Back To The Hospital
I was put on the 3rd Floor with other patients just before midnight on September 5th. They started giving me a plethora of drugs as shots and in my I.V. Within the first day, I was pretty doped up. I was still experiencing a lot of stomach pain, and no one could put their finger on what was actually wrong with me. I subconsciously knew that I was knocking on death’s door. However, they did test my white blood cell count, and discovered that it was around 1200. Normal white blood cell count is between 5000 and 9000. When one is on chemo, white blood cell count can get very low and can be extremely dangerous. Any count below 5000 makes one susceptible to ANY germs and bacteria, and your body does not have the resources to fight off infection. They also took a stool sample to test. At this point, they realized that there was some sort of infection going on. It had taken them 2 days to test my white blood cell count and get back the results from the stool sample. I don’t know why the delay. I think for the first 2 days they were just trying to stabilize me and trying to figure out what to do. As soon as the blood count and stool sample came back, you would have thought there was a fire. The nurses rushed into my room without any warning, packed up my bed with my few belongings, and whisked me down the hall to my very own room ……
ISOLATION!!
They had discovered that I had a VERY SEVERE INTERNAL INFECTION that was affecting literally all of my organs. I was getting close to organ shut-down. I was very, very sick and barely hanging on by a thread. They took my white blood cell count again, and it had dropped to 400! 400 IS EXTREMELY DANGEROUS! They had been giving me over 12 different kinds of medication, and over the course of 3 days nothing was working. For the next 5 days, I was completely drugged and doped up and almost comatose. I was on a liquid diet, but I hardly knew it. I could barely drink my meals. My white blood cell count was now being done on a daily basis. On September 11th, my white blood cell count came back and it had dropped to 100!! My body had basically given up trying to fight this raging internal infection. My husband, Jeff, was my only visitor. Each time he came, he had to put on a gown, gloves, and a mask before he could enter my room. He could only stay about 15 minutes each time because he would get extremely hot and start sweating to the point of sweat dripping off his face. It did not even bother me. I was too sick to care. I even told him he did not have to come. But he came several times a day religiously. Everyone else that entered my room also had to don the garb. This included doctors, nurses, people drawing blood, janitors and anyone else. Even the food servers had to don the garb. My door had a hanging organizer full of all of the garb. It was quite funny looking!
Will I Live or Die?
On September 12, 2014, a Friday night, the doctor entered my room. I had been almost comatose for the last couple of days and I knew I was in serious trouble. Chemo treatments over the last 3 months had been adversely affecting my brain. I could not think clearly, I got words mixed up, I forgot things, and sometimes even had complete blank outs. The problem is, when you are that sick, you really do not care what is going on or what is going to happen. I had no brain power to even comprehend what was going on. The doctor usually came in much earlier, and I remember wondering why he was there??? He started explaining my case to me and told me that they had tried everything they could think of, and nothing had been working. He said they were out of options and that I might not make it through the night. Now you would think one would freak out at that news. But I was almost relieved. I just wanted to go to sleep and never feel sick or feel pain again. My brain was so drugged that nothing really made any sense to me. He did say I might want to make some calls, just in case. At that moment, it dawned on me what he was saying. There was a good possibility I was not going to make it through the night. I had just enough consciousness to realize that I did need to call my husband and my son. I also realized, as I tried to think, that it was my Mom’s birthday, or would have been if she were alive. It dawned on me that I might die on my Mom’s birthday. I should have made other calls, but I didn’t even know if I had enough life left in me to just make those two calls. I called my husband first. I don’t think he was that surprised. He had been with me numerous times over the last week, and had seen the slow decline. He tried to put up a good front, but I could tell that he was expecting the worst, and that he was somewhat prepared for it. He had watched me go from a healthy 62 year old woman that weighed 243 lbs. to a deathly sick invalid whose weight had declined to 155 lbs. in just 3 months. We told each other how much we loved each other, and I told him I had to go because I still had to call our son, Scott, and I only had about 5 minutes left in my body. I was losing ground fast, and I knew that every minute counted. I also knew it might be the last time I ever heard my husband’s voice and he mine.
The Two Hardest Calls I Have Ever Made
I dialed my son’s number. He answered. He knew that I was in the hospital and he had offered to come down, but we had discouraged him because he would have had to dress in the garb and would only have about 15 minutes to see me. Now I was feeling very, very sad about that decision. I cut right to the chase. I told him what the doctor said, and told him that I loved him more than anything in this world, and I would always be with him. I told him that I honestly felt the doctor was right and I was not going to be able to hang on any longer. My son has always been my strongest advocate. He has given me many pep talks over the years, and after all, he always tells me I am a tough ole bird! He has always refused to give up on me, and this was no different. He started on me. He told me that I could not just give up! I had to continue to fight. After all, I had decided to fight this cancer with every ounce of my being, and he reminded me that this was no different. I was going to have to FIGHT!! I tried to tell him I was just too tired and too sick and there just was nothing else to give. He begged me to fight, not to give up. He told me he still really needed me in his life and he would not know what to do without me. Even though he was 30 years old, he was basically telling me that he still needed his MAMA!!! How could I give up on that? He has always been one of the reasons I have always fought so hard. Whether it was financial, mental or physical, I have always fought for him. From the day he was conceived, I made a promise to him to give him the best that I could and to always be there for him. How could I abandon him now? That sweet voice of his has always had an effect on me. So after we cried together for a few minutes, I promised him I would not give up and I would do everything in my power to make it through the night. I laid there all alone, with tears streaming down my face, and I asked God to please help me. I had asked God for so many favors over the years, but in the last 3 months I had begged God to either kill me or help me get through this ordeal. Every time I was in the deepest, darkest place possible, I came out of it, even if just for a few days. Once again, I was begging God to help me and to not take me away from my husband and son and the other people that depended on me. Here I was, knocking on death’s door! I honestly felt, though, that I had asked too many favors and maybe I had no more favors left. As the drugs took affect and I started to head to never never land, I prayed one more time. I knew this might be my last hurrah!
