Part I
I remember everyone calling him "the biggest
gastroenterologist in Colorado." I come to him on referral
because I am suffering from intestinal pain, chronic diarrhea
and a persistent low fever.
After looking at my X-ray, Biggest Gastro feels I need to
undergo a series of tests to figure out exactly what I have
going on in there. He says it is urgent and I must check into
the hopsital immediately, even though it is erev Rosh
Hashona. My baby is 11 months old and still nursing. She
will have to `go cold turkey' and get weaned overnight onto a
bottle.
It all happens so fast as we stand together in front of an X-
ray of my colon. Squarely facing us is the problem and the
doctor's firm convinction that something must be done
immediately to fight it. He knows exactly how to confront it
and suddenly, we, the very object of his emotional
conviction, know absolutely nothing.
He is willing to save me, but it is clear that I must put
myself entirely in his hands. Later, I learn that such
confidence as he displays is a sure sign that I am straying
in the wrong direction.
But his confidence is mesmerizing, and we've been numbed out
by a feeling of helplessness that something bigger than
ourselves is now in progress.
We live several miles from the hospital and my husband
explains to me that he will not be able to walk over to see
me for the next three days. There is hardly time to say
goodbye. We are both in shock. The doctor has intimated that
I may be seriously ill. Rosh Hashona begins in about two
hours. There is no one to watch our baby if my husband stays
with me. The doctor's words have suddenly plunged us into a
drama of life and death with no one to say, "Wait! Don't put
your life in the hands of Biggest Gastro. Don't leave
yourself here. Go find your healing."
We've been led to believe that there is simply no
alternative. There are tears in the corners of my eyes. I try
to be strong for my husband. And then I find myself alone,
dressed in the white hospital gown with the strings in the
back.
From my symptoms and the examination, they seem to think that
I have one of those big diseases. They are determined to get
to the bottom of it, and have reeled off the names of a
series of tests that will cover all bases.
My body is not working properly and, like any car engine that
is making funny noises, we have taken it into the shop. The
only difference is: I am my body. I can't leave it off for a
few days and then come back and get it.
What it is done to -- I am done to. Perhaps I have an
unusually strong identification with my body. I haven't quite
been able to separate from it. When it stretches, I stretch.
When it feels a wave of well-being, so do I.
On my first visit from the nurse, she announces that I will
be eating nothing but cubes of instant broth for at least two
days. I look at the ingredients on the silver wrapper. There
are written a series of chemicals designed to taste like
chicken soup. Sometimes they gave me a bogus vegetable broth
with just about all the same chemicals.
I surrender and watch my body get weaker and weaker. I am
being starved so that their tests on my colon don't have to
be so messy. Then they start drawing blood every few hours
and order me to take stool samples twice a day. I barely have
the strength to walk to the bathroom.
Left with my thoughts for 72 hours, I die slowly from every
single possible disease of the digestive system. The nurses
are very solicitous but they don't have time to chat. They do
notice my weakness and order a wheelchair to transport me to
the daily X-rays, the CAT scan, bone marrow test, colonoscopy
and gynecological workup. I overhear one of them saying to
the other, "She's so young. I think she's a young mother."
Perhaps they are not aware that I am an Orthodox Jew and for
72 hours there will be no phone calls or visits. The second
bed in the room is empty and I am totally alone for most of
the time, almost as if I've been on isolation ward.
I enter the hospital with a low-grade fever and diarrhea, the
clear result of an inflamed colon. My fever has disappeared
with the diarrhea since I haven't eaten anything. No one has
touched me, although I am being moved and manipulated and
rolled over all day long. No one has asked me how I am
feeling and truly waited for the answer...
I am being killed by formalities. The extra blood and stool
tests and all the comprehensive tests are ignoring the status
of the patient. She is slowly going under.
On the second day, they perform the colonoscopy. They give me
a local anesthetic which they assert is just a precaution and
when I scream from the pain, they assure me that there is
none. As my screams get louder, their polite assurances turn
into a fierce insistence.
What a relief when Biggest Gastro announces that he's found
what he is looking for -- the ulcers in my colon. He is
plainly enjoying his expedition into my interior and he
launches a description of the terrain. The cramping I feel is
unbearable and I'm flailing with my arms when the nurse pins
me down.
Apologetically, she asks the doctor if it's possible to
remove the probe because the patient is not behaving. And
after a disdainful look in my direction, he complies.
The findings seem conclusive but they are determined to rule
out all the other possibilities. And so, the tests go on and
on. Each morning of my nine-day incarceration, the nurse
enters the room, looks at my chart and cheerfully announces
the day's events.
I am only a shadow of myself. On Sunday, my husband makes his
long-awaited visit with my baby. I am too weak to hold her. I
want to respond to her joy at seeing me, but I can only
squeeze out a faint smile. Then I burst into tears as I
realize that I don't even have the strength to care for
her.
I should have known. I had already had some experience with
this award-winning hospital. It was in this very hospital
that my sweet baby was born...
[to be continued]
