Friday, April 27, 2007

Back To The Beginning: August, 1980

My first allergic reaction took place when I was 22 years old. In May of 1980 I'd separated from my first husband after five and a half years together. Our relationship was extraordinarily unhealthy, although I truly didn't realize it at the time. Back then, you see, we didn't much discuss the various forms of abuse that people can foist upon each other. Certainly not to children. It was considered unhealthy, even dangerous, and unsavory to talk about it. I was sixteen when I met the man, and unbeknownst to me, had been raised to be a ready target for a particular type of predator. His type.

Why is this relevant?

When a person who's spent 25% of their life under the control of a profoundly expert manipulator is separated from that controller, odd things can happen. Instead of feeling joyously freed, their existence is shattered. It takes time and adjustment for them to understand how to live alone, by and for themselves, apart from the control of another. Often they feel nothing at all. Only emptiness. Nothingness.

The condition is common among newly released hostages and prisoners of war as well. Those who have never experienced it or studied it can scorn this state of being, and scorn the person trying to recover from it. While I understand their scepticism, I don't always tolerate it in silence.

There is no gentle way to say this: Their attitude is born of ignorance and hubris, and I'm sorry to see such a lack of empathy for people who have been so deeply damaged. There's an assumption that *They* would never succumb to what they perceive as weakness. My own experience tells me the opposite is often true.

I'm trying to explain the state of mind, and the state of emotion, I was in when my initial, extreme allergic reaction took place. Physical health and emotional health influence each other so strongly that the onset and outcome of physical health crises are completely altered when there's also a lack of emotional health.

Here's how it all went down.

As children, my brother and sister and I were always getting strep throat and taking penicillin for it. One fine day, as a young adult, I got one of my last cases of strep. I took my penicillin. They didn't give me a long enough course of antibiotics - as usual - and I relapsed and had to take them all over again.

On the very last day, just after taking the very last pill, I started itching. I noticed a red lump on my arm.

Weird.

It didn't look at all like a mosquito bite. Maybe a spider bite?

I went to the store and got some Raid. I sprayed in every high and low corner of my old Chicago apartment.

Hmmm. Thing was...I didn't see a single spider. Or mosquito or anything else that might bite.

And the itching was getting fierce.

Really really bad. Maddening.

More lumps were forming. And red rashes.

I called a friend. This friend, J, was my co-worker at the post office, and understood medical things, and was a sweet guy. Totally unexcitable, and he spoke with the slowest drawl I'd ever heard from a northerner.

To top it all off he had a car. I had no car at the time - I gave the husband everything in our divorce - so I wanted my friend to drive me to the ER.

Since I would normally have taken the bus, he figured out it was something very bad.

And it was.

When we got to Walter Reed ER in downtown Chicago, the one doctor on duty wasn't sure what to do. He was young and unformed, green. The admitting nurse, much more experienced in emergency medicine, took one look and said, --Oh, allergic reaction.

The doc was confused, though, because one symptom was this: I'd made these brilliant red circular disks, like silver dollars, on every joint where I had arthritis.

This was bizarre. He thought maybe it was some sort of arthritis attack.

And he really didn't want to disturb the *real* doctor, the "on-call," who'd been on duty too long and was exhausted and catnapping somewhere upstairs.

They didn't let my friend in the ER with me. Things were very different back then. Sort of...hostile, to patients and their friends in the ER.

I was sitting on a bed in a little cubicle that was enclosed with a curtain on a rod that they could never quite shut all the way. I couldn't see the whole ER but I saw part of it through the sliver in the curtains. This ER was enormous, endless, with a concrete floor, an industrial warehouse look to it. It was so huge the staff had walkie-talkies to communicate from one end of the ER to another.

I quietly sat on the bed and slowly scratched myself bloody, watching these white and blue and red lumps grow on me with a sort of detached interest. Curious, those red coins on my joints.

