The real reason to become a doctor.
She was a normal healthy eight year old. Born at term. No childhood illnesses. Good family support. Regular visits to the doctor. Then one day she got a fever. The next day she threw up. The following day she was in the ER having an unstoppable grand mal seizure. She was transferred to Santa Rosa children's hospital. After awhile all the medications they were giving her to stop her seizures put her in coma so deep that they had to put a tube down her throat and hook her up to a machine to keep her breathing. They started to run every test imaginable. Maybe it had to do with the salts and sugars in her blood. Maybe it had to do with an infection. Maybe it had to do with a structural problem of the brain. Maybe it had to do with something toxic she ingested. Two weeks of a coma and millions of tests later--the smartest people in the medical field still had no answers to give to the crying grandparents and younger sister.
That's when I met her. I can't say she met me. She was in a coma. A machine breathing for her, her pupils barely reacting to light, still seizing over the most potent medications known to man. Each day, I would walk into her dark room at 7am, and greet her by her nickname, hoping her eyes would open to my voice. But they didn't. Every day the doses and types of the 20 medications she was on would change. The tube through her nose to her intestines continued to feed her. The pastor continued to pray daily by her bedside. The nurses and residents would struggle to try and make sense of the squiggles on the EEG machine. Yet another MRI would be ordered in hope of seeing something missed on the previous 3. Her daily chest xray would reveal how much of her lung she was using, if her breathing tube was in the right place, if she had yet contracted the dreaded pneumonia that every doc fears for a patient on the ventiilator. Her blood cultures would tell us what evil lurked in her blood that might have caused her temperature that night. The EEG machine would reveal the dreaded squiggles only a few in this world could make sense of. She was treated for viruses without reason. She was treated with autoimmune drugs without reason. They took pieces of her muscle and pondered taking pieces of her brain in hopes of finding answers. Yet her brain and body defied it all. Shaking uncontrollably, eyes rolling back in her head, leaving her loved ones shaking uncontrollably with tears in their eyes, and dying hope in their hearts.
Then one day. She blinked. We had changed the medications for the millionth time for no particular rhyme or reason. The next day, she moved her right arm. How 10 docs can stand around and argue whether the movement was a seizure or a purposeful though hazy gesture is testament to the fact that you can know many things, but ultimately have no clue. Then one day, she was breathing over the ventilator. it was set at 16 breaths per minute, but she was taking more. She started blinking more. One day, I greeted her as I had the past 3 weeks, every moment with her nickname, as I dried off my freshly washed hands. She opened her eyes to my voice, and I nearly screamed. Some said that it was a matter of time before she seized again. Others were merely in shock. And yet others would feel their stomaches drop with cautious hope. That was me anyways.
The next day, she not only opened her eyes, she looked at me. Its funny, cause when a person can't move, can't talk, youve never spoken to them in your whole life... but you just know they are looking at you. You are speaking to each other through your eyes. And trying desperately to communicate. Are you comfortable? what hurts? what can i do to make you feel better? but with a tube down your throat and being to weak to move your muscles, all you can show is frustration. But we shared it.
Soon, we were changing settings on the ventilator to exercise the muscles she needed to breath on her own. Soon she could breath with some help, but really all on her own. We were going to take the tube out. Some thought we would have to put it back in. Others wanted to try, but had everything at bedside in case something went horribly wrong. Some just crossed their fingers and believed. That was me anyways.
It was out, we had to put a mask over her face though. To keep helping her. She was still too sedated and too weak. But another way to see it, is that she was strong enough to have the tube out. And when she seized she had back up in case she couldnt breath. Two days later, she decided she had enough of that; and gathered the strenght to over come all doctors orders and take the mask off herself in the night. Her "numbers" looked better without the mask. She was right.
She still wasn't strong enough to talk. But she had it in her to smile every morning. When I tickled her while listening to her stomach. Soon she was able to know what was coming and just started giggling when I walked in the room.
So where is the miracle part? When she was awake enough to mouth what she wanted, her grandma brought her favorite movie--Grease. Now, you all may not have known me back when I was a wee one. But let me tell you. I watched that movie on repeat more hours than i was in school. She nodded her head in agreement, when i said "Danny is sooooooooo cute in this movie is he not?" and "Roz is so mean in this movie, is she not?" and "the music is the best ever in this movie is it not?" and then she giggled as i recited lyric after lyric from the whole movie.
On my last day on service, they were going to send her for a swallow study. When people are fed in through a tube for 40+ days, you have to make sure their muscles are strong enough to swallow so that food and drink do not go into their lungs instead. I think i held my breath for a solid three hours during her study... waiting for her to come back... and causing hypoxic ischemic injury to my brain from lack of oxygen. She passed. and promptly made her first request--chocolate cookie. This is a girl after my own heart I tell you. When she came back, she was very awake, still not talking much, but smiling. I told her I was proud of her... and she held out her arms for a hug. I nearly fell over. I don't think I've felt that alive since I was eight years old.
