On Thursday May 12, I arrive at Zale Lipshy University Hospital at 7:20 AM for my CT guided trans thoracic needle biopsy of my lung cancer. I get the IV placed and am taken back to the CT room, positioned somewhat uncomfortably with my right arm trapped beneath me lying on my right side. I get a pre-procedure CT scan and am immediately prepped on my back for the biopsy. Fentanyl rolls into my vein and all of a sudden, I feel real good. Dr. Watamull numbs my back up and goes to town with the biopsy needle. Chunk after chunk of cancer is obtained and I am glad that we have done this to obtain more specimen. That all changes near the end of the procedure, when suddenly, I can't breathe. My voice is less than a squirrel's chirp. Sensing my issue and not wasting time to talk to me, Dr. W immediately slams in a catheter chest tube and immediately starts evacuating the air out of my lung cavity. Finally, I can breathe again! I get a third CT scan to confirm placement of the tube, which is confirmed.
I am taken to the recovery room where over a period of 6 hours and 4 portable chest x-rays, I continue to feel excruciating pain from the presence of the tube, but I can breathe an there doesn't appear to be an air leak. Dr. W decides to pull the tube at the 6 hour mark which is surprisingly painful. I see the coiled up catheter next to me and feel a great sense of relief that it is out of my chest and for a couple of minutes, I feel great. No pain, breathing very easily, I may get to go home after all!
You know that wasn't going to be the case. I have seen and heard of patients experiencing a sense of impending doom and that is exactly what I started to feel. Nothing specific, but I knew something was wrong. I tell Emily to go find help soon because "something bad is about to happen." BOOM! My legs start to shake, then my body goes bright, hot red, my arms shake, my head shakes, my eyes roll toward the back of my head and I collapse and code. I would later find out that Emily had run to the nurses' station to request emergent help and all three nurses pick up the phones and start dialing numbers. "Isn't this a ****ing hospital!!! What are you doing? Calling 911? Someone get back there and help my husband!!!"
Riding a beautiful, perfect horse, next to my beautiful Emily also riding an equally perfect horse, a wonderfully cool breeze was blowing through the tall grasses as we rode our horses toward a bright building in the distance. We were in no rush. We just knew that was where we were headed. I held her hand tightly in mine and enjoyed the slow gallop toward our destination.
Then I was awake with an oxygen venti mask off to the right side of my face and a resuscitation mask directly over my mouth and nose being held in place by a nurse. "Oh, I am not at home waking up from a dream, am I?" Faintly, I hear "50/0, 50/10, 60/20, 60/30 . . ." My blood pressures? Apparently so. In the 5 minutes I was down, I turned blue after initially turning red and my wonderful dream may not have been just a dream at all. Dr. W quickly rushes me to the x-ray room. Must be another tension pneumothorax. I am asked if I can stand by the technician. Yeah, right. If you want to see my head crack open on the floor. I am positioned against the x-ray plate holder while sitting on the side of my stretcher with my chin/face mashed against the top ridge of the plate holder. Great more radiation. Lung looks expanded, but now there is fluid in the right chest cavity. Lots of it.
Back to the CT procedure room for my 4th CT scan of the day, prep and drape of my back, and placement of my second catheter chest tube on the right, followed by my 5th and final confirmatory CT scan. Back to the recovery room where a badly shaking Emily has notified our friends to arrange to pick up our kids and keep everyone up to date about my situation. She would later tell me that Dr. Hostin was infuriated over the whole situation starting with the lost pathology slides that led to an extra and unnecessary procedure being done with the subsequent life-threatening complications. I am happy to be alive, but he wants blood. I would later join him in that hunt.
By 4:30 pm, I have had two chest tubes, a pneumothorax, have coded, endured 5 CT scans, and 10 formal and portable chest x-rays. Unbelievable but true. Dr. W knows I need to be transferred to the care of a pulmonologist and/or cardiothoracic surgeon and suggests St. Paul University Hospital. I refuse. I want to go to a place where I know all of the surgeons and staff members and where I know I can convalesce in peace and quiet: the Heart Hospital at Baylor Plano. Yes BAYLOR Plano. Despite the nightmarish sequence of events over the past two weeks, I am angry primarily with Baylor Downtown, not Plano.
