The "Glorious Unscrambling" (Post #10) Subtitle: Why Heather Usually Wears Makeup

So buckle up, folks, this particular blog ride is going to be a long, wild one. Yes, this is the “Glorious Unscrambling.” I’m afraid “Unfolding” is too tame a word for what actually happened.  Oh, and apologies to those who watched the music video with the same title and thought that I had foretold my own death. I feel kinda bad about that…😬 The song spoke to me not only through the lyrics but because the music video was filmed in Scotland, which we visited on our last European trip.

Lay your head down tonight

Take a rest from the fight

Don't try to figure it out

Just listen to what I'm whispering to your heart

'Cause I know this is not

Anything like you thought

The story of your life was gonna be

And it feels like the end has started closing in on you

But it's just not true

There's so much of the story that's still yet to unfold

How do you describe “a miracle?” Google describes it as “a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.” So…if the fact that I’m typing this blog is “miraculous”, does it follow that God intervened? The answer can only be yes, and let me tell you, that’s a mighty surreal feeling. 

Heaven has been feeling closer than ever since my initial cancer diagnosis, but I am seriously in no rush to get there. While the thought of heaven no longer fills me with panic, I do have plans for a grand bash to celebrate my 50th birthday, still many years down the road…or so. 😊

Ready to go! Blissfully naïve.

Wednesday, June 29

The day’s beginning was unremarkable. The weather was beautiful and hubby was wearing his favorite Hawaiian shirt. I remember putting my hair in a bun so it wouldn’t be in the way or messy post-surgery. And yes, I put out my vitamins for that evening. I was to be home by noon, after all. My surgery, (A Round Block Procedure = fancy lumpectomy) was to be done early in the morning under anesthetic but without intubation.

After the surgery was complete, Dr. Olson came and got Ken, since he wasn’t answering his phone, and things were not going well. I recall being on my back on a stretcher, and telling someone (Dr. Olson?) “Three things: I can’t breathe; I’m seeing spots in my vision go black; you need to do something now!” I may also have told them that they would need to give my husband Ativan when they broke the news of my complications. Cancer surgeries are routinely done at the Cross Cancer Institute, and I surmise that most go well. However, they are not an acute care hospital and do not have an ICU. 

Not my x-ray, just demonstrating the way they should look (left) 

and what mine looked like (right).

What was going on is that post-surgery, I failed bi-pap, a popular non-invasive form of ventilation, and my oxygen saturation rates dipped down to the 50s in the ambulance over to the UofA. Normal is above 95. I developed pulmonary edema, and X-rays showed that my lungs were white, not hollow. So they pumped me full of Lasix and rushed me to a resuscitation bay at the University of Alberta Hospital where they put hubby in the corner with orange juice and his own landline, as cell coverage was spotty. I honestly can’t imagine how he must have felt, watching 10-15 people trying to revive his wife. He tells me that if they had made him wait outside it would have been worse and at least this way, he knew what was going on. So he called home, and by the time Marigan and Donovan arrived I was vented, and attached to 2 pressers (Norepinephrine & Vasopressin). Thankfully, Stefan was working, as this is not a scene I would have wanted him to view. (At least I have one normal child!)

When you’re in crisis, it’s often the little things that come to mean the most. Seeing a friendly face or 5 in the ER meant so much to hubby, as did the glass of orange juice! We later heard that a staff member had to run the Cross’s pump back since they had taken it along to the UofA. They were worried about incompatibility and were not about to take the time to investigate!

When Marigan and Donovan arrived, they were walked through the ER to the resuscitation bay. They wanted to do a bronchoscopy, which needed an RT, a nurse, and a porter along with my vent transferred to the ICU, but I was too unstable. When we finally did make the move to ICU, one nurse’s job was to go ahead and clear the way, making people get out of elevators, etc, so it was clear sailing. Man, I wish I’d been aware of that. That’s probably as close to Royal Treatment as I’ll ever get…and I was out of it! 👸🏼

Once in ICU, they set up an arterial line and had 8 IV channels, with Propofol, hydromorphone, plasma light, antibiotics, etc. all flowing. I also required an insulin infusion as my sugar levels went to 27 (normal is 4-7). My hemoglobin went over 200, and my WBC was 35. I was classified as having Severe ARDS, which meant that I was a candidate for ECMO. (Acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) is a serious lung condition that causes low blood oxygen. In ARDS, fluid builds up inside the tiny air sacs of the lungs, and surfactant breaks down.) ECMO. Whoa. That still seems rather surreal as ECMO is considered a “last resort.” 😳

