I: I WAS GONNA DIE!!!

I'm still trying to get my head around how close I came to dying. It didn't seem like that big of a deal. Even when I was being rushed into my first emergency surgery and Dr. Gibb, the ENT surgeon, said that it was a real emergency and life-threatening and all, I was also assured I was gonna be just fine. So I wasn't too concerned. Nervous, sure, but not really worried about my long-term fate. And before the second (also emergency) surgery, nobody said anything to me about how my white count was high, so the infection may have spread...the first I heard about there being a problem was when they told me I was going to have to have another surgery. 

Of course, this all makes perfect sense; I totally understand why they didn't want me worried or scared or less than completely optimistic about everything. But it made for a major shock when things started coming out later on! Dr. Gibb told Kyle after the second surgery that I had a 75% chance of living. Dr. McCann, the thoracic surgeon who did most of the second surgery, told me on the day I was discharged that he had given me 50%. (Including me, he'd seen 4 patients in the same situation, and the two older ones both died.) Again, I understand why they weren't up-front about this information with me, but it gives me this lurking feeling that stuff was being hidden from me. 

It's also affected my feelings about my recovery. About a week and a half after the second surgery, just a few days before I got out, I had a horrible day. I'd slept miserably the night before (probably b/c they took away my morphine drip) and was nauseous and sick all day (we decided this was b/c of the darvocet I'd started taking instead of the morphine; I got better once it was out of my system, and we found different pain meds, thank goodness). I started out by throwing up the one bite of breakfast I took, and my throat was sore and I was having trouble swallowing and I was scared that things were getting worse again. The nurse got yet another doctor (he was one of my surgeons' partners, so he knew my case, even though we hadn't met) to come talk to me. He got me some nausea meds, but I think he got a wee bit frustrated with my apparent expectations for my recovery. "Of course your throat hurts! They scraped your esophagus raw from your throat to your stomach! YOU WERE GONNA DIE." Okay, so he didn't actually yell. But he spoke quite forcefully. (And yes, it's possible that I've started using this as an excuse for all sorts of things. "I can't say the prayer for dinner! I WAS GONNA DIE!") 

But it really has been helpful for me to try and understand the severity of what I went through. It helps me to be patient with my body as it's taking ages to recover. Seriously, showers wear me out. It's just too long for me to stand up. (Though I have progressed to where I can shower and still have enough energy to dress myself. For a long time, I'd stagger out of the bathroom and Mom would help me get dressed after I'd collapsed on the bed for a while. Pathetic, I know, but I think it gives you an idea of just how outrageously weak I am these days.) And I was all kinds of proud of myself when I managed to heat up my own lunch. Yes, I put food from 3 different containers onto a plate and microwaved it. Sadly, this was a milestone. So I just keep reminding myself: I was gonna die! And yes, it actually comforts me, in an extremely bizarre way.