Of course to top it all off, I am informed by the EMS technicians that their truck does not have an air ride suspension system of any kind and the stretcher I am to be transferred on is basically a stiff board on wheels. A 45 minute ride from Zale to Plano ensues in which the driver mistakenly believes the northbound highway route is blocked with an accident (Emily took that route and got to Plano in 25 minutes) and takes a detour to the worst possible choice of roads in north bound rush hour traffic: Preston Road. I feel every excruciating pothole and speed bump along our "alternative" route and finally have to have more pain medications to continue with this rodeo on wheels. I then beg the driver to head east two blocks to Hilcrest Avenue where I know the traffic will be significantly lighter. He agrees and 5 minutes later, we are at the Heart Hospital. I am delirious, nauseated, have 10/10 pain everywhere from my right side to my back and I know I am hypovolemic. I look down at my drainage bag and see 500 cc's of bright red blood in my pouch.
The nurses get me settled in on my bed in a room big enough to compete with most hotel suites with all of the amenities. I am alive and Dr. Matthew Curry is there to see that I stay that way. My wife has called the CT surgeons we know and informed them of my presence. I am stabilized overnight with a ton of fluids and the next morning, Friday May 13, I am told by one of the surgeons that I have to have chest surgery to stop the bleeding. I am too tired to exclaim my usual "Really?" Fine let's get it over with. If I had known the biopsy was going to be this much of an adventure, I would have had the surgeon take out the entire primary cancer mass so the pathologist and oncologist could have a ton of tumor to play with. Only one problem: I have eaten a full breakfast. Case delayed to around 3 pm then. In the interval time, dozens of my physician and non-physician friends drop by to say hi and cheer me up. They, like I, are incredulous that Baylor PBM could lose my slides and lead me to this path of near death, tortuous procedures, and tons of radiation. I too start to feel my happy-go-lucky personality evaporate to reveal the dragon. Someone will pay for this.
My wife asks her brother to bring materials and bowls to a Buddhist temple in his hometown of Austin around noon as an offering to the big guy. Perhaps by total coincidence, my bleeding slows and between 1 and 3 pm, is only a trickle. "Norm we aren't going to take you to surgery. Let's see how this settles out over the next 24 hours and go from there." Is it possible that my unlucky streak has been derailed? Dare I hope to not be tortured again?
I am taken to the recovery room where over a period of 6 hours and 4 portable chest x-rays, I continue to feel excruciating pain from the presence of the tube, but I can breathe an there doesn't appear to be an air leak. Dr. W decides to pull the tube at the 6 hour mark which is surprisingly painful. I see the coiled up catheter next to me and feel a great sense of relief that it is out of my chest and for a couple of minutes, I feel great. No pain, breathing very easily, I may get to go home after all!
You know that wasn't going to be the case. I have seen and heard of patients experiencing a sense of impending doom and that is exactly what I started to feel. Nothing specific, but I knew something was wrong. I tell Emily to go find help soon because "something bad is about to happen." BOOM! My legs start to shake, then my body goes bright, hot red, my arms shake, my head shakes, my eyes roll toward the back of my head and I collapse and code. I would later find out that Emily had run to the nurses' station to request emergent help and all three nurses pick up the phones and start dialing numbers. "Isn't this a ****ing hospital!!! What are you doing? Calling 911? Someone get back there and help my husband!!!"
Riding a beautiful, perfect horse, next to my beautiful Emily also riding an equally perfect horse, a wonderfully cool breeze was blowing through the tall grasses as we rode our horses toward a bright building in the distance. We were in no rush. We just knew that was where we were headed. I held her hand tightly in mine and enjoyed the slow gallop toward our destination.
Then I was awake with an oxygen venti mask off to the right side of my face and a resuscitation mask directly over my mouth and nose being held in place by a nurse. "Oh, I am not at home waking up from a dream, am I?" Faintly, I hear "50/0, 50/10, 60/20, 60/30 . . ." My blood pressures? Apparently so. In the 5 minutes I was down, I turned blue after initially turning red and my wonderful dream may not have been just a dream at all. Dr. W quickly rushes me to the x-ray room. Must be another tension pneumothorax. I am asked if I can stand by the technician. Yeah, right. If you want to see my head crack open on the floor. I am positioned against the x-ray plate holder while sitting on the side of my stretcher with my chin/face mashed against the top ridge of the plate holder. Great more radiation. Lung looks expanded, but now there is fluid in the right chest cavity. Lots of it.