They proned me all Wednesday night, which unfortunately led to a hematoma at the surgical site, but hey! They saved my life, so I’m grateful.  Apparently, I was rather agitated, tearing at my restraints and trying to remove my breathing tube. (Correction: this didn't happen until Friday as I was completely out of it until then. Something about being too sick to move? 🤷🏼‍♀️) Have I mentioned that I’m claustrophobic and don’t even like to wear hoods? 😬 Yeah, this was not my idea of a good time. I found wearing a mask difficult before, but now it’s really a doozy. Thankfully, my recollections of this time are very, very hazy.  Ken and Marigan remained at my side and tried to use music and talking to the boys over WhatsApp to calm me down, but I was being a tough/grumpy customer. Eventually, Donovan went home,  and Ken paced the walkway between the Mazankowski Heart Institute and the UofA before receiving the assurance that I’d be okay around 10:00 that night. His mom received the same message at 5 am Thursday morning. Each day Ken had a specific prayer request. On Wednesday, it was that ECMO would not be needed. It was granted!

Thursday, June 30

By Thursday morning I was on my back, though they thought I may need proning again, and my condition had been downgraded to mild ARDS. Yes! I’m told that my nurse, Abed, was terrific; I don’t remember him at all. Ken and Marigan sat at my bedside for hours that day as they waited for me to stabilize. (You are only allowed 2 support people in ICU. Marigan is working casual, and thus able to create her own schedule. Stefan works from home but is tied to his computer, 8-5. Donovan has multiple projects on the go and attends Zoom meetings all day.) They began to cut back on some of my meds, such as those keeping up my blood pressure, which wanted to tank, on Thursday night, which was Ken’s prayer request of the day, and at 10:00pm, my nurse Irish, who I don’t remember as anything but a soothing presence, called to tell Ken that I had opened my eyes.  Things were looking up! 

Friday, July 1 

When Ken and Marigan arrived, early the next morning, I was still intubated but aware of my surroundings.  Unfortunately, when they extubated me around 11:00am and switched me to a high flow nasal cannula, my anxiety didn’t lessen. However, I did cause a few chuckles as the first word out of my mouth after being extubated was a heartfelt “thank you!” Many different methods were again tried to reduce my anxiety, including having people pray on speaker phone. That seemed to work best! I was totally confused when I extubated, but quickly reoriented, even getting the day, month and year right! (I should have received a sticker for that - the months had changed!) I spent the day hooked up to various lines, and suffered from nausea and pain and an unquenchable thirst for warmed blankets. (I’d shiver so hard I’d jiggle the bed.) I was a model patient for the staff but kept pestering my family: ”I’m hungry, I’m thirsty; when can I eat?” Apparently, I also found breathing rather laborious and told everyone “I’m too tired to breathe anymore.” Weirdly, that seemed to alarm them! 🤷🏼‍♀️

The ICU is a busy place, with many beeping monitors and a one-on-one ratio for nursing due to the severity of the patients. Unfortunately, sleep has never been a strength of mine and I’d pull out my earplugs every time I heard a noise or one of my alarms sounded…which was so often they put one probe on my toe instead of my finger! “What’s wrong?” I’d ask. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” I don’t recall much from my UofA ICU stay, other than a nurse telling me that earplugs were $50/pair, as I kept losing mine. 🤑

In case you've ever wondered what I'd look like as a manatee... Marigan tells me that I look "good" here, compared to my initial appearance. I believe she used the term "blowfish" in keeping with the marine theme. I was just happy to have the tube out!

Saturday, July 2 

On Saturday morning, it became painfully obvious that despite not requiring additional proning, my hematoma had swelled massively overnight. I had a Purple Dolly Parton Boobie! I was just about to eat Jell-O and drink apple juice (You have no idea how decadent that sounded; I was sooo excited!) when it was decided that I was not to be operated on that afternoon, as initially planned, but rather asap... at the Misericordia Hospital. This part was actually fun, as I was whisked away via ambulance in all its lights and sirens glory.  Barreling down the halls of the UofA hearing the EMTs call “Move! ICU to ICU transfer coming through!” may have been the highlight of my whole experience! (Though there was no nurse stopping elevators, etc., as before. 😌) I asked the EMT how long the trip would take and was told around 10 minutes. We made it in just over 7.5. Even the EMT with me in the back was impressed, and trust me, he made Oscar the Grouch seem like Pollyanna. (He doesn’t like doing hospital transfers; he prefers 911 calls. Me too, buddy, me too. Well, watching them on TV, at least.) It was raining when we arrived and as the Misericordia is continually under construction, I was rather wet by the time we entered the building. The rain felt good on my face.

