Perish the Thought

Listen to your body— or it could kill you

I’ve almost died — twice. Both times, it was my obstinate sense of invincibility — aka, a stubbornness beyond the pale — that put me on the path away from living my best life. And both times it was a family member who told me to pay attention to my body’s warning signs and put me back on track.

The first was a ruptured appendix 15 years ago. But that calamity didn’t play out the way this kind of condition usually does. I woke up one morning feeling under the weather. I went into work anyway (who told us that we were indispensable? We’ve discovered in COVID Times that we’re obviously not.) and as the day wore on, my condition deteriorated significantly. But it felt like I’d been walloped with a lingering, sickening malaise that I couldn’t quite pinpoint — not a cold, certainly, nor tummy ache, nor really a case of the flu — so I figured from past experience that I could power through it.

I went home and went to bed. Woke up in the middle of the night with a piercing pain coursing through my abdomen. No, I couldn’t tell if it was on my right side, my left side, or in the center. I rolled over, nudged Moker, and told him that I could barely move. He — the son of a registered nurse — told me that if that were the case, he was taking me to the hospital.

Turns out I had what the surgeon later called a “slow leak”. My appendix was punctured — who knows how or why? My condition made about as much sense as the fact that I had this useless organ at all — and it had been leaking for God only knows how long. Anyone familiar with a ruptured appendix, much less one leaking toxic crap into a vulnerable midsection, knows that the gunk spreading slowly out into my tummy was nasty enough to cause a severe case of peritonitis. Considering my condition, the doctor said if I had waited much longer, I would have been dead.

Two years ago it looked like I was going to meet my maker once again. I’d had a cough for a couple of months — and of course, ignored it. And every so often a friend would remark that I looked pretty pale. But my M.O. was my M.O. — as far as my health was concerned — and I just carried on with business as usual.

Of course, the status quo hardly ever remains so. While puttering around and getting ready for a family beach trip, I started feeling tired — not just a little sleepy, but beyond exhausted; really wiped out. I chalked it up to overly enthusiastic vacation preparations and motored on, aiming for full speed ahead.

You know what’s coming next. All was well; except it turned out that it wasn’t. I had a blood clot in my leg that had traveled to my lungs. Classic case of pulmonary embolism, the doctor at the hospital later told me, after I’d traveled the six hours by car to the beach, struggled to stand up, and was whisked by my youngest to the Urgent Care facility in Kitty Hawk, N.C. I thank the Good Lord every day that the nurses there recognized that I was not long for this world unless I received some world-class care. After a journey of close to three hours by ambulance in the middle of the night (do not recommend), I spent three days in intensive care. Because of quick action by my medical team in Virginia Beach, I was on the proverbial road to recovery and back home soon enough, with strict instructions not to overdo it.

I’d like to tell you I learned a lesson from these near-death experiences, but it took the second wake-up call to jolt me significantly from my pigheaded perch. I’m still on blood-thinners so the clot won’t return, and I’m reminded twice a day when I pop that little pink pill that I came this close to quite a different outcome.

But it’s those closest to me who’ve really kept me going. My youngest, who recognized on the ride to the beach that Mom’s belabored breathing required a stop at the urgent care before we embarked on any activity involving beach fun. You’re such a Mom, kiddo, which is most definitely a good thing. I love you far beyond anything words can express. But you know that.

Then there was my oldest, who drove across the State of North Carolina — after I’d been hospitalized — with her cute ginger hubby, worried out of her mind, and arrived at the beach house sometime in the middle of the night. I love you for everything, but especially for holding my hand for hours in the hospital and telling me everything would be all right.

And thank you to Moker, who has now undergone two close calls with his bride of almost 42 years. He often doesn’t take stuff too seriously, except when he needs to buckle down and get things done. You’re my rock, honey, really.

And thanks to all of the medical professionals, from the crew at OBX Urgent Care, to the Dare County EMTs, to the staff at the OBX Hospital, to everyone at Virginia Beach General Hospital, who helped get me back on my feet and on a fairly quick road to recovery. You all truly do God’s work, and I’m eternally grateful. Those who entrust themselves to your care are certainly the lucky ones.

I’m usually the one doling out the lessons, but I’ve learned two important things from my close encounters with Dr. Death. Listen to your body. And if it appears your family knows more than you, they probably do.