Dreams of Paris and Painful Arms
I keep dreaming of Paris. Not the Paris of the 2000s, or of the late eighties when I lived in Europe and visited. No, I always dream of Paris in 1981 in black and white, my first glimpses of the city. I'm always walking in the dream, looking for a public restroom unsuccessfully. I wake up, realize anew I'm in my house in Costa Rica and I have to pee.
I cannot figure out for the life of me why I never go to the places I know in Paris, to the USO offices, or to the American Express office, to the multitude hotels and restaurants, any number of places I know have public restrooms. Why Paris? Why only the Paris of 1981?
Since I last updated I have had a visit to the land of very painful existence, the hospital. One of the hospitals in Liberia. The entire experience was horrific. Apparently I've now entered that bizarre age when it's possible to have a urinary tract infection and have no more symptoms than a fever.
Nearly three weeks ago, back when I was having a bad reaction to volcanic ash I started having an afternoon fever, and feeling like, well you know. Thought I might be coming down with the sinus infection. I'd pop the supplements I take for that and lay down.
The fever climbed, instead of a pesky low grade thing, about a week later it was over a hundred. I shrugged and threw in more supplements and a few Panadol (what passes for Tylenol here) and didn't think too much of it. On Thursday and Friday it climbed again to 102 before landing on 103 about 8 pm. We went to our clinic chockablock with doctors and the like.
After almost three bags of saline and four different doses of anti inflammatory plus a head to toe medical exam that found zero wrong with me. They even did the asthma thing and took a chest xray. For once my lungs were completely clear. Told to have a blood draw in the morning and a Covid test just to be sure.
Saturday morning I was so exhausted by the night before my husband let me sleep in while he ran a few errands. We got to the clinic at 10:30 am to be told that the lab was shut for the day. It would be Monday before bloodwork, but I got the PCR Covid test.
Got my Covid test back on Sunday morning. Negative of course, but would have to wait on the blood work. Too bad something else had other ideas. Sunday afternoon my fever just stopped, with my temps going down to 94.7. My normal body temp is nowhere near the normal 98.6, I'm usually at least a degree lower. Then around midnight I awoke and it was a brain melting 104. Back to the clinic. I'd just been there earlier in the day after fainting already.
More fluids, more attempts to lower the temp that don't work. I have scary readings, oxygen rates drop into the 70s. One of the walls of my heart starts beating more weakly than the rest. They transport me to a hospital in the ambulance all the way in Liberia. In the ambulance they keep trying to keep running the EKG, telling Jim I will need a cardiologist to monitor me in hopes this new problem with my heart is a temporary symptom.
Then the nightmare starts and I'm admitted. Not saying which area Liberia hospital this is, but we're filing a complaint over a few things. Please don't blame this crap on Ticos, there are lazy doctors that do not listen to what you are telling them worldwide. Some of the crappiest doctors in the world are in the States.
Rolling into the ER and immediately rerunning the EKG and everything else. I was only allowed to be transferred to this place after my doctor told them I had a negative Covid test that day. I get another chest x ray before any other further diagnostic tests.
From the bed I can see the radiologist and the rest of the folks eyeballing my chest xray hard. Eventually the ER doctor ventures over to say that the xray shows I have Covid, so they're rerunning my Covid test plus a torso ct scan to rule out infections.
Two hours later and the scan shows no Covid and the new Covid test is negative. The doctor tells me when I ask for an explanation about the changing diagnosis that my body had clearly fought off the evil Covid in those two hours. I hate lying liars who lie. Just admit you bolloxed up the xray diagnosis.
Hearing from oodles of folks that Covid is the lazy doctor's go to now.
At the same time the nurse has removed my original IV, which is in one of the only three places you can successfully mount at IV on me. Why? Because it's in the middle of my elbow and she thinks putting it in a joint is wrong. She don't know me. She's installed three different ones in other places, then fusses at me I am moving around so much that the IVs are not staying put, ignoring my words about my tiny, deep, rolling, collapsing magical veins I've dealt with my entire life.
By this time the blood work is back and combined with the scans it is decided it's a UTI. Which blows my mind. I get them once in a great while, but they always make their presence known by horrid pain, pain I did not get this time.
Once it is light outside they have a bed ready for me. Horrible teeny room, just enough room for an ancient dirty looking Hill-Rom hospital bed, and a sprung clapped out futon for Jim. They send Jim home to get whatever we need for the stay, and it starts to go sideways very badly after he leaves.
Why? The damn IV. First my right arm blew up like a balloon because the IV was not actually in a vein while they've been pushing in anti biotics, pain killer (yeah, I know, I wasn't even in pain yet) and fever reducing meds. They're ending up forming a big knot and strange swelling, Popeye the Sailor man forearm. They start trying to find a vein, Veinhunt 2022!
By the time Jim returned I was crying, crying hard big old snotty tears while both arms are festooned liberally with cotton and tape. Plus they're taking my blood pressure on these same tore up swollen arms and I'm jumping out of my skin shrieking every single time.Now that didn't help the pressure, but I was suddenly grateful for the stupid Tylenol 3 alikes I was being given. I kept asking them to do what other hospitals have done after bruising up my arms, moving the cuff to my leg. They were horrified with the suggestion, even as I had it done when I had the stroke. Just as easy to cuff a calf.
They finally had to bring in someone from the lab, someone experienced, to put the IV in near the very top of the one good vein the clinic used. Yeah, the clinic knows, they know that there are few places to put an IV. It didn't entirely solve the problem, but it was a big improvement. Final score - 9 failed IV spots. Damn, I am so bruised up now, but the swelling in that hand is going down. It has swollen up like Minnie Mouse, or that stupid Hamburger Helper mitt.
I fought with the nursing staff because they wanted me laying flat at all times. There's never good for an asthmatic. I sit up as much as possible when having bouts of low oxygen, and I sleep on my right side because my left lung is the strongest. They finally gave up on day two when I napped on the futon, it was perfect for side sleeping and I kept my IV on top easily.
I started agitating to go home immediately and had a pretty big fight with the doctor over food and drug allergies. He also would not let me keep taking my Lyrica, I was having horrid withdrawal symptoms and could barely sleep. Thankfully Jim had packed them, so I sneakily took them anyway along with a few of the asthma drugs. I only started to really improve when I started taking my usual slew of prescriptions.
Got home late last night and god how I missed my own bed. I'm just so crazy exhausted right now, I've already had two naps today. My poor arms look crazy, and I see my allergy to the adhesive on most medical tape is still going strong.
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