Father and Daughter

Image: (circa 2007 – post hospitalization) Brunn Family

I’m gonna watch you shine.
Gonna watch you grow.
Gonna paint a sign.
So you’ll always know.
As long as one and one is two.
There could never be a father;
Who loved his daughter more than I love you

~ Father and Daughter Songwriter: Paul Simon

I fall under a sense of emotions when the thought of a forced separation from my daughter enters my mind. Tingles build in intensity, travel from the center of my spine upwards through my shoulders. These electrical shocks finish their journey as the beginning of tears. This sensation is what I have come to call “Daddy Tears”, and I’ve experienced my share.

Shortly after Caitlin was born, I experienced a moment that showed me I had truly become a Daddy – I rarely shed a tear, but this occasion demonstrated to me that I was capable.
There is a scene in Kevin Costner’s movie ‘Field of Dreams’ where Karin (Ray’s young daughter) appears to be not breathing.
Moonlight quickly runs to help, but hesitates to leave the baseball field.
He does step off the field, instantly becoming the old doctor Ray met in Chisholm.
Doc Graham recognizes that Karin is choking, and holding her steady and pounding her on the upper back, causing her to cough up the piece of hot dog that had blocked her airway.
Ray realizes that Graham’s decision means he cannot return to the field as his younger self, and apologizes to the doctor.
Moonlight assures Ray that it’s alright, and thanks him for his chance.
He walks out into the ball field toward the cornfield, the players now addressing Doc Graham with subdued, respectful voices.

I caught myself wiping away a tear making its path down my cheek. I had changed.
The thought of Caitlin in such a predicament, made it clear that I too would go to such an extreme, even at my own expense, to protect or bring comfort to my daughter.
The choice to forgo a “return” to what may have been seen as a valued desire is quickly replaced by knowing the correct action is of the utmost importance.

Watching life from arms length is a fight unmatched by no other when it involves my daughter.
At age of three Caitlin was subjected to a daily life not of her choosing, but one that my wife Kristi fought to bring normalcy.
The struggle, intensified by the stress of my medical condition, that Kristi faced in making sure Caitlin was safe and taken care of is something that even today raises my blood.
I so much wanted to step in and remove the mess my family had to encounter; only I had no means to address it.
Just was not right to have a limited set of options; family, friends and strangers stepped in to assure Caitlin had her playtime, her meals, and her hugs – which were supposed to have come from me.

Kristi would bring me stories of how Caitlin was doing, even supplemented with artwork and photos.
I listened intently to how T-ball with her Uncle as a coach was becoming her favorite sport.
How much a blessing the Powell family were for taking Caitlin into their home, loving on Caitlin as if she were their own, allowing Kristi to travel to her various commitments – work, hospital, groceries. These updates lifted my spirits, but fell short due to the fact that Caitlin herself was not present.

It was difficult for Caitlin to visit me in what she called the “strong hospital”, as I suspect the machines, numerous lines, and my general overall appearance frightened her.
Kristi stated that she was working with Caitlin on her reluctance to visit, but we both knew not to push, and allow Caitlin the time she needed.
Early on Caitlin would only approach the glass door to my hospital room located within the intensive care unit, her head buried into Kristi’s shoulder while weeping.
Not wishing to traumatize Caitlin any further, Kristi would hand her off to an awaiting friend or family member who accompanied them.
A glimpse of my baby girl lasted only a few seconds, immediately followed by an outburst of “Daddy Tears”.

Fortunately UCI Medical Center had a program that specifically addressed the uneasiness Caitlin was experiencing.
The program’s purpose was to help in the adjustment of the children or siblings of patients to the reality of a trauma hospital, through its use of dolls dressed in hospital garb (bandages, IV lines, etc) and other similarly themed toys.
This was truly a blessing for my family.
One, it gave Kristi an opportunity to not have to rely upon a friend or family member to tag-along with her when she visited me.
Two, the UCIMC staff provided a safe and caring environment for Caitlin.
And finally, the program eased Caitlin’s fears, and provided her the means to handle herself in such a traumatic environment.

I don’t recall the amount of time or visits it took Caitlin to become comfortable enough to set foot within my room and say “Hi Daddy”.
But I do recall in vivid detail the time Caitlin walked into my room, climbed upon my bed, placing her head on my chest, and we just hugged.
My baby girl was in my arms once again!
She talked, we loved on each other, and she just lay upon my chest for nearly thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes which were the most precious time I had ever experienced with her, rivaled only by my presence during her birth.

Years later, Caitlin was presented another hospital challenge, this time involving a close friend.
Maryclare and Caitlin grew up as buddies, our two families close.
Maryclare had to battle cancer; treatments, surgical procedures, and loss of hair.
When presented an opportunity to visit with Maryclare, Caitlin made no hesitation.
The scariness of the children’s hospital was nonexistent.
Caitlin just climbed upon the hospital bed and played games with Maryclare, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
As a Dad it is wonderful to know the depth of compassion Caitlin has demonstrated, which I believe was influenced by her interaction with me during my medical crisis.
Today Maryclare is doing great, having overcome her trials, and continues to be a vibrant blessing to many.

I had my daughter back. I began to feel like a Daddy again.
During this phase of my recuperation, I was forced to be patient.
Endure the wait for the severe abdominal damage to heal and become stable, unwearied for the opportunity to move back into the role of Daddy and Husband.
I took advantage of the forced slow down to look and learn.
My sets of priorities were under self scrutiny, a period of re-focus was taking place.
It became apparent to me that there were areas where I could better apply my time and effort.
Not that my relationship with my daughter was off per se, rather I did distinguish how strongly based we were.
I recognized that I had to pick up being a parent again, for there was room for improvement.
I ached to be a Dad again. Caitlin needed me as well.
My goal morphed from just wanting to heal and get out of the hospital, to endure and persevere through whatever lays ahead so that I could continue to be Caitlin’s Daddy.

To be continued…

The posts on this blog are provided ‘as is’ with no warranties and confer no rights.
The opinions expressed on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer.
© 2011, Jeff Brunn

Pay attention… There will be a test

Image: Photobucket.com

Whoa, thought it was a nightmare,
Lo, it’s all so true,
They told me, “Don’t go walkin’ slow
‘Cause Devil’s on the loose.

Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,

Woa, don’t look back to see.

~ Run Through the Jungle Songwriter: John Fogerty – Credence Clearwater Revival

 

This blog deviates from my standard storytelling. I’ve struggled internally as to should this episode be sugar-coated or not told at all.
But this is too crucial a point in what I went through to be placed onto some forgotten, dusty shelf.
The subject matter is not necessarily on the medical complications (those were a breeze compared to what I’m about to discuss).
Rather it centers on the “kick in the head” attention getter God threw down on me.
I acknowledge that I am going to lose a few of you as I tell my story, so be it.
I will delve into the strange, mind bending fight for the person I am, and to later become.
I’ve had the advantage of six years to digest what this “moral of the story” means to me…
You have to be broken down first, before you can be built back up.

 

I’m not the Saint you think I am. In my life I have seen crap firsthand that would make a nun gasp, and a demon fist pump.
This is not the place for me to come clean, some sort of confession, as I’ve already done that with my Savior.
I’m just going to say it this way… all the dirt friends and family have on me, including the stuff I had so nicely hidden away, in no way compares to the horrific scenes that were played night after night in my dreams.

Some would rightfully connect the dots between the cocktail of medications, including strong anti-psychotics, that I mainlined during (and shortly after) my induced coma phase.
The effects of this mixture wreaked havoc upon me. I acknowledge that the swimming going on in my mind was influenced by the efforts of the doctors to keep me alive.
I also believe that a spiritual battle had erupted, that directly involved my faith, with the very likelihood of me being recorded as the sole cumulative fatality.

In order to understand how and why this spiritual battle enraged, I’ve got to shed some understanding as to who I was before, my history.
I was a cultural Christian most of my early life; raised Catholic until the age of Confirmation. When I was asked politely by the Monsignor that perhaps the questions on faith I was asking were better answered outside of Catholicism.
At age fourteen I discovered that the path of salvation is actually outlined in the Bible (well imagine that). In hindsight that had been what the Monsignor all so covertly insinuated.
Pieces that formed the answers to my questions were finally in their places.
Baby steps were taken, to begin to move myself from the “cultural” to a personal relationship.
As with any newborn, lessons in life are necessary, and I encountered my share of “touching a hot stove”.

The warmth of the stove lured me to a point where the singes on my fingers numbed most of the pain.
I may have gained the pieces to clearly show me that Jesus is my Savior, but my relationship with Him was dysfunctional on my part.
Unknown to me at the time, God never lost His interest in our relationship.
I was about to find out that His patience may be eternal, but His tolerance can sometimes be short.

The PeopleMover ride at Disneyland moved over a raised track, at speeds slightly faster than snail’s pace.
Leisurely is the best description for type of transportation this attraction represented.
First opened in 1967, I rode this fantasy train as a child. In 2005 I’m riding it again, only this time throughout the halls of UCI Medical Center.
The blue autumn sky, casts a brilliant shine to the snow capped mountains bordering the San Gorgonio Pass.
So vivid are the colors of sky, and that of the desert floor, so real that only a touch is needed for validation.

My ride in this bucket began in SICU; banging open the unit’s doors, with an occasional bump beside a wall, never impeding the train’s wayward course.
The 10 freeway is magically replaced by a raised concrete track.
As the train inches out towards Palm Springs, a breeze of fresh air is felt across my face. Not a sound is uttered, nor heard.
I’m heading out of the hospital to visit my GrandMa at her home in the desert, to a place I spent numerous pleasant summers at as a child.
Only I never make it, a breakdown, a malfunction of the ride has occurred again – the bucket train is being brought back into the station for repairs.

A yellow glow is seen in my room, I know from experience that it is evening at SICU.
I hate this time, it means I’ll be given a “sleep aid” to knock off some of the alertness so that I can gain much needed rest.
Only what the medical staff doesn’t know (and I have no means to verbalize it to them) is that each night I have the same reoccurring nightmares.
As I watch the needle containing the sleepy potion is injected into my PICC line, I pray that tonight I dream again about the Peoplemover, or better yet; to dream of my daughter (maybe then I can remember what Caitlin looks like). Indubitably it is neither.

This guy is big, and is very agitated. This vato loco who is sporting ink across his arms that vaguely resembles Varrio Chico signs, has looked around just inside the open doorway to the building.
All is clear, a motion is made, and two of Vato’s associates carry me in.
Lights are on within what appears to be a vestibule, beyond is the interior space of the building.
I’m dropped upon a baptismal font, its marble is cool, smooth, and dry – there is no water.
I am precariously perched inside of the font’s bowl, unable to move my body into a better position to view the surroundings.
The three are out of my sight for only a short moment; with their return their demeanor is now much more relaxed. Vato Loco stands just a step or two ahead of his buddies.

“You know we’re going to kill you ese!” comes from Vato Loco. “But before we do, we’re going to have some fun.”

“Daddy, where are you?” is Caitlin’s call. “I’m scared Daddy.” Her voice is coming from somewhere within the dark space, blocked from my sight by the three gang bangers.

“Yeah ese, we got her too.” hisses el vato.

In unison, they turn back facing into the adjoining room.
At point blank, shot upon shot is leveled into Caitlin. Flashes emit from the gun muzzles. My daughter’s screams are muffled by the bop bop bop bop, a volley of shots.
I’m feeling the searing pain of each bullet that she is taking.
I have no way to stop the onslaught against Caitlin.
I squirm to reach out to her, only to fall from the perch onto the ground, immobile.
Now their attention is turned toward me – I’m tortured to the point just short of ending my life.

There are numerous nightmares of differing themes that this chronicle will not fully record.
During each night, one or more of these hallucinations would be played over again; only they would become increasingly more lurid and horrendous.
At no time would I be afforded the luxury of a segment of the PeopleMover, or a pleasant dream of my family, only round after round of dreadful visions.
I would awaken in a trance like state, sweating, heart racing.
I’d make silent prayers to God to remove me from this state of being. Give me strength to persevere through this period. Show me a way to get out of this place.

I was unfortunate to have Nurse “Cosmic Muffin” (her self-described nickname) work extra night shifts. This particular nurse was one that I had already had issues with. She enjoyed holding court in my hospital room, telling any of the staff that cared to listen of her recent trip to Africa. Cosmic Muffin would emphasis the details of her partaking in local hallucinogenic plants and broths – and their effects on her sexual encounters.
Somehow this nurse picked up on the fact that I would fight going to sleep, probably the monitors gave me away. I would purposely fight off the effects of the sleep aids, then fake being asleep to avoid both her and the nightmares awaiting me.
I learned how long it took for the Ambien or Benadryl’s effects to wear off, and importantly the fact that more sleep aids were not permitted after a certain period of time.
Cosmic Muffin caught onto my game, and we went head to head for the duration of her extended shift.
Sense of time was lost on me, but I do know that I went almost ten nights without sleep.
It was during the morning shift changeovers, and between daytime procedures, that I would cat nap for a few hours.

One evening Cosmic Muffin came into my room, well after the time period to administer another dose of sleep aids.
In a hushed voice she told me that she was very versed in narcotics, and if I wanted her to, she would arrange for a special cocktail to give me the sleep I was purposely neglecting.
I took her words as if they were a barrage in our private battle. I grunted through the trachea mask my answer.
I continued to fight sleeping at night, until my exhausted body eventually succumbed.

This crazy mental, and physical, state I was in had to end. And the only source I had to draw from was God.
I was broken. I was on edge. I needed to move on. I prayed and prayed.
What I discovered was God wanted my undivided attention, and he smacked me good to get it.
I knew that I had absolutely no power or ability, unless He gave it to me.

Jeff, you want to be healed? Well here I am.
You want to remember your daughter? How about walking her down the aisle one day in the future? I am here.
Kristi loves you, and I brought her to you – I designed it that way.
Hey bonehead – I am here.

Sometimes after a nightmare, a person will awaken to a silent room. This period of time is when you assimilate what just happened, slow down your anxiety, and then become calm.
God was doing this to me. I was being moved into a period of time when I would be quiet and attentive to Him. Healing was about to commence, and He wanted me to know exactly that it would come from Him.
The next phase is filled with my being sensitive to God’s will. How God is taking what may be an insignificant piece, and placing it into a wondrous tapestry.
I will learn what my foundation is built upon. What a cherished blessing my wife Kristi is. And to know in detail the lines and freckles of my daughter’s face.
I will see how not only I, but friends and family, medical staff, and complete strangers are used by God to build His tapestry.

Fade to silence, exit the blackness – I am paying attention.

To be continued…

The posts on this blog are provided ‘as is’ with no warranties and confer no rights. The opinions expressed on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer. © 2011, Jeff Brunn

Man, what is there to do today?

Image: Healthspablog.org

Someone write me a letter
I need to know that I’m still alive
Someone give me a telephone call
I need to hear a human sound
Someone open up a door
And let me out of this place
I’ve been caged up for oh so long
I don’t know if I’m living or dying

~ Strength Songwriter: The Alarm

My view to the world was restricted by how far I could roll my head. Having an open abdominal wound prevented me from sitting up like most people can. Although the bed itself could be manipulated to lower or rise, the large contraption affixed to my abdomen to protect the damaged organs beneath it barred much of my movement.
Further more, the tubing attached to the ventilator, bringing my oxygen supply to the trachea, popped off easily if jostled. Silly me, I like to breathe, so I was conscious of what the limits were to my being “mobile”.
My peripheral vision was limited, mostly just dark areas containing mysterious machines that the nurses would occasionally attend to. Looking forward would provide my best ability to observe the going-ons. Anything behind me was always upside down. I could tell that there were outlets for oxygen, ports for suction, and even the electrical sockets distinguished in red to show that they are tied into an uninterruptible power source. An inspection of the ceiling only resulted in the high powered spotlights used to bring glaring attention during a doctor’s poking and prodding of my wounds. Even the overhead incandescent lights brought no particularly interesting sights to dwell upon.
Compounding the issue was that I had been admitted without my contacts or glasses. With the number of surgeries and procedures I was scheduled for, wearing contacts was obviously out of the question. I would have to wait weeks before Kristi brought in a pair of my glasses – last used back when I was in high school. The prescription was fine, but the scratches inflicted on this tortoise-shell decorated eyewear from football’s Hell Week made for a blurry vision.

If the door to my room was propped open, then the sounds and conversations of SICU could entertain me for hours. I quickly learned to distinguish the sound of a gurney verses a wheel chair. It was like watching a snippet of the ’70s television show Emergency! When someone was wheeled by, I could pick up parts of a conversation, even learn to some extent how bad off their condition was. If the Paramedic or EMT pushed the patient to my right, that meant they were my new neighbor. If it was a hospital transporter heading left, then the patient was either heading to a procedure, or if more fortunate, moving to a lower level support – meaning that they are getting better. To some degree, I hoped that someday soon, I would find Nurse Dixie McCall standing at my doorway with an awaiting wheelchair. I’d hop on and be lead out to the left, and just keep going (roll the credits).
If the door was closed, the only sounds were those of the machines, or those made by my dozen or so fistulas (tears in the intestines) erupting like volcanoes. In a closed room, the PA system would be much clearer when the audible “Code Blue” alert was made. I developed a reaction to “Code Blue”, I would quickly scan my monitors – determining that all looked well, would mutter to myself “nope, it is not me.” Next I would proceed to say a short prayer for whoever the alert was intended for (needless to say I prayed a lot at UCIMC).
The lack of sound in the room was occasionally a welcomed relief. But most often it was a bummer because it interfered with one of the means by which I kept myself entertained.

Did I get depressed? No.
Did I feel like I would go crazy? No (although my Family thinks I already am).
How could I deal with being confined for that period of time? First I am a stubborn person; next I relied upon daily interaction of medical staff, family and friends, then faith (I admit that faith was something I was only paying occasional attention to at this stage of my hospitalization).

The medications, plus the various procedures did play havoc on me as well. Kristi and I had an encounter where she had just walked into the room. While she was unpacking her items into the small chair, the noise she was making irritated me.

“Shhh, please be quiet.” I said.
“Huh?” came back Kristi.
“I’m trying to listen in on the conference call IBM has in negotiating the contract with Fluor!” I barked out, turning back towards the source of the sound beyond the head of the hospital bed.
“Uh you realize Jeff that you are at UCI?” she stated.

There were times when I thought I could listen in on the lunchtime poker game a few of the nurses and CNAs would hold. Always the sounds originated somewhere back behind me, just out of sight.
If the unit was quiet in the early night, I could hear the percussion of the fireworks launched at nearby Disneyland. I actually thought I was hallucinating nightly until a nurse mentioned in passing that the sparkles and flash from the fireworks were especially brilliant that night.

More often the sights and sounds came to me through my doorway. No doubt as to the validity of the source, nor any question that I was allowing my imagination to run wild.
Scurries of people were heading right –wheeling in a new neighbor, followed by more uniformed Police than I had seen before. The patient was at the other end of a Police involved shooting. Apparently this guy (a suspected gang member) shot and wounded a Police officer. The “guy” received a shot to his head for his effort, resulting in brain damage.
The Police, huddled around the SICU medical staff, were barking out vulgarities concerning the “guy”. It was made very clear how the Police felt about my new neighbor. They never showed this type of intensity on Emergency! let alone the swearing. This was reality TV right in front of me.
Doctors and UCI Security personnel intervened and were successful in bringing decorum back to the unit. Once the situation had calmed, my nurse was able to return to checking my IV bags, and administering my routine medications. During our chat, she filled me in on what had caused the noise and disruption to the unit – the Police presence. She voiced her frustration over the Police reaction, saying that even criminals are entitled to proper medical care. She may not agree with the actions “guy” made, but she intended to treat him like any other patient.
Turns out her words came to fruition; she was assigned to care for “guy”.
“Guy’s” critical condition, complicated by the Blue Line, was the basis for the nurse to spend a lot of time dedicated to him. It was late in the night when a loud commotion erupted. While the nurse was tending to “guy”, he lunged forward and bit the nurse on her breast. Doctors and other nurses quickly came to her side and treated her, while the few remaining Police officers entered “guy’s” room and shut the door.
I don’t know if it was a pleasant chat “guy” received or otherwise. I do know that it caused me to realize that reality can be awful in a hospital. A few days later the nurse returned to her shift, she told me that she did not blame “guy”, it was just one of the hazards (both physical and emotional) encountered in her job. My respect for the professionalism demonstrated by this and other nurses was growing.

One of my favorite adventures, and best opportunity to check out something other than my room, were the trips down to surgery through the bowels of the building.
Transportation made the trip a bumpy, exciting journey. The scenic route went through the basement, that consisted mainly of chain-linked storage areas; full of dusty furniture and old hospital gear. The area was dark; it reminded me of a perfect set for a demented horror movie. A section of the route involved a steep ramp, always an E-ticket ride. The transporters would almost always struggle with the gurney, controlling it from breaking loose and crashing into the walls at the base of the ramp. I wished just once that I’d be on a runaway like those in a Keystone Kops comedy.

I personally feel that the interruptions of daily life in SICU were what kept me from feeling like I was cooped up in solitary confinement in the jail facility next to UCIMC. I survived by absorbing as much “stimulus” as I could, supplemented by the naptimes resulting from my numerous surgeries. It was not until much later in my hospitalization did I have to deal with the sense of going “stir crazy” – that is a story for later.

To be continued…

The posts on this blog are provided ‘as is’ with no warranties and confer no rights. The opinions expressed on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer. © 2011, Jeff Brunn

Soups ready…

Image: Photobucket.com

Animal crackers in my soup
Monkeys and rabbits loop the loop
Gosh oh gee but I have fun
Swallowing animals one by one
~ Animal Crackers In My Soup – Shirley Temple

By far the first few months I was hospitalized were the easiest for me – I slept through most of them. More accurately I was placed into a medically induced coma, an attempt to allow my body to become more stable. The seriousness of my necrotizing pancreatitis, a result of a gallstone becoming loose and blocking a duct to the pancreas, was described this way… In severe cases of pancreatitis, a certain percentage results in acute pancreatitis. From this, a certain percentage could develop into necrotizing pancreatitis, with an associated high rate of mortality. I was well off the charts; guess I am an overachiever in that respect.

I could link you over to a website that can describe in medical detail the definition of necrotizing pancreatitis, but it is much more fun as the author to state it this way, soup.
My pancreas was dying, my body acted to defend itself, resulting in some abdominal muscles being eaten away, extensive spleen, liver, intestine and kidney damage; basically my abdominal cavity became soup.
Emergency surgery was made to remove 80% of the pancreas. No attempt was made to repair the gallbladder at that time, only to install a few stints to contain the sludge within it. Any further surgery was too risky in my present condition. I did however have numerous “procedures” to cleanse my abdomen of decaying material, and harmful bacteria. These abdominal cleaning would be performed about once every seven to fourteen days, time in between to allow my body to rest.

After I had awoken from the coma, things became interesting. I felt I had entered a conversation dab smack in the middle; so many things were in motion. I had to play catch-up to understand all of the comings and goings. Being conscious also brought about awareness of the how much rest my body was demanding. Simple rule: Sleep is something unobtainable in a hospital, particularly in surgical ICU. All was not bad; I did get to be knocked out from the numerous procedures, and by the ample amount of medications being pumped intravenously. Real estate was a premium for the amount of IV pump machines, we think my record was being hooked up to seventeen IV lines at one time. It was amazing however to find how quickly the sound of the monitors and pumps become white noise.

Often my days in SICU room nine consisted of being rolled from one side of the bed to the other; so that the linens could be changed (both the bed linens and my fashionable gowns too). Visits from the mobile x-rays, blood draws, routine maintenance of the ventilator’s water well – suction, suction, changing out the depleted meds on the IV pole, and so much more kept me active.
It was during this “awake” phase of my hospitalization, I made the decision to become a helper, not a burden, to the medical staff.
I honestly tried to make things pleasant for the medical staff. An example is when I had to be rolled in making of the bed; I made the physical effort to grab onto the bed’s side rail to support myself. Hey, I was a big dude, and I pity the nurse that had to by one hand prop me up, and with the other make a hospital corner.
I became watchful as to what the nurses, x-ray techs, janitorial, or respiratory therapists were doing so that I could learn their routine and assist them where ever possible. You win over friends when you try to pull yourself up when the cold, hard metal case containing the x-ray film is shoved under the lower back – x-ray techs appreciate the effort.

Why gripe about the pain and being uncomfortable? I’d rather have a good day, and I guess the medical staff could use one as well. At least that is how I tried to conduct myself. In reality, my time in SICU was not perfect (and neither was I for that matter). I had no chance of tasting the fine meals prepared by Food Services, due to the fact I had my steak & lobster administered via TPN straight into my veins. I was miffed when a group of training nurses walked past my open door with bowls filled high with fresh fruit – what I would do for some cantaloupe. I could not sit up to get out of bed, and stroll over to the nearby toilet, because I was immobile from the extensive abdominal damage. I guess walking that early in my hospitalization would have seemed an obvious no-no to most people, but I held the thought that I would soon be cruising the halls. I hadn’t fully comprehended how long recover would be – two years.

One thing I did become very much aware was the difference in care I now received. Corona Regional was a period of uncertainty and fear, where as I distinctly felt hopeful and at ease at UCI Medical Center. The level of knowledgeable attention paid to me was apparent. UCIMC is a Level I trauma center, where the extent of on-sight services and specialists is paramount. UCI is also a “teaching hospital” meaning the young resident doctor is eager to research, and gain experience from, the complications presented by their patients. These residents are herded around by their professors, making daily rounds, meticulously taking notes, and absorbing the insights offered from their mentors. Dr. David Imagawa is a well respected Chief of Hepatobiliary and Pancreas Surgery, and it was a pleasure to watch him rule over his brood. The daily rounds were a pleasant interruption, often I would gain insight into what my current condition was, and more often, what were the plans being made for me. Dr. Imagawa presented a gruff, demanding, but caring exterior (very similar to my first employer, and a few other bosses I’ve since had the pleasure). I welcomed Dr. Imagawa’s demeanor, plus the show put on by his numerous residents. One particular Doctor stood out from Dr. Imagawa’s team, Dr. Nguyen also became personally invested in my case.

When the “Doc & Flock” show wasn’t playing, the nurses provided the entertainment. For the most part I encountered skilled and compassionate nurses from all levels. I became educated on the different classification of nurses – CNA, RN, traveling nurse, wound care nurse, just so many. Just because I couldn’t speak, did not mean I could not hear. Nurses have many stories, and I heard a lot of them, just they didn’t realize they had an audience.

In a way I too provided entertainment. Being on a ventilator does impede the ability to talk; I would not have been a good candidate to join the Rotary Club. Through gestures, grunts, and the occasional chicken scratch on either a small white board or paper note book were my only means of communication. Family and friends will not let me forget the numerous drug-influenced notes I made. I guess they could not decipher that “C-I-Pee” meant, “can I pee into the catheter?” when I wasn’t sure if the catheter and collection bag were present (remember, I tried to help out in these situation, I didn’t want to make a mess for the nurses to have to deal with – yeah I know… crazy thought).

My time being hospitalized was not all idyllic and full of fun times. I messed up along the way, I barked at my wife, not fully appreciating what she had to struggle through. I flipped off a male nurse who made condescending remarks regarding the art work my three year old daughter made to hang on my blank white walls. I became royally ticked off over a night nurse who thought nothing to speak in detail of her sexual escapades while traveling in Africa, including the local hallucinogens she and her boy friend took. She held court in my room, as a few other nurses sat in amazement of her stories. I could care less. She got flipped off too.
All of this crud that I was letting eat at me, was really the set-up to some really cool lessons that were in store for me. People look at me funny when I say the necrotizing pancreatitis is one of the best things to ever happen to me. Seriously, it was.

In the next editions of my blog, I intend to discuss how I dealt with being away from family. I’ll provide lessons I learned from watching other patients struggle through their trials – often to fail.
The valiant work these medical professionals made, along with a few of their short comings.
The pressure that was placed against a marriage, and what a confirmation it was to know our foundation was strong.
The need for advocates, for patients who like me had limited ability to communicate, let alone ability to understand the severity of the situation.
Plus there is my personal favorite; the presence of God weaving throughout this entire period of my life. How people and events were placed into our lives, which can only be explained as “It’s so God”.
I intend to be transparent and honest in this series, as my sole purpose is to provide to my children a written account of what it was that greatly impacted our family (still won’t account for why Daddy is so crazy – blame that on genetics). You are welcome to join along as well to my look back.

To be continued…

The posts on this blog are provided ‘as is’ with no warranties and confer no rights. The opinions expressed on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer. © 2011, Jeff Brunn

Wakey wakey

Image: dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Bluto: What? Over? Did you say “over”? Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!
Otter: [to Boon] Germans?
Boon: Forget it, he’s rolling.
Bluto: And it ain’t over now. ‘Cause when the goin’ gets tough…
[thinks hard of something to say]
Bluto: The tough get goin’! Who’s with me? Let’s go!
[Bluto runs out, alone; then returns]
~ Animal House (1978)

Somewhere when I was around five years old, I had a bone spur surgically removed from my left ankle. That was my first time sleeping over at a hospital. I recall becoming awake, having the sense that the tube sock on my left foot was all stretched out and sagging. I distinctly remember reaching down, grabbing hold of the top of the sock and pulling it upwards. It must have been an old tube sock, because it didn’t feel snug around my upper calf. The sock continued to bother me, so I gave another mighty tug, this resulted in a hand full of gauze. It took a moment for the realization that I had pulled off my bandage, and that I was lying upon a hospital bed. A nurse came into the room, just gave me a smile – telling me it was ok while she reapplied the bandage.

I’m five years old again. This time the hospital room is newer, with a sink and TV. Over on the far wall is a whiteboard with some lettering, looks like “Today is: ____, Your Nurse is: _____” with some scribbles. I think to myself that even at a hospital it is difficult to find a working dry erase marker.
I could tell it was daytime, by the sunlight coming in from some window out of sight behind me. The room is still, except for the low hum of monitors and drip line machines. I can only peer around with my eyes, because when I attempt to roll to a side, there is a large device propped upon my stomach. I gently move my hand over to this device; it feels like mesh, and round in shape. I feel around it with my fingers, and focus on the point where it comes in contact with my stomach area. There is a warm, wet substance in some spots, even a place where I can place a finger between flesh and mesh. It is warm under whatever this thing is.

“Oh crud.” I thought to myself.
I immediately remember pulling the “sock” when I was five. I quickly remove my hand in fear of causing a repeat incident. Feeling good that I had avoided a possible catastrophe, I began to relax. I rolled my neck, hearing (and definitely feeling) the snap – crackle – pop. I stretched out my other arm, and felt it constrained by the IVs. I could feel the Sequential Compression Devices, or SCD’s, (also known as Lymphodema pumps – circulation wraps that attempt to reduce the risk of blood clots) from my thighs all the way down to my feet. Knowing these “mini air bags” could be cumbersome; I moved one leg at a time. The first leg felt tired, but the sensation of moving it was outstanding. Focusing on my other leg, I began to stretch and swing it too. Yee-ouch! A shot of excruciating pain doubled me over. Why they secured and ran a urinary catheter through the SCD I have no idea. It is sure a heck of a way to wake up. It was like the cartoon where someone has tied a string to a doorknob to pull out a bad tooth, except it wasn’t a tooth being pulled here. Needless to say I knew the exact count of how many MISSISSIPPI’s it took for the air bags to inflate then deflate – with my bladder receiving the brunt of it. I later made it a priority to have them provide some slack, and attempt to reroute the catheter from inside the SCD.

My mind was clear, I knew I was in the hospital for pancreatitis; there obviously had been surgeries because I had this contraption strapped on my stomach. I also knew from my first job many years earlier as a Veterinary Technician, assisting the doctor in surgeries on dogs and cats, those monitors and IV pumps were there for a reason. The ping-ping and occasional buzz-buzz sounds these devices made only told me that I was still alive.

I felt no fear, no anxiety about being a patient in a hospital. Resigned is the best way to describe my emotions. I just had a mild curiosity to see if I could read the monitors, name of medications on the bags hanging from the IV pole. But either they were slightly out of my line of sight, or in most cases, the print was too small to decipher.
The fear of dying was not present either. I did however think about how my family would be if I was to die – had I provided enough finances, offered enough expressions of love, supplied the lessons that might influence my baby girl into becoming the adult God intends. There were many “had I?” thoughts floating around in my mind.

Shortly after I became awake, a nurse appeared at my bedside. In the clearest, sweetest voice I had heard in awhile, she welcomed me to the day.

“You have been asleep for a long time.” She began.
“Jeff, you are in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit at UCI – do you understand?”
“Kristi is on her way today to visit, she said she’ll be here once someone can care for Caitlin.”
“You have been very sick, but it is great to have you awake.”
“I’ll be outside, but I’ll be watching over you – ok?”

I said “sure, I understand”, but somehow it sounded muffled, like speaking through a dive snorkel.

“Jeff, don’t try to speak. You are on a ventilator helping you breathe” was her soft reply. “Yes, I know you understand.”

Later (sometime that same day – lapse of time was difficult to get a handle on), I watched Kristi arrive outside the glass doors to my room. She held books or something like a folder in her arms as she spoke to the nice nurse.
I could hear Kristi say something about getting Caitlin situated, and then something about “how is he doing?”
Kristi disappeared out of sight for awhile, and then reappeared back at the door. She came into the room, placing her stack of stuff on a chair. She didn’t realize I had been observing her all this time.
She came over to the bedside, looking directly into my eyes as she moved. Kristi took my hand gently, the warmth of her hand in mine I remember to this day.
In a soft voice, clear but with a bit of intention to it, she said “How are you feeling?”

Kristi spent time caressing my hand, while telling me that I was very sick, to the point of death. I heard words like “I love you”, and “Caitlin loves you”. “Your Mom and Dad were here earlier…” and “Traci (my sister) and Tom (bro-in-law) are trying to come today, but they need to find someone for Eric and Lindsey (my nephew and niece).”
I tried to talk, to tell Kristi I loved her too. But the ventilator prevented that.
Kristi continued to hold my hand and say “I know, I know.”

Kristi talked, I listened. Time past, but I have no idea of the actual duration. In further detail I learned I was close to death several times, been placed into a medically induced coma, and was expected to be in the hospital for a very long time. During her conversation, emotions flooded over me – I felt guilty, apologetic, for what I had caused to her and my family. At points I could do nothing other than tear up, as did she. Kristi spoke about who was caring for Caitlin, and how well my daughter was dealing with her Daddy being in the hospital. At that point I drifted out of the conversation, just thinking about Caitlin, my three year old daughter. I could not picture Caitlin’s face, for the life of me I could not remember what she looked like.
My Baby Girl! Why can’t I remember what she looks like?
Tears gushed, and I became more and more emotional.
I could picture Eric and Lindsey in full detail, from the times playing with them outside their house, to the many Christmas and Easter family gatherings, but not Caitlin.
At that point I made it a priority to see Caitlin as soon as possible.

Kristi could see that I had begun to cry again. Unable to communicate to her, she could only guess what was on my thoughts.
We visited with each other a little while longer, when Kristi announced that I should rest.

I napped for some unknown amount of time, this time becoming awake in the evening. The room was darkened, and I could see no light from the window somewhere behind the head of the bed. I was alone in the room; I surmised that Kristi had gone home to be with Caitlin. I tried once again to remember my baby’s face. Still could only put bits and pieces together – not an entire picture.

This time I did not cry or become an emotional wreck. Instead I acted as though my family was under attack. Hear me people… you can mess with me, you can pretty much abuse me in any way, and I will look the other way. But mess with my family – then you had just better get ready, ‘cuz I’m coming for you and I won’t stop!
I knew where the attack was coming from, and I called out to my Heavenly Father.

“Abba Father, I know you are with me. I praise you for your love and the healing you are bringing to me.”
“God, you are the Almighty, you created me!”…”I praise you and give you all the glory!”
“Lord, Satan wants me dead. And he is attacking my family”… “I plead the blood that Jesus shed for me to protect my family.”
“Lord cover my family, protect them and guide them through this – I turn them over to you Father.”
“Lord you said you would never leave me, I’m holding you to that promise”… “Praise you Father!”

I spent a long period of time talking with my Lord and Savior that night. Thanking Him for watching over my wife and daughter. I prayed that I would be able to see Caitlin again soon. That whatever junk Caitlin had to endure, the Lord would cause her to be blessed by it.
I prayed for the strong, loving woman God had blessed me with through Kristi. She is an amazing woman! My love for Kristi is immeasurable!

God and I got to some serious talking. I kept calling out to God for Him to keep His promise that He would never leave me, nor my family.
“God you sure have a funny sense of humor, ‘cuz I can’t remember the exact chapter and verse of your promise. And I sure don’t have access to a Bible to prove it right now either. Regardless, I’m holding you to that promise!”

To be continued…

The posts on this blog are provided ‘as is’ with no warranties and confer no rights. The opinions expressed on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer. © 2011, Jeff Brunn

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho it’s off to UCI I go…

Image: Stuart Miles / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

“There must be some way out of here
Said the joker to the thief
There’s too much confusion
I can’t get no relief”

~ All Along The Watchtower Songwriter: Bob Dylan

Kristi is extremely frustrated, not at me, but rather about me. While I am floating in and out of consciousness, enjoying what felt like a dream, Kristi is dealing with the reality of a husband in intensive care, while hunting up an emergency sitter for our three year old daughter.
My family lives in Corona, California a suburban city that lies along the outside of the Orange County border. The OC is a very desirable area to live; hence its real estate prices reflect that fact.
Corona offers similar neighborhoods like those found in the OC, but at easier to digest prices. With this lower cost comes an increase in traffic commuting along the 91 Freeway (one of the nation’s most congested thoroughfares).
Along with traffic, Corona suffers from what I perceive as second-rate shopping centers, entertainment, restaurants, and especially medical offerings. It is not out of the ordinary for my family to make the drive back into the OC to see a doctor with whom we have history and confidence in.
Kristi and I originally thought my illness was of the low severity type; therefore we based our decision for medical care more on convenience rather than quality of said medical resources. We selected Corona Regional Medical Center fully expecting to walk out later that day. Sure, I was prepared for the doctor to chastise me for eating poorly prepared food at last night’s Jimmy Buffett concert.
In the section to follow, I speak from a collection of conversations I have had over the years, with the friends and family that actually struggled through this particular phase. As I alluded to earlier in this piece, I was loony – either zonked out from my condition, the medication, or all of the above. I did not gain full consciousness for almost two months later.
I speak as well from the perspective of an honest account of the care provided to me from Corona Regional. In hind sight, I see that God’s plan was to bring me (and others) through a season of extreme challenges. Answers as to “why” God subjected us to these measures are still being made today.
To say my family was angered with the care provided by Corona Regional is an understatement. The subject of my story however is not revenge, or pursuing a medical malpractice suit, but rather on blessings – God given blessings.

“What is it gonna take to get Jeff the specialists he needs – now!”
“I can’t handle seeing him that way – I’ll put my fist through this wall!”
“Call the local media, this is unacceptable!! This is not some third world country – our medical system should not be like this!”
“Father, I turn over my son into your precious hands – your will, your way… Praise you Father…”
“Protocol, what do you mean we have to follow protocol?”

My wife, my family – were up to their ears in crisis, on a scale we had never before encountered. This was a nightmare.
Thursday April 07, 2005 I was watching Jimmy Buffett, Saturday the doctors suspected pancreatitis, a serious, but manageable condition. The doctors felt it was best to let my pancreas “rest” before attempting any surgical procedure. Sunday I began to spit up blood, and breathing was becoming extremely difficult. I’m told I made a phone call to Kristi that day alerting her to what I was going through – she told me to ring a nurse immediately. Apparently either I failed to contact the nurse, or the medical staff failed to act appropriately – the result was I was not looked at until later that day. A specialist making his rounds read the machines, and deducted that something serious was happening.
I was transitioned from the initial emergency room physician to this pancreatic specialist (at least someone who knew how to spell pancreas). This “new” doctor realized I was much more serious than originally anticipated. It was Doctor “New” that ordered me moved into ICU.

Prior to this time Kristi was at her wits end trying to get Doctor “Original” or anyone for that matter, to apply some semblance of attention at a level that I required. In frustration, Kristi phoned our General Practitioner Dr. Gebhard seeking direction; someone to answer all the questions that Corona Regional either would not answer, or by their lackadaisical attitude, further generated. Dr. Gebhard in his calm easy going manner explained the situation, what pancreatitis is, and what it can develop into. More importantly our family physician spoke to the “protocol” hospitals follow when it comes to transferring a patient to another facility. Basically, anyone walking into an ER has the right to the first awaiting bed over a transferring patient.

To complicate the situation further, Kristi did not want to tick off Corona Regional by pushing for my transfer to a better staffed facility, in fear that the level of my current care would suffer.
Dr. “New” and Kristi were unable to meet up with each other most of Sunday evening. When Dr. “New” was available to discuss the latest diagnosis, Kristi was at home on the phone with Dr. Gebhard. When Kristi was able to rush back to the hospital, Dr. “New” was not available. Kristi felt only a molecule better now that I had been moved into ICU, but the poor history of attention given to me still haunted her.

Monday I’m now intubated (assisted breathing on oxygen). Later that night, I was to have a procedure to remove gallstones (or possibly an ERCP). In a brief encounter Dr. “New” informed Kristi as to the severity of the procedure facing me. In detail he explained the two only options afforded me for anesthesia – one could kill me, the other not much better. Dr. “New” suggested that Kristi choose the “not much better” option.

Later in Pre-OP the Anesthesiologist adamantly refused to perform either option. Kristi attempted to explain that Dr. “New” had ordered the less risky path, but it fell on deaf ears (or ears that only react to lesser “liable” options). After moderating a discussion that even the United Nations would shy away from, the two physicians finally came to an agreement, with Kristi granting her consent.

A nurse who had overheard the exchange, shortly afterwards sought out Kristi (with my Dad present too) just outside of Pre-OP.
“If you don’t pray, you had better do so quickly, your husband is extremely critical.” Said the nurse.
“Oh crap!” is the thought and word uttered by Kristi.
Phone calls were quickly made, prays lifted up, tears shed, because I was not expected to make it to the next morning.

Upon completing the gallstone (or ERCP??) procedure, Dr. “New” informed my family that the situation had worsened. Words like “pancreatitis”, “nearly fatal in severe cases”, “slim if any, chance of survival” were now being spoken. The most difficult was “we are not equipped to support your husband.”
I was placed upon life support systems, and made as comfortable as possible. Meanwhile Kristi followed the “protocol” and made phone call upon phone call to Level 1 trauma centers in the west coast – Stanford, UCLA, Arizona, any place that had the willingness to accept the case, the qualified staff and an available bed.

UCI Medical Center in Orange, California stated they were willing to accept me, but not until a bed becomes available. On April 18, 2005 arrangements are made, I am then transported via ambulance while hooked up on life support, to UCIMC. Kristi, accompanied by my brother-in-law Tom, traveled shortly behind the ambulance. Upon their arrival into Surgical Care Intensive Care Unit (SICU), they were met by a well versed and organized team. All the hassle and struggle Kristi had encountered at Corona Regional, was absent here at UCI. A sense of relief, more importantly the feeling we were at the right place, was beginning to emanate.
Kristi gave a look at Tom, they both agreed that this was a much differently run hospital.
Dr. David Imagawa, a renowned Liver and Pancreatic surgeon, personally accepted my case. I was recognized as having necrotizing pancreatitis. Dr. Imagawa quickly level set the family, telling them I had only a 2% chance of survival. The battle, both physical and spiritual, was kicked up a notch.

Excerpt from my CaringBridge.com webpage, written by Kristi…

On April 8th, I took Jeff to the ER in Corona; with stomach problems (we thought at the time that he had food poisoning). He was diagnosed with gallstones and pancreatitis. We had to wait until his pancreas calmed down before we could have his gallbladder removed. He still is waiting for the gallbladder removal to happen.

April 10th, Jeff began to have difficulties breathing and had developed jaundice. He was diagnosed with acute pancreatitis and was moved to ICU and hooked up to oxygen.

April 11th, Jeff’s condition deteriorated and they performed surgery. This consisted of putting a shunt in his bile duct and small intestine. Also, Jeff was hooked up to a ventilator to breathe for him and was being kept totally sedated.

April 16th, Jeff had continued to get worse and was now diagnosed with necrosis pancreatitis. He needed to be transferred to a teaching hospital that specialized in this type of care.

April 18th, we finally found a room opened in ICU at UCI Medical Center. This evening he was transferred via ambulance to UCI.

Fade to silence, enter blackness – I am out.

To be continued…

The posts on this blog are provided ‘as is’ with no warranties and confer no rights. The opinions expressed on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer. © 2011, Jeff Brunn

Ahh, nighty night…

“Dreamer, you know you are a dreamer
Well, can you put your hands in your head? Oh no
I said, “Dreamer, you’re nothing but a dreamer”
Well, can you put your hands in your head? Oh no”

~ Dreamer Songwriter: Supertramp

There is a game that I play on myself since the days I was a toddler, always starts during that faint period between consciousness and dreaming – let’s see how long I can keep the story going before it gets interrupted. As I’ve grown up over the years I’ve evolved this to a point that I can actually dictate storylines; weaving as if down a hallway, exploring each door to experience whatever “experience” that could be had.

But something is off; the rules seem to have been changed in this episode, but why? I peer out upon a medical room; I know it’s a medical room because it looks like one from TV.

Hmm why are the lights down, why is this blanket restricting me from rolling onto my side; my favorite sleeping position?

There is a wooden rocking chair beside the bed, but it doesn’t look the same as the one Mom handed down to Kristi and I. Huh this dream is different from my normal ones. Why can’t I change to another scene in this story?!?

In slow motion (ahh here we go, yup I really am dreaming, what a relief) a female nurse wearing a white smock with matching scrub bottoms walks past a wall of glass.

Behind her I notice for the first time a bank of computer monitors. It reminds me of the type of command center I once sat in front of in the Fluor data center years ago. Man that was a fun time in my IT career! Part of my responsibility was to monitor hundreds of network servers, especially the email servers, so that the CIO wouldn’t be left waiting for delivery of his latest critical messages.

Ah come on; let’s explore that part of my life again in this dream! But somehow the channel changer is broken in dreamland. The same bank of monitors in the nurse’s station stares back at me. I’m feeling chilly, and the electric smell in the room reminds me of the data center. But here in this room there is silence; so much so I can clearly hear the pillow scrunch when I move my head. No way can I be in the data center. Where ever I am, it is so peaceful here, such a great place to take a nap uninterrupted.

Huh, uh what?!? I murmur.

I sense a nurse hovering just out of view over my left shoulder, softly telling me that it is Saturday, and I’m in ICU at Corona Regional Medical Center.

“Yeah, ok” is all I can muster.

Next a phone receiver is smack in my hand. I think I’m being told to phone my wife, as she is worried about me.

“Yeah, ok” has now become my new go-to statement.

Hee hee, this nurse thinks I should call Kristi, boy this dream is cool! Let’s see what my subconscious comes up with to get me out of the dog house for ruining Kristi’s Saturday.

She was not a happy camper when I made her take me to the hospital so as to get my stomach pumped for food poisoning.

Ok, sure, let’s dial this phone… what is our home phone number again?

Why are the numbers on the dial pad blurry?

“Nurse, I can’t seem to dial my wife.” I say aloud. “Could you get my cell phone, I know Kristi is in my speed-dial.”

No response. “Uh, nurse?!?”

Nothing. “Is anyone there?”

I can see a nurse, or at least someone wearing white, outside of my room seating at the consoles. Looking past her, plain as day I see on the computer screen Solitaire.

She is playing Solitaire! What kind of hospital is this?!? Dang!

Can’t you see I’m trying to call my wife here folks, so I won’t get into further trouble with her?

Fade to silence, enter blackness – I am out.

To be continued…

The posts on this blog are provided ‘as is’ with no warranties and confer no rights. The opinions expressed on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer. © 2011, Jeff Brunn

April 08, 2005 – Anaheim, California

ahh Jimmy Buffett.
One might say I’ve become a Parrot Head, which happens to be the popular opinion of my family and friends at least. I had always been familiar with Jimmy’s music and persona, ever since my high school days. But it wasn’t until around October ’97 that a small group of friends introduced me to the Irvine Meadows parking lot. My first encounter with mobile tiki bars, grass hula skirts, girls flashing (at a level only outdone by Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras), then concluded by a concert that left me wanting more of Summer.  I was hooked.
Year after year Jimmy’s tour stop became my own Boys Night Out, I eagerly awaited Jimmy’s return to Orange County. Each trip involved an expansion in the circle of friends to whom I’d have the pleasure of introducing to Margaritaville. Nah, it didn’t take much effort for me to act as an ambassador. The parking lot before Jimmy’s show had become something I planned months ahead for.

It was such a night on April 07, 2005 that I intended to subject a newbie into the party. Jim (my father-in-law) was making his first trek, along with veterans Todd (my brother-in-law), and Todd’s buddy Dave.
Let it be known, I was not too pleased that this year’s romp was staged at the Arrowhead Pond of Anaheim, rather than Irvine Meadows. It was my perception that Anaheim would squelch any falderals that are found to be the norm just sixteen miles to the south. Perhaps this weighed on my mind, as I attempted to show Jim that the stories of “changes in latitude, changes in attitude” weren’t really imagined. I found myself forcing situations, trying to orchestrate things, becoming stressed by the lack of enthusiasm displayed from concert goers during the tailgate. Looking back I sure needed to slip on some flip flops and just enjoy the night, but I couldn’t. As I was in the position to play host, it was decided early on that I would be the designated driver. It was not any disappointment to pass up on any of the alcohol, but I sure was disappointed that the tailgate was a flop.

Inside the concert the music flowed well throughout that night.  Jimmy and the Coral Reefer Band magically transported everyone into the trade winds. With the exception of moi. My knees hurt from our tight seats, my shirt stunk from sweating, and I don’t love Jimmy – not tonight. Honestly I paid little attention to the show. Better stated, I just could not get into the fun.  My thoughts centered on how much I tried in vain to make sure Jim and the guys enjoyed themselves. Hence the sickly feeling that enveloped me, plaguing me throughout the show. When the concert finally ended, I wasn’t sure if I needed to apologize to the guys for the lousy night, or just keep my mouth shut in fear I’d puke on them from how worked up I made myself.

We said our goodbyes, and went our ways home. Driving alone, well past midnight, I became hungry. Knowing I had my last chance to eat junk before my Boys Night Out morphed back into reality – I stopped off at Del Taco. Munched down a Macho Burrito, washed down by a Coke – the hot sauce boldly stepped forward to announce; dude you’re going to pay for this!

Ugh, I’ll just sleep this off. Once home I crawled into bed, percolating as I fell into an uneasy slumber – burp after burp. The next morning I felt awful, just wanted to pull the covers tighter over my head. Naturally “home life” wasn’t playing that, and I was summoned out of bed to join the already busy day. I so wanted to pray to the porcelain god.

Kristi, my wife, had already signed up enthusiastically to what the day had in store.  Things to do, yada yada. But I was feeling off, more than at any time I’ve ever recall. So much so that I suggested to Kristi that I go to the hospital. Now I’m not adverse to doctors, but I wouldn’t consider myself someone that would gleefully seek out medical attention, especially for the stomach ache. Kristi’s thinking was to be expected, so how much did Jeff drink?

But not a drop of alcohol did I take. Was I to confess to the late night meal? Oh yeah, that was it – gotta come clean. Boom, the memory of the chips, salsa, dip, sandwiches set out in the sun during yesterday’s tailgate suddenly appeared. Perhaps guys being guys, just maybe we let the sour cream sit too long? Ugh I did not feel good. Food poisoning! Get ready for the stomach pump! Never again eat tailgate grub, followed by a Del Taco chaser! Ugh

From what I can recollect, the events rolled out like this… I threw on some sweat pants, and a t-shirt, don’t know about shoes. Must have had shoes, how else was I to walk into the hospital? Yup, I have my wallet containing medical and credit cards, don’t leave home without it – stupid commercials. Kristi was none too happy about having to schlep me to see a doctor over a bad hang-over. Kristi drove while I felt every pothole, every bump, and every shift right to left. The local community hospital was a short drive from our house. Time lapsed, and I remember begging Kristi just to let me out of the car, now that I recognized that we were on the perimeter road of the hospital. But nope, she wanted to find a parking space. Ugh I don’t feel good.

Somehow, not sure how it transpired, but I was let out of the car. I think Kristi said she would park, and then meet me inside the ER receiving room. The waiting room had a few, not many, seats available for me to attempt to write my life history. From a stack of papers attached to a clip board, I started to fill out the information just as the receptionist had asked. At some point Kristi takes the papers from my hands. I end up in the corner of the room chin down hovering next to a trash receptacle, one with a swinging lid.

Oh I don’t want to puke in front of these sick people. How long does it take to see someone? A nurse, a doctor, anyone will do to insert a tube down my throat and turn the vacuum on?!? I’m ready. Let’s get this going. Flash to a small room painted in what once was white, now faded to a yellowish tint by age. Even the privacy curtains have that yellowish white color – they must be old too. I’m lying upon a small bed, maybe a cot? Kristi is there, it sounds like she is saying something to me. I can’t understand what she is talking about, but it sure is soothing. One thing for sure, she still looks peeved. Probably still upset at me for having messed up her plans today. A huge sense of guilt hits me. My memory is foggy at this point. I think maybe I’m telling her thanks for doing all this for me; I really appreciate what she is putting up with.

I scan my wobbly head around the room to see what there is to see. My head is beside a wash basin attached to the wall, you know those medical sinks with the funny handles so doctors can scrub without getting cooties on their hands. From below, I see drops of water originating from the threads of the drain elbow. Drip drip. Oh no, I see Kristi’s purse on the ground, very close to a small puddle that is quickly forming. Again a sense of guilt hits me; I’m the reason why Kristi’s purse is getting soaked.“Hey Kristi” I mumble, “You had better move your purse, because the sink is leaking near it.”
Fade to silence, enter blackness – I am out.

To be continued…

 

The posts on this blog are provided ‘as is’ with no warranties and confer no rights. The opinions expressed on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer. © 2011, Jeff Brunn