I went to see her today after my first run on a new service... with a plate of chocolate cookies of course. She's still seizing. And I'm still holding my breath and crossing my fingers. I said thank you to her. But she just looked at me funny, then smiled, and said thank you back.
That's when I met her. I can't say she met me. She was in a coma. A machine breathing for her, her pupils barely reacting to light, still seizing over the most potent medications known to man. Each day, I would walk into her dark room at 7am, and greet her by her nickname, hoping her eyes would open to my voice. But they didn't. Every day the doses and types of the 20 medications she was on would change. The tube through her nose to her intestines continued to feed her. The pastor continued to pray daily by her bedside. The nurses and residents would struggle to try and make sense of the squiggles on the EEG machine. Yet another MRI would be ordered in hope of seeing something missed on the previous 3. Her daily chest xray would reveal how much of her lung she was using, if her breathing tube was in the right place, if she had yet contracted the dreaded pneumonia that every doc fears for a patient on the ventiilator. Her blood cultures would tell us what evil lurked in her blood that might have caused her temperature that night. The EEG machine would reveal the dreaded squiggles only a few in this world could make sense of. She was treated for viruses without reason. She was treated with autoimmune drugs without reason. They took pieces of her muscle and pondered taking pieces of her brain in hopes of finding answers. Yet her brain and body defied it all. Shaking uncontrollably, eyes rolling back in her head, leaving her loved ones shaking uncontrollably with tears in their eyes, and dying hope in their hearts.
Then one day. She blinked. We had changed the medications for the millionth time for no particular rhyme or reason. The next day, she moved her right arm. How 10 docs can stand around and argue whether the movement was a seizure or a purposeful though hazy gesture is testament to the fact that you can know many things, but ultimately have no clue. Then one day, she was breathing over the ventilator. it was set at 16 breaths per minute, but she was taking more. She started blinking more. One day, I greeted her as I had the past 3 weeks, every moment with her nickname, as I dried off my freshly washed hands. She opened her eyes to my voice, and I nearly screamed. Some said that it was a matter of time before she seized again. Others were merely in shock. And yet others would feel their stomaches drop with cautious hope. That was me anyways.
The next day, she not only opened her eyes, she looked at me. Its funny, cause when a person can't move, can't talk, youve never spoken to them in your whole life... but you just know they are looking at you. You are speaking to each other through your eyes. And trying desperately to communicate. Are you comfortable? what hurts? what can i do to make you feel better? but with a tube down your throat and being to weak to move your muscles, all you can show is frustration. But we shared it.
Soon, we were changing settings on the ventilator to exercise the muscles she needed to breath on her own. Soon she could breath with some help, but really all on her own. We were going to take the tube out. Some thought we would have to put it back in. Others wanted to try, but had everything at bedside in case something went horribly wrong. Some just crossed their fingers and believed. That was me anyways.
It was out, we had to put a mask over her face though. To keep helping her. She was still too sedated and too weak. But another way to see it, is that she was strong enough to have the tube out. And when she seized she had back up in case she couldnt breath. Two days later, she decided she had enough of that; and gathered the strenght to over come all doctors orders and take the mask off herself in the night. Her "numbers" looked better without the mask. She was right.
She still wasn't strong enough to talk. But she had it in her to smile every morning. When I tickled her while listening to her stomach. Soon she was able to know what was coming and just started giggling when I walked in the room.
So where is the miracle part? When she was awake enough to mouth what she wanted, her grandma brought her favorite movie--Grease. Now, you all may not have known me back when I was a wee one. But let me tell you. I watched that movie on repeat more hours than i was in school. She nodded her head in agreement, when i said "Danny is sooooooooo cute in this movie is he not?" and "Roz is so mean in this movie, is she not?" and "the music is the best ever in this movie is it not?" and then she giggled as i recited lyric after lyric from the whole movie.
On my last day on service, they were going to send her for a swallow study. When people are fed in through a tube for 40+ days, you have to make sure their muscles are strong enough to swallow so that food and drink do not go into their lungs instead. I think i held my breath for a solid three hours during her study... waiting for her to come back... and causing hypoxic ischemic injury to my brain from lack of oxygen. She passed. and promptly made her first request--chocolate cookie. This is a girl after my own heart I tell you. When she came back, she was very awake, still not talking much, but smiling. I told her I was proud of her... and she held out her arms for a hug. I nearly fell over. I don't think I've felt that alive since I was eight years old.
I went to see her today after my first run on a new service... with a plate of chocolate cookies of course. She's still seizing. And I'm still holding my breath and crossing my fingers. I said thank you to her. But she just looked at me funny, then smiled, and said thank you back.
posted by rupastotle at 4:40 PM
2 Comments:
sob! oh my gosh. siiiigh. you have to keep me posted on "her" now!
hmm. perhaps the worst place possible to wish you a happy birthday.
m.
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