The doc would come see me every 10 minutes or so. He'd check my vital signs, look around at the things happening to me, stroke his clean-shaven chin as if he had a goatee, frown, and say, Hmmm.

Then he'd turn around and leave and close the little curtain...almost...

It was a quiet night in the ER. Sunday night, I think.

A guy came in who'd been in an accident, maybe hit by a car.

I saw him through the little crack in the curtains. He was on a gurney. A couple of nurses and the doctor were hovering over him, hushed and serious.

His head wasn't right. But he was talking.

I was fascinated.

His head was caved in on one side like a basketball someone had stepped on.

But he was talking. How in the world could he talk?

I strained my ears. Was he saying, --Tell my wife I love her, tell my kids too, tell my parents I forgive them for that time they...

I heard the doc ask, --BP?-- and a nurse say, --54 over 30 and dropping.

They really weren't doing anything with him any more. Just standing there watching him.

It sounded like he was describing a car accident. Some guy was going this way and hit him...

then he was quiet and they were too and they wheeled him away somewhere. Slowly. No rush any more.

The doc came back and looked at me and frowned and said, Hmmm.

He turned around and almost closed the curtain. I could see him nearby at an upright table, almost like a lectern, with this enormous book on it. Imagine the Oxford Unabridged Dictionary, and double it. The book was anchored to the lectern by a long and sturdy brass chain.

He opened the book and flipped through the pages, one by one. Looking. Looking.

I looked at the things happening on my skin. The lumps were growing into little blue-white volcanoes. Perfect cones the size of walnuts or bigger. They itched and hurt and I scratched and bled. I had several on each arm and leg, my left ear, my face, a particularly large one on the first finger of my left hand. The rashes were everywhere too, lots on my stomach and back. I was very small then and very limber and felt lucky I could reach every bit of my back to scratch it.

Everywhere I scratched, it left a red stripe. Any place on me that wasn't solid red, or white-blue, I had zebra stripes from head to toe.

The perfect red circles over my joints hadn't changed.

My friend J was allowed in for a brief visit. He told me not to scratch, that I was making it worse. I said, Ha! I don't believe that. How ridiculous! Ignorant. An old wives' tale. We quarreled, jokingly, and asked the doc to come settle our dispute. He said, Huh? all startled, and didn't smile, and said absentmindedly, --No, it's okay to scratch, try not to bleed though-- and left. Haha I won!

They made J go back into the waiting room.

The doctor came back in and took my vitals and looked at me and stroked his chin and said, Hmmm.

He almost closed the little curtain, and went back to the Big Book. He flipped pages, one by one.

Another patient came in the door. It was a woman in labor. I'd never been anywhere remotely near such a thing before, never learned much about childbirth. This was way before they had Pregnancy Friendly areas and attitudes in hospitals, and they weren't being very nice to her.

In my humble opinion.

She would scream. The doctor and two nurses gathered around her. They'd all look between her legs and say, --Push!-- and she would scream this bloodcurdling scream. I heard words that were strange to me - dilated, crowning. They ordered her to breathe in and out, in and out. They were very irritated at her, they spoke sharply and impatiently, all nasty and rude.

Finally when she screamed again one nurse said, --Oh, cut it OUT!-- in great scorn. --I'm not dealing with this shit anymore,-- she announced to the air, stalking away in fury. They wheeled the lady away somewhere.

The doctor did his thing and checked on me, hmmm, went back out and flipped pages again, running his finger rapidly down each page before turning it.

Ah! Something new and interesting. The palms of my hands had turned bright red like the circles on my joints, pure brilliant red, like thinned arterial blood. Very pretty color. Eye catching.

Quite.

The blue-white volcano on my left forefinger was still growing. The finger was swollen way past sausage size, almost 3" wide. It was so huge it stuck out sideways from my hand, like a new limb all its own. The knuckle ached and I wondered if the bone would break.

As I watched it, very very slowly, the skin on top of the finger started to part.

This was particularly interesting. It was splitting wide open. Like a sausage overcooked.