I was a nervous wreck at the thought of being intubated again and couldn’t control my trembling. “Sorry, it’s nothing personal. This is just what my body does when I’m stressed.” It’s possible that the reason my surgery was moved up (besides expecting my skin to split any moment - and how does Dolly move her arms?!?) was that the anesthesiologist on call that morning was the Head of the Department. He was hilariously high energy, literally bouncing on his toes like Tigger while waiting for everything to start. Or maybe he’s heard my history? Nah…😇

My second surgery took 40 minutes and Dr. Olson was pleased with the outcome. They managed to drain an impressive 500 ml from the hematoma. I felt so. much. better. Then it was upstairs to ICU at the Misericordia, where my nurse, Bonnie, continually irritated me by coaxing me to take deep breaths: “smell the flowers, blow out the birthday candles.” Or at least this is what I’ve been told. I have only a dim recollection of this. While searching for photos for this post, I came across some “accidental video” that my husband must have inadvertently recorded. Oh my. I’ll never be able to enter politics if that ever gets out - I sound completely sloshed, drunk as a skunk, high as a kite…🥴

 

Sunday, July 3

After a miserable night where I only slept around 2-3 hours, Sunday dawned. I still had no idea of how sick I’d been, and when the nurses suggested I sit in a chair, I figured I’d hop out of bed and sit in the chair!  Ha!  I required a nurse to hold each arm, as I used a walker to move less than two feet, where I collapsed into the chair. Oy. This was not going as planned. I managed to remain upright for 15 minutes the first time and 30 the second time, but wowsers did that wipe me out. 😖 Utterly discombobulating for a formerly tough farm girl!

I had fantastic nurses during my entire stay. Efficient, kind, compassionate, all the good synonyms, and so professional that you forgot you were helpless as a baby and about as stinky as one too, just not as cute. 👶 On Sunday afternoon, my nurse of the day, Trudy, asked me if I wanted my hair washed.  They did that?!?  “Oh yes!” came her reply. “We’ll have a Spa Day at the Misericordia.” And so Amanda, an HCA with absolutely beautiful hair assisted Trudy as they gave me a spa day. This was not easy peasy. The photo above shows where I laid my head, and she had to continually pour water over my head, as it poured into a bucket right beside her. Now I love going to the hairdresser; the scalp massages Karen gives are so relaxing!  But there, we are equals. I’m paying her for her time and talent. This was different. This was the staff seeing the possibility of improving my day and making it happen. As I was still incredibly weak, I wasn’t even able to comb my own hair, but their actions made me feel like doing so was their pleasure. They didn’t need to have a "Spa Day at the Mis," but I’m so glad they did. Oh, and remember how I’d so carefully arranged my hair in a bun? At some point, I’m not sure when, someone took out my bun, braided my hair, and tied off the end with the wristband of a blue medical glove. I love nurses! (And could never, ever be one…) 

"Reunited, and it feels so good!"

Sunday night was rough. Despite melatonin and a sleeping pill, I only got 2 hours of sleep. So I started doing research. At 4:15am, the following message appeared on Ken’s phone, along with a link to an article on how to sign out AMA: “Come get me. I'm signing out AMA if they won't let me go. Got maybe 2-3 hours of sleep. I'm exhausted! Stupid squishy legs and random alarms… FYI, “squishy legs'' are Intermittent Pneumatic Compression Devices that spontaneously massage your legs, encouraging blood flow and reducing swelling in post-surgical patients. And no, they do not stop for the night. They are also hot and sweaty and induce grouchiness in the sweetest of patients. 😊 As my condition improved, I found more

 things to dislike, but don’t worry, my goal was to be the staff’s favorite patient on every shift. Sometimes this was exhausting. 

Just before 7:00am, my surgeon Dr. Olson came by. He wanted me to have an echocardiogram before I was allowed to leave, but thought that perhaps by Wednesday, we could discuss getting me discharged.  Then, minutes later a group of residents/students came by to see me. (They reminded me of Minions. Somehow, they were almost all the same height, dressed in hospital greens and blinking slowly due to the early hour. I honestly got the giggles!) Now, I like to think that I have a lot of compassion and understanding for those studying to become doctors. Ken was in his second year of residency when we married and my eldest is beginning his 3rd year of medical school. But, boy oh boy, when the spokesman for the group, a general surgery resident, told me “maybe you could be home by the end of the week,” he had no idea how close he was to having his cheeks pinched. The following message was sent to Ken: “This whippersnapper told me I could go home at the end of the week!”  You know you’re old when…whippersnapper indeed!👵🏼  I may have thought of him as I left the hospital: “Hmmm, wonder what he’ll think when I’m not there tomorrow morning?”  Mature, Heather, very mature.  Apparently, you can get old without maturing.

