In April, 2016, I plugged my phone into a power strip, on the floor under an elevated desk, to charge. A while later, when I retrieved my phone, I didn't completely clear the desktop as I backed out and I whacked the back of my skull, hard. It hurt, and it continued to hurt over the next few weeks, and it only got worse, so I went to Urgent Care for an x-ray. And yeah, it was like something out of a movie when the tech came into the exam room and told me, "DON'T MOVE." He had an x-ray in hand and he informed me that my neck was fractured. He set the x-ray down and said he'd be right back.
Of course I looked at the x-ray. I'd been told not to move, but curious monkey moi cared not for that warning. I'd been walking around injured for a good while and I figured being careful would be enough at this point. So, I was careful as I held the x-ray up to the light. I spotted two pea-sized spots wedged between the vertebrae in my neck. Hmmm. That looked like trouble.
The tech came back with someone else, who was holding a neck brace. As they strapped me into it they informed that an ambulance was on the way and I would be taken to hospital stat.
They took me to Providence St. Vincent Medical Center, where I'd received care for years (but not anymore, as you will read below). After more tests I wound up spending six hours in surgery to remove the tumors I'd seen on the x-ray and to stabilize my broken neck. The doctor explained later that he'd had trouble getting my neck to align, or something like that. I didn't take it as an indicator of his lack of skill, though; I understood that he had faced a challenging situation and succeeded. He'd performed a spinal fusion and inserted steel rods. I found out later that some generous deceased person had donated tissue that was used to patch me up, too.
I was in Critical Care for a few days, and once again, I entered the realm of the blur. Looking back, I only recall snippets of what transpired during that time. Mostly I remember being on my back in a hospital bed, but not in a hospital room--the CCU was a more open area, as you might expect given that the staff there needed easy access to the patients.
After Critical Care I was moved to a regular room, and I was in hospital for close to a week in all. I was visited by a slew of doctors, one of whom advised me that the breast cancer had metastasized--spread to my liver and bones. I eventually asked for the bottom line: How much time did I have? The doctor asked me what I thought. I said that based on what she had described, it sounded like about six months. The doctor agreed that was reasonable.
I won't even try to explain the reality shift that occurs when someone tells you that you have six months to live. Fortunately for me, I'd dedicated years to making sure that if and when I received news of that nature, I would not feel regret for things I hadn't done. Before long I was looking at the matter practically--thinking about whom I would want to have certain items of mine, etc.
On the day I was discharged I had the bad luck to be caught in the middle of shift-change confusion. One member of the hospital staff had helped me into the shower, and I sat there under the hot, running water while she and another member of the staff tried to straighten out who should be doing what with me. The problem with this is that I had a Fentanyl patch on my back for pain, and if you look at the info for that extremely powerful painkiller, as I did later, you will find that putting someone into a hot shower with a Fentanyl patch is a really bad idea, as the heat causes the drug to surge. I passed out, and they wound up calling Code Blue on me. I returned to consciousness with about eight members of the hospital staff staring down at me, just waiting. This is because I have a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate order), but when I filled it out I did so thinking that it might be necessary due to my illness, not because of disorganized hospital staff...
At least I made it out of the place alive and in one piece.
Sadly, before long I was right back in there again, with a "pain crisis" this time, and believe me when I tell you, the phrase "pain crisis" doesn't begin to describe the agony.
I endured another near-week at St. Vincent's, many hours of which consisted of me lying on my back in a hospital bed, pushing a little red button to alert the nurses so they could chart my pain and the doctors could ultimately determine which medication would work best to relieve it.
It was during this phase that I had yet another bad experience at St. V's: At one point I had regurgitated or vomited and because I was on my back and couldn't move, I had to lie there with barf in my mouth, clicking the red button and grunting to try to communicate that I needed help. I don't know how long that went on, but it felt like about 20 minutes. I don't remember exactly what the nurse said to me over the intercom, but the general idea was that she expressed no concern over the fact that I was making noises that weren't speech. She seemed to take it as part of the process of monitoring my pain. Finally someone came in on usual rounds and got me straightened out, though.
Once again, thankfully, I was discharged. They sent me home with bags of prescription meds, and I was assigned a home care worker who came by once a week to take my vitals and ask me a bunch of pre-established questions. Before long, this home care worker starting trying to push me into hospice. I remember him telling me, "WE CAN'T CURE YOU," at least three times inside of a few minutes. He spoke loudly, I don't know why--maybe he thought I had cancer in my ears--and I'd never said anything to him about a cure, so I really can't guess what was his issue. But eventually I relented and made the call for a hospice assessment.
Four gentle women from hospice came by not long after that and we went through the intake or assessment process. I explained to them that the home care worker seemed eager to get me off his watch and onto theirs. They seemed as puzzled by this as I was, since my vitals were good and I was living on my own, managing okay, able to bathe and eat and cook and dress myself and whatnot.
I was not found to be a good candidate for hospice.
Months went by. I grew stronger. I didn't get worse, and in most ways I got better. Six months passed and I was still kicking, then a year. Over this time I became convinced that the folks at Providence had got it wrong. Taking all my experiences there into consideration, I decided to sever my relationship with that institution and transfer care to Oregon Health and Sciences University.
