On our last episode... Rich was admitted November 11th for an overnight stay for twelve hour fasting bloodwork. It didn't go so well. Having explained to them three times that his sugars plummet three hours after eating... well, they just had to see it for themselves.
He was discharged November 16th on three injections per day of ocreotide. This was supposed to keep his sugars up. At 05:00 the next morning I wake to find him sitting on the side of the bed vomiting. Not like you or I would vomit. More like the way a six month old would vomit—totally unaware of the process. He was unresponsive but I did manage to get some orange juice into him, enough so that I could then get some food into him. About a half hour later he was coming around and totally confused by the fact that I was crying. Needless to say, I could not go to work and leave him like that. I waited for the doctor to call me back and tried to figure out how I was going to pull our world back into orbit.
The doctor said to keep an eye on him, which means blood sugars every two to four hours (more on that concept later) and she would see him in the office on Monday, he could wait until then as long as I could revive him, if not, bring him in sooner. She said I should just listen to my comfort zone. I laughed. Out loud. I let her know that I no longer have a comfort zone.
Christy demanded that she be allowed to stay with Rich Friday so I could go to work. She totally gets how stressed I was at the thought of missing a fourth day in two weeks. (PTS from CFM.) I actually felt relieved that I might have a normal day.
At 03:30 on Friday morning I woke because Rich was stirring and making strange noises. Yee-hah. When I tried to assess him, he was speaking gibberish and watching his hand float in the air in front of his face like a butterfly. I can now produce orange juice in a nano second. This time it was a fight to get him to drink it; he was borderline combative, but I triumphed. Then it was getting protein into him, and this time he continued with confusion long enough that I feared he had suffered some brain damage. When he was finally stable I went downstairs, curled up on the couch and cried. Half an hour later he came downstairs, looked at me like I had two heads and asked why I was crying.
Really? Really.
That just made me cry harder. For a good three hours. At some point I realized that I had had about two hours of sleep because every time Rich moved I woke up to make sure he was okay. I called Christy and told her not to bother coming, I was not safe to drive, let alone practice. Why did I think it couldn't get any worse?
Later in the day Christy came over with groceries and wine and settled in for the duration. I almost didn't cringe that someone was in my house and it wasn't spotless. Around eleven I gave Rich his injection, hoping it would mean he would get through the night. Christy told me to find a spot anywhere other than beside Rich and get some sleep—she would keep an eye on him. With her family history of diabetes, I trusted her knowledge and expertise and I curled up on the couch and actually fell asleep.
Less than two hours later she woke me up because Rich was crashing, she couldn't get him to swallow anything, and he sounded like he was drowning. I gave him the emergency injection of glucose, and still nothing. I called 911. It was the same unit that came last time. This time I told them to transport him. I called the doctor and left a message on her service, and Christy drove me to the ER. Denny met us there, and I gradually realized that they were running interference for me. ER staff was going to have to go through Christy and Denny to get to me, and they were going to make sure everything went exactly as I wanted. Sure enough, nothing was done to Rich beyond monitoring and blood work that his doctor ordered over the phone. Rich remembered nothing prior to EMS getting him on the gurney to transport him
Shortly he was admitted to the oncology floor, we got him settled in and Christy took me home, sat up with me till 5:30 in the morning, and cooked me breakfast when I woke up at 10:00. What meant the most to me, sort of, was that I finally had a witness. When I tell someone what this is like, I can tell that they get a sense of what it's like. But hearing about the battle is not the same as smelling the gunpowder and hearing the bullets whiz past your ears. At last someone had witnessed my nightmare and I felt vindicated.
Not sure what happens next. They're talking about another surgery. I'm confused. They still don't know if the pancreas is overproducing insulin, in which case they will surgically remove the tail; or if one or more of the tumors is producing insulin, in which case which one and how do they know they can get the right one? But then, what do I know?
I would just like them to understand that if they're going to discharge him in need of 24-7 care, it will have to be to a place where the staff is greater than one person who needs to sleep on a somewhat regular basis. Where was discharge planning on THAT decision?
On a lighter note, Christy asked me when the doctors would call me. I busted out laughing. Call me What? They don't call me. Certainly you don't mistake me for a person of importance here.