My nurse of the day, Jenn, was a former OR nurse who had worked with Dr. Olson, and somehow she sensed that I was at the end of my rope. She encouraged me to tick all the boxes that would allow for my release. And yes, I mean, release, not discharge. You go to the hospital when you are ill and they save your life. It’s great!  Until you have to stay. My last previous hospital stay had been 20 years earlier when my youngest was born and I was in the hospital for barely 12 hours. I like to visit them, but I’m not interested in any long-term committed relationships. 😉

Finally, at 3:00pm, I was on my way home. I was giddy! And hungry. And yes, we did go through the McDonald’s drive thru, where I ate half a cheeseburger and at least 7 fries. They don’t warn you about stomach shrinkage! Upon arriving home, I commandeered the La-Z-Boy and made a few calls. Hearing the joy in my parent’s voices when I told them I was home was rather overwhelming. We’re Mennonite. We don’t do emotions. But hearing my dad’s “My girlie!” turned on the taps. Having my family around me was the greatest medicine I could have ever desired. Until it wasn’t. 🙄

Tuesday, July 5

Stefan had been fighting a cold for a few days and Donovan was complaining about his seasonal allergies, as per usual, so other than teasing Stefan about sounding like Larry King, we didn’t give it much thought. A colleague of Ken’s brought over homemade Pakistani food which was incredibly delicious, but a little on the spicy side for such “white bread” Europeans. Much hilarity ensued as we tried not to drink more than we ate. (Sour cream is your friend, people.) It was the perfect meal to reunite as a family since we have a rather skewed sense of fun.

Wednesday, July 6

I awoke to a beautiful day after a restful sleep and it appeared as though all was right with the world again. Until Stefan took a Covid test at lunchtime and it was positive. Donovan’s was also positive, and they were banned to the basement. A dear friend and neighbor had spent the day cooking (and praying) for us and she popped over to drop off supper. (We spot-swapped and talked through windows with masks on!) What a treat that was!  After hearing that the boys had Covid, my mood tanked. Coupled with the realization that I had almost died, (Never to become Oma!) I was just having a lousy day, after such a promising start. My friend’s encouraging words and the amazing feast were exactly what my heart needed.  I promise not to make a habit of it, but I found these words swirling around in my head and had to write them down. Unfortunately, they came out in free-form poetry: 😬

I just saw Jesus with skin on.

She was standing in disguise at my back door, her beautiful eyes shining with love as she unloaded a feast for my dining pleasure.

Nary a hint at how long it had taken her, (all. day. long.) she beamed instead as she encouraged me, “I got to pray for you!” 

God knew I needed to see Jesus with skin on today.

I saw him with skin on last month too. 

He looked a bit different that day. The upright bearing of an officer, but the caring eyes of a friend as he unloaded the best lasagne I have ever eaten.  “My husband will be in the area and he’s going to drop off a meal, okay?” I live in the boonies. There is nothing in the area except cows.  He came back a second time to deliver corn chowder and biscuits that made my taste buds sing…and hips swing, but, no matter, it was worth it!

God knew I needed to see Jesus with skin on those days too. 

I’ve seen him multiple times in recent days. In the dark brown gaze of my husband’s colleagues as they drop off whole meals or bags of treats. They don’t officially know Him, but He knows them and I’m praying that one day they’ll meet. 

Today was a tough day. Yesterday was the perfect day to watch my family try to eat delicious homemade Pakistani food. Oh, how we laughed…and burned.

But today I needed to see Jesus with skin on and so he sent me you.

Thursday - Saturday, July 7-9

No, I won’t inflect the minutiae of our current daily lives upon you. Other than Ken and Marigan testing positive on Thursday, nothing much changed. I’m still testing negative, despite having slept beside my CPAP-wearing husband for 3 nights, (Monday to Wednesday) and the others are slowly recovering, with Marigan, as per tradition, getting the sickest.

So why did God allow me to come home to Covid Cottage?  No idea; good thing I don’t need to know. For now we’re being super-duper careful. I’m sequestered in our master bedroom suite, which thankfully has a door to the yard. (Weird houses in the country, folks!) I’ve been trying to remember that I was technically still supposed to be in the hospital until yesterday, though with every gain of strength, I’m tempted to do something ridiculous…like weed. I get my meals delivered, or I eat them outside with Ken, who is wearing an N95 and keeping his distance. It’s not ideal…or maybe it is? Maybe God knew I’d be tempted to try to cook, clean, and care way beyond what was healthy. Maybe he knew that Marigan needed a break after being both nurse and daughter and that Ken needed to discover the joys of being a hausfrau! Frankly, it doesn’t matter. If God can bring me back from the brink, a little Covid isn’t going to get in His way. Is it slightly hilarious that we’d managed to avoid it until now? Absolutely! But I’m always looking for reasons to laugh, and this is certainly amongst the best of them. Personally, I think God wanted to make this story even more impressive, but I may need to wait until heaven to confirm this. Here’s hoping that this discussion is many, many years away.