But it wasn't splitting in a straight line really, it was more like interlaced fingers or threads pulling apart. Not tidy. Not how I'd thought a finger splitting open would look like.

By now, around four hours had passed. My eyes were swollen almost shut and leaking fluids and different kinds of goop everywhere, some yellow, some clear, some red. My ears were brilliant red and puffed all huge, standing away from my head at right angles like the guy in Mad Magazine. I had little beads of blood covering me from head to toe, scratching the skin off then absently cleaning pieces of skin from under my fingernails, wondering if itching could make a person go literally insane because I was concerned I might just start screaming like the pregnant lady and never be able to stop.

Instead, I asked them to bring my friend in.

He came. I was very tired but I concentrated hard because I wanted to tell him important things. If I didn't make it I wanted him to tell my family I loved them, and make sure the ex didn't come to the funeral. Have it be a regular one with an open casket if they could make me look okay, because people need to say *Goodbye* sometimes; but after that, cremate me.

He gave me a look and rolled his eyes and drawled, --God, k, don't be so melodramatic,-- and grinned, and left, almost-closing the curtain behind him.

He walked up to the doctor, who was standing at the lectern flipping the pages in the Big Book, running his finger down the pages, still searching for an answer.

J said, --Hey.

The doctor looked up, startled.

My friend gently grasped the doctor's shirtfront in his fist and said very slowly, very quietly, --Look. If you don't know what the hell to do, get someone down here who does. Right now. Right now. I mean that.

The doctor looked at him and was quiet and then he said, Okay.

He went to the phone and made a call but I couldn't hear what he said.

A few minutes later, this man came in the room. He had curly light brown hair and a lantern jaw and high cheekbones and green eyes. A white shirt and a necktie, completely undone. Expensive gray flannel slacks. Sneakers. Back then, no one ever wore sneakers with good clothes, ever. I was amazed at his audacity.

He was one of the most handsome men I've ever seen in my life, to this day.

I grinned and thought, --Oh, so they sent an angel to save me. Nice.

He exuded competence from every pore.

I felt relief wash over me like a warm bath, like sunshine, like a rainbow.

He came in, shook my bloody hand, looked around, asked a couple questions. I couldn't talk very well any more. I told him how bad my throat and chest felt. --How does it hurt?
--Like an elephant is stepping on my chest.

He went to the newbie doc and said, with some impatience, --This is a classic case of delayed anaphylaxis. Give her x cc's of epinephrine and x cc's of Benadryl...

and he walked away.

And they did. There was a sudden change in atmosphere, a sense of purpose and direction. The two main nurses got busy and bustle-y, going in cabinets, prepping syringes, taking my BP again and leaving the cuff on this time.

By now, around five hours had passed. They told me the shots would put me to sleep.

But they didn't for quite a while. I had to go to the bathroom, to poop, and I couldn't walk or anything, so the two nurses had to wheel me in to the bathroom and basically do most everything for me, and I was completely puzzled as to why I didn't feel all humiliated. They kept gossiping over my head the entire time, almost as if I weren't even there; and I thought perhaps that was why, and was grateful to them for being the way they were.

About fifteen minutes after the shots, I was hardly itching at all any more. The swellings were going way down. The red marks were fading. My finger stopped splitting open. And suddenly I was overwhelmed with sleepiness and I lay down and passed out.

A couple hours later, I woke up. It was morning. Everyone I knew was gone. There were different doctors and nurses and a hum of human activity instead of that eerie early-hour stillness. The new staff came in to talk to me, these people all interested and curious instead of impatient or bored. I was sent home with all sorts of instructions and follow-up appointments and told I'd probably need to rest for a few days, and they were right.

My friend J took me home and made sure I was safely inside. Just before I went to sleep in my very own bed, I thought about this: I had been sitting in that ER between a man who was dying, and a woman who was bringing forth new life. Death on one side, life on the other. I sat there in the middle, watching my body come unglued before my