It's now been almost two years since Providence projected I had six months to live. I'm being treated, and even though no one knows if the treatment will "work," I have great confidence in my Oncologist and my medical team. I know they are doing their best, and even though things don't always go perfectly, I am continually impressed by the kindness and respect I am shown.
Of course I looked at the x-ray. I'd been told not to move, but curious monkey moi cared not for that warning. I'd been walking around injured for a good while and I figured being careful would be enough at this point. So, I was careful as I held the x-ray up to the light. I spotted two pea-sized spots wedged between the vertebrae in my neck. Hmmm. That looked like trouble.
The tech came back with someone else, who was holding a neck brace. As they strapped me into it they informed that an ambulance was on the way and I would be taken to hospital stat.
They took me to Providence St. Vincent Medical Center, where I'd received care for years (but not anymore, as you will read below). After more tests I wound up spending six hours in surgery to remove the tumors I'd seen on the x-ray and to stabilize my broken neck. The doctor explained later that he'd had trouble getting my neck to align, or something like that. I didn't take it as an indicator of his lack of skill, though; I understood that he had faced a challenging situation and succeeded. He'd performed a spinal fusion and inserted steel rods. I found out later that some generous deceased person had donated tissue that was used to patch me up, too.
I was in Critical Care for a few days, and once again, I entered the realm of the blur. Looking back, I only recall snippets of what transpired during that time. Mostly I remember being on my back in a hospital bed, but not in a hospital room--the CCU was a more open area, as you might expect given that the staff there needed easy access to the patients.
After Critical Care I was moved to a regular room, and I was in hospital for close to a week in all. I was visited by a slew of doctors, one of whom advised me that the breast cancer had metastasized--spread to my liver and bones. I eventually asked for the bottom line: How much time did I have? The doctor asked me what I thought. I said that based on what she had described, it sounded like about six months. The doctor agreed that was reasonable.
I won't even try to explain the reality shift that occurs when someone tells you that you have six months to live. Fortunately for me, I'd dedicated years to making sure that if and when I received news of that nature, I would not feel regret for things I hadn't done. Before long I was looking at the matter practically--thinking about whom I would want to have certain items of mine, etc.
On the day I was discharged I had the bad luck to be caught in the middle of shift-change confusion. One member of the hospital staff had helped me into the shower, and I sat there under the hot, running water while she and another member of the staff tried to straighten out who should be doing what with me. The problem with this is that I had a Fentanyl patch on my back for pain, and if you look at the info for that extremely powerful painkiller, as I did later, you will find that putting someone into a hot shower with a Fentanyl patch is a really bad idea, as the heat causes the drug to surge. I passed out, and they wound up calling Code Blue on me. I returned to consciousness with about eight members of the hospital staff staring down at me, just waiting. This is because I have a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate order), but when I filled it out I did so thinking that it might be necessary due to my illness, not because of disorganized hospital staff...
At least I made it out of the place alive and in one piece.
Sadly, before long I was right back in there again, with a "pain crisis" this time, and believe me when I tell you, the phrase "pain crisis" doesn't begin to describe the agony.
I endured another near-week at St. Vincent's, many hours of which consisted of me lying on my back in a hospital bed, pushing a little red button to alert the nurses so they could chart my pain and the doctors could ultimately determine which medication would work best to relieve it.
It was during this phase that I had yet another bad experience at St. V's: At one point I had regurgitated or vomited and because I was on my back and couldn't move, I had to lie there with barf in my mouth, clicking the red button and grunting to try to communicate that I needed help. I don't know how long that went on, but it felt like about 20 minutes. I don't remember exactly what the nurse said to me over the intercom, but the general idea was that she expressed no concern over the fact that I was making noises that weren't speech. She seemed to take it as part of the process of monitoring my pain. Finally someone came in on usual rounds and got me straightened out, though.
Once again, thankfully, I was discharged. They sent me home with bags of prescription meds, and I was assigned a home care worker who came by once a week to take my vitals and ask me a bunch of pre-established questions. Before long, this home care worker starting trying to push me into hospice. I remember him telling me, "WE CAN'T CURE YOU," at least three times inside of a few minutes. He spoke loudly, I don't know why--maybe he thought I had cancer in my ears--and I'd never said anything to him about a cure, so I really can't guess what was his issue. But eventually I relented and made the call for a hospice assessment.
Four gentle women from hospice came by not long after that and we went through the intake or assessment process. I explained to them that the home care worker seemed eager to get me off his watch and onto theirs. They seemed as puzzled by this as I was, since my vitals were good and I was living on my own, managing okay, able to bathe and eat and cook and dress myself and whatnot.
I was not found to be a good candidate for hospice.
Months went by. I grew stronger. I didn't get worse, and in most ways I got better. Six months passed and I was still kicking, then a year. Over this time I became convinced that the folks at Providence had got it wrong. Taking all my experiences there into consideration, I decided to sever my relationship with that institution and transfer care to Oregon Health and Sciences University.
It's now been almost two years since Providence projected I had six months to live. I'm being treated, and even though no one knows if the treatment will "work," I have great confidence in my Oncologist and my medical team. I know they are doing their best, and even though things don't always go perfectly, I am continually impressed by the kindness and respect I am shown.