The Q-View

(This is fifth in a series reflecting on how life changed in a way that was–and still is five years later–unfathomable to me.)

Terry was okay on Tuesday morning, but as the afternoon wore on it was clear something was wrong. She didn’t want to eat and spent several hours seated at the kitchen table. She had not needed the bathroom as much and was having trouble urinating. Mid-evening, we debated what to do and ended up calling for the ambulance. 

When I made the call, I told them it was a non-emergency, and we did not want the sirens and emergency lights. I knew a couple of the crew members, including a former student.

I gathered a bag for Terry and headed for Grand View. I felt some self-pity, as I had at other times during this ordeal. This is not how my retirement was supposed to go. One day at a time. Certainly knew all about that from my son’s heroin addiction.

But, mostly my thoughts were on Terry. I was sure this was just a temporary blip in the recovery process. She was doing well, said her doctors. We were getting closer to normal, watching movies together at home; Terry was doing some cooking; driving herself; shopping; sharing the couch with Rio, our dog. 

Things were progressing. Why this?

I was allowed into the emergency room bay, masked, of course. I watched the attendant hook Terry up to monitors and insert a catheter. I remember thinking I hope this guy has washed his hand because he was not gloved and will always wonder if that contributed to what happened over the next week.

Once Terry had a room to go to, I had to leave her, and I went home. It was early Wednesday morning now. Rio was happy to see me. I dozed fitfully through the night with Rio by my side, popping his head up once in a while and probably wondering where Terry was.

Terry progressed in the hospital and was her normal self. They were treating her like she had an infection but were not sure where it was. Urine output was still down. When I visited her on Friday–yes, I was allowed into the hospital this time if I passed a COVID screening–she told me about bonding with a nurse who had also suffered through her son’s addiction.

Terry also told me that she had been feeling so good before this latest setback that she was hoping to resume our intimate relations.

On Saturday, things started to slip a little bit. Terry was not as alert and elimination was still a problem, but we were both still optimistic. Matter of time, you know. After I visited the hospital, I did some shopping and, while I was in Weis, bought her a rose plant for her hospital room.

While I was driving to the hospital on Sunday morning, I got a call from a nurse. They were moving Terry to ICU. That was unexpected. I left the plant in the car and found Terry’s new room. It was much smaller, and I was glad I had left the rose bush in the car. 

She was in ICU because she wasn’t producing urine and the infection was still bedeviling the staff, and other vital signs had slipped. I stared at the bag at the end of her catheter, trying to will it to fill up. There was some yellow in there but not much. Terry seemed more tired and dozed a couple of times while I sat at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t interested in reading from her Kindle or using her computer. 

Terry said she felt okay every time I asked, and she gamely was forcing liquids, but she was clearly concerned and so was I. Things were going in the opposite direction. I felt fear trying to worm its way to the forefront. I went and found some lunch while Terry was taken for another scan. The nurses weren’t full of information but hinted that if things didn’t improve, Terry was going to be moved to Jefferson in Philly–the place where we went for her esophagus treatment. 

That proposition became a definite on Monday. There was not nearly enough urine being produced, Terry was not eating, and she was clearly tired. The nurses remained optimistic–maybe for Terry’s and my benefit–but they were working on getting her a bed at Jefferson, an iffy proposition given the hospitalizations caused by COVID. The delay was maddening. In my view, she should have been taken immediately by ambulance so we could get this problem taken care of. I was told that she could be moved at any time and that they would call and let me know.

I went home hoping for the best but expecting the worst. And what was I going to do about Rio if I had to spend several hours in Philly?

Monday night was excruciating as I waited for the call. I let the family know what was pending but did not relay my concerns. My daughter-in-law had done some intern work at Jefferson and was optimistic about the move. Which still hadn’t happened–or at least I had not received a call. 

I knew enough by now to call the nursing station before the shift changed, but not too close to the actual changeover. Nope, a bed had not opened up yet. I had tried to call Terry directly on her phone but had received no response. The nurse told me that she was getting more tests. I asked them to call no matter what time of night. I was exhausted from the stress and tried to catch some sleep.

Early Tuesday morning, I woke up. No call had come in. I called the nurse’s station and was told that Terry had been transported to Jefferson at about four a.m. 

When the rest of the world was up, I made arrangements for Rio, called Jefferson for an update–Terry was “resting comfortably”–and headed to Philly after lunch. I found the ICU and Terry’s room. 

A nurse was struggling to get IVs started because Terry was fighting her. I helped by holding Terry’s arms and trying to talk to her while the nurse worked on Terry. She was responsive, but not really. She was hearing me, but not listening. Sense-wise, it was a one-way dialogue. Terry was only sort of there. There was not much conversation, only a couple of lucid responses from Terry. She was not herself.

I had a conversation with a physician who told me that the urine output was still low and that they were flooding Terry with antibiotics under the assumption that an infection was the problem. They were also concerned with her liver function.

“She’s probably going to be here until we can arrange a liver transplant,” the doctor said. 

What? What?

After a couple of hours, I headed home. Scared to death. This was a whole new chapter I was not ready for. I had no idea what to plan for or how.