Kate Does TIRR Volume I Edition 4

Well, I was right, but did we really expect any differently? (But really, I'm wrong sometimes and I'm not that arrogant.) Beginning on Tuesday of last week I tried to tell anybody who would listen that I needed to go back to the ICU. My lungs labored to draw in air and were hindered by these rather large disgusting mucus plugs. They looked like a mix between Silly Putty and that goo you get when you mix Borax solution with Elmer's glue. I was coughing these up 3-4 times each day and whenever they came up my oxygen saturation and breathing always took a nosedive. Despite my constant complaints that my lungs were not functioning correctly I was not moved to ICU for another 3 days. I think it was because I didn't have a little piece of paper that said I graduated from medical school so there was no way I could know what was going on within my own body. Because that makes sense. 

So finally on Friday night my lungs felt as if they were collapsing and no respiratory therapist seemed able to help me. Ironically, this was the first night my dad stayed with me at TIRR, though it wasn't his fault. After a couple of hours of struggling for air and gasping my demands to be taken to ICU, a brainwave finally ricocheted throughout TIRR: they finally realized I was in critical condition and needed to go to the emergency room.  Hallaleujah! We're finally doing what Kate said all along. It only took constant breathing treatments, a bronchoscopy that against my wishes I was awake for and felt way more that I should have, the collective mental capacity of at least twelve medical professionals and a couple of hours of severe respiratory distress to figure out what I needed to get better. 

"Yes," I think to myself as I flail like a fish out of water struggling to breathe. The ambulance finally arrived about an hour later to escort me two blocks. Ridiculous, right? But the paramedic who stayed in the back with me during our seven minute encounter was really cool. 

Three hours pass in the ER and I realize I really hate the ER. Unless you're dying they really just don't care about you. So for those three hours I constantly fought to fill my lungs with a little bit of air because the machine settings were not helping at all. So to survive, I closed my eyes, counted, " 1, 2, 3 inhale," trying to figure out the ventilator to get a little bit of air. Then after all that fighting for my life, shift change occurred bringing me some relief. A new respiratory therapist came in and knew exactly how to fix my vent so I could breathe again. Thanks, Bonnie! You're the best!!

Finally I arrived in ICU and got hooked up to the Cadillac of ventilation machines. I mean we're talking the McLaren Venge of bicycles--for those who don't know, that's a $20,000 bike. My vent now not only moisturizes my air but heats it to the appropriate temperature to enter my fragile lungs. And the bed, we're talking first class! This sucker can be a bed, a chair, a recliner, an elevated bed. Pretty much any position you can think of this bed can do. Plus the mattress is inflatable to create the perfect support for my body. Needless to say Memorial Hermann MICU is very nice. The food is decent and my caretakers awesome! Additionally, both the doctors I have met thus far have been pretty fantastic people. 

So for a little bit more of an update, I have bronchopneumonia, which means nasty stuff is sitting at the bottom of my lungs and we're trying to get it out. Plus, the lower quadrant of my left lung was mot open. Gee, who predicted that?? I have free rein on my diet, which means I can eat or drink whatever I like. Sounds great, right? In actuality I eat less than a baby. I am only able to take two or three bites of something before I am full. Because of this limitation on my stomach I eat a little bit of everything, devouring salty potato chips, savoring the decadent Snickers bar, nibbling the deliciously sweet blueberry muffin, and mass consuming--at least for me--the flavorful and juicy strawberries, cantaloupe and pineapple. Besides eating, I am also able to talk whenever my cuff is deflated. The cuff is little balloon in my trachea that, when inflated, can isolate the breathing to just my trach, making it easier to breathe. Now that I can talk I don't shut up. Whether it's asking questions of my caretakers to get to know them better, complaining about this itch or that pressure point to my mother or endlessly talking about my favorite subject cycling, my lungs and my vocal chords have definitely gotten a very thorough workout today. 

Well, that's about it. Eventually I'll have to talk about how there is no modesty in hospitals or the pathetic way they get me out of bed. But I am tired so this is the end.

The End

(Actually, I lied. This is the picture section.)

The Cadillac of ventilators

The kind of weird hazmat like curtain that makes me wonder what other diseases are down here with me

An actual tv

Viewer discretion is advised. What you are about to see is incredibly gross and the 8th wonder of the hospital as all the doctors, medical students and other medical professionals all seem to puzzle over how such goopy nastiness can arise from my lungs.