October 1991
Tammy woke me one night complaining
of shortness of breath. She had work in a medical environment for a number of
years and recognized immediatly there was a problem, a big problem. She told me to call
911, I did. One of the technicians, after a quick arrival to our home, spoke to
someone on the radio; I assume at the hospital, the same hospital my wife was
employed by. I heard him say, "... no
breath sounds on the left side." I
was quickly consumed by fear; I could feel the stirring of panic beginning to
settle in. Tammy’s appearance did not indicate the same anxiety; her calmness
during this event was typical of her demeanor years ago, too many years ago now. With
the swiftness of highly trained professionals they whisked my wife away. I was
allowed only to follow in my car. Late October in Kenai, Alaska
is both dark and very cold, the flashing lights of the ambulance were needed to
guide my way.
The ambulance’s closed rear doors outlined by
lights were all I would see for the next twenty minutes. Those doors had not
only locked my wife inside, but they also represented the beginning of a life
draped by narcotics and the ending of a happy family. Our family was one that
spoke frequently of future plans. We were a family whose home was filled with
the laughter of children and gleaming proud parents. We weren’t the perfect
family, but that family, and all of the laughter, all of the plans, everything, has been
gone now for more than a decade.
None of this occurred to me that
night. I knew that she was being transported to a facility that could handle
this situation. Doctors, after all, know best. That night was also the first
time I realized what the Apostle Paul had meant when he spoke of prayer,
“We do not
know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with
groans that words cannot express.” (Rom. 8:26).
Tammy had suffered a spontaneous pneumothorax; a life
threatening condition, her left lung had collapsed and was causing her heart
and mediastinal structure to push to the right side. Tammy was numb. It was
different than now; this was needed. A doctor induced numbness.
A chest tube was inserted as I stood next to
my wife’s hospital bed. Over the next few hours, the doctors would discuss her
course of treatment. The options were explained to me.
I listened intently to every word,
but did not understand. The doctor may as well have been speaking in Latin. But
doctors, after all, know best. So I nodded appropriately, shook their hands,
and thanked them for caring for my wife in the best way possible. They
readdressed the available options as I waited for them to tell me what they,
the professionals, would be doing. They remained persistent in their quest for
a outsider's decision. Their unyielding quest still boggles my mind. So with
reluctance I told him to proceed, without surgery, it sounded like the greater
of two evils, and perform sclero therapy with tetracycline, in outsider's terms
they would glue her lung in place, avoiding future episodes. The doctor assured
me that the procedure would be accomplished with little discomfort to Tammy;
she would be heavily sedated. However the recovery would be painful. They said
they would control the pain with appropriate medications. Control, the one word they overlooked for the next few months.
There was no control. The gates
were opened, and they flooded my wife’s body with painkiller after painkiller.
The drugs were administered with chaos, not control. At one point I did
overhear her doctor express concern over the amount of pain-killers
administered over a six hour period, the caring nurse replied that Tammy seemed
to be in unyielding pain, and it broke her heart to see a fellow co-worker
suffer so. Only a bystander, I thought, “doctors know best?”
Order now-Going Numb
No comments:
Post a Comment