathe when I lay on my back.  My vocal chords are so irritated that I sound like a pubescent Peter Brady every time I try to talk.  I'm still nauseous...very, very nauseous...which makes the excitement over being able to eat whatever I want not quite as exciting.  I miss my kids.  I miss my husband.  I'm over all of this.

My follow-up scan has been scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving, so I hope to have the results sometime around the beginning of the next week.  I tried to share all of the humor in all of this so that I don't sound like such a "Debbie Downer," but I really am over it.

Hey, Cancer, it's time for you to plan your exit strategy.

Until next time, I love and miss you all!  Great big hugs and kisses!

Love- K