Back to the CT procedure room for my 4th CT scan of the day, prep and drape of my back, and placement of my second catheter chest tube on the right, followed by my 5th and final confirmatory CT scan. Back to the recovery room where a badly shaking Emily has notified our friends to arrange to pick up our kids and keep everyone up to date about my situation. She would later tell me that Dr. Hostin was infuriated over the whole situation starting with the lost pathology slides that led to an extra and unnecessary procedure being done with the subsequent life-threatening complications. I am happy to be alive, but he wants blood. I would later join him in that hunt.
By 4:30 pm, I have had two chest tubes, a pneumothorax, have coded, endured 5 CT scans, and 10 formal and portable chest x-rays. Unbelievable but true. Dr. W knows I need to be transferred to the care of a pulmonologist and/or cardiothoracic surgeon and suggests St. Paul University Hospital. I refuse. I want to go to a place where I know all of the surgeons and staff members and where I know I can convalesce in peace and quiet: the Heart Hospital at Baylor Plano. Yes BAYLOR Plano. Despite the nightmarish sequence of events over the past two weeks, I am angry primarily with Baylor Downtown, not Plano.
Of course to top it all off, I am informed by the EMS technicians that their truck does not have an air ride suspension system of any kind and the stretcher I am to be transferred on is basically a stiff board on wheels. A 45 minute ride from Zale to Plano ensues in which the driver mistakenly believes the northbound highway route is blocked with an accident (Emily took that route and got to Plano in 25 minutes) and takes a detour to the worst possible choice of roads in north bound rush hour traffic: Preston Road. I feel every excruciating pothole and speed bump along our "alternative" route and finally have to have more pain medications to continue with this rodeo on wheels. I then beg the driver to head east two blocks to Hilcrest Avenue where I know the traffic will be significantly lighter. He agrees and 5 minutes later, we are at the Heart Hospital. I am delirious, nauseated, have 10/10 pain everywhere from my right side to my back and I know I am hypovolemic. I look down at my drainage bag and see 500 cc's of bright red blood in my pouch.
The nurses get me settled in on my bed in a room big enough to compete with most hotel suites with all of the amenities. I am alive and Dr. Matthew Curry is there to see that I stay that way. My wife has called the CT surgeons we know and informed them of my presence. I am stabilized overnight with a ton of fluids and the next morning, Friday May 13, I am told by one of the surgeons that I have to have chest surgery to stop the bleeding. I am too tired to exclaim my usual "Really?" Fine let's get it over with. If I had known the biopsy was going to be this much of an adventure, I would have had the surgeon take out the entire primary cancer mass so the pathologist and oncologist could have a ton of tumor to play with. Only one problem: I have eaten a full breakfast. Case delayed to around 3 pm then. In the interval time, dozens of my physician and non-physician friends drop by to say hi and cheer me up. They, like I, are incredulous that Baylor PBM could lose my slides and lead me to this path of near death, tortuous procedures, and tons of radiation. I too start to feel my happy-go-lucky personality evaporate to reveal the dragon. Someone will pay for this.
My wife asks her brother to bring materials and bowls to a Buddhist temple in his hometown of Austin around noon as an offering to the big guy. Perhaps by total coincidence, my bleeding slows and between 1 and 3 pm, is only a trickle. "Norm we aren't going to take you to surgery. Let's see how this settles out over the next 24 hours and go from there." Is it possible that my unlucky streak has been derailed? Dare I hope to not be tortured again?
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteCrazy ride, man. Hang in there.
ReplyDeleteExtreme Makeover, Wu edition. Hopefully this is the bottom and the rest is smoother sailing. Will know by the middle of today after the tube comes out.
ReplyDeleteOh Dr. Wu!!! Who do I need to fuss at for not giving the Best care to you?? Love ya man.
ReplyDeleteMichelle M
MISI