"...So, what may be a two or three day cold for these other people in my house, turns into at least a two-week ordeal of trying to breathe and not have an asthma attack and rush to the hospital..."
- "Evan, Phone Home"
September 20, 2008
Maybe you thought I was joking! I know I thought I was joking when I wrote it. I don't have any photos from the experience, but that's just where I've been the last few days. (Which is unfortunate, really - the "not having the camera" part. Brett and Bethany came to stay with me on Monday afternoon after Bethany finished school. I was in my bed playing Solitaire and talking to the kids. At one point, it got quiet. I looked up to see Brett texting wildly away on his phone, and Bethany texting just as wildly on her phone. I was amused by this - these poor kids wasting a perfectly good afternoon at the hospital. I wished, at that point, for my camera.)
This was the worst asthma attack I've ever had, since being diagnosed with asthma in about 1990. (I was in such denial back then, I refused to use my inhaler for weeks. I couldn't talk or laugh, wheezed and coughed constantly, but I was convinced that using that inhaler was admitting I had a disease that kills people. Finally, one day, my friend, Susie, yelled at me, "I can hear you wheezing over the phone! USE YOUR INHALER RIGHT NOW!" So, I did.) Since then, I've had to go in for breathing treatments maybe 8 - 10 times. Always before, one treatment did the job. Not this time.
They gave me two regular, short treatments. That didn't work, so they gave me an hour treatment. That didn't work, so they admitted me. That was late Saturday night/early Sunday morning. I was discharged this afternoon (Tuesday). I had a private room, the nurses were wonderful, the doctor* was about 17 (but, whatever). Hey, the food was pretty good, too. In the evenings, Tim got the kids set up and came back to watch TV with me until midnight (he's a sweetheart!). So, if it weren't for being afraid I wasn't going to be able to breathe for a while, it wasn't such a bad deal.
Not all was wonderful, of course. Last night, things worsened to the point that they were when we went to the emergency room in the first place. I was even more despairing because, by then, I had been given some good medicine for almost 48 hours. I made the mistake of crying, which you just simply should not do when you can't breathe. In the midst of all of the near-hysteria, a verse came to mind:
"My times are in Your hands,"
Psalm 31:15a
How great is that! I discovered this verse many years ago. I so needed those words! They have comforted me and calmed me down many, many times. Perhaps you would like to read the whole chapter.
In any case, after a few hours of sleep, things turned back around. It was great to hear I was being discharged immediately.
So, I'm back home with my many prescriptions. I'm going to have to make a chart to keep up with everything. And, I'm going to have to get up from the computer a bit more frequently to get some exercise.
You know, if I would have gone in with kidney stones, they would have given me Demerol. Now that's the good stuff!
It's good to be home.
*The doctor was called "the hospitalist." I had to ask what that meant, of course. I'll explain, in case any of you don't know this term. The hospital has employed a group of doctors who only work shifts at the hospital. This way, all of the doctors, in all of the little offices around the city, don't have to come to the hospital to make rounds. And, the "hospitalist, " always being at the hospital, is readily available for phone calls, questions, appearances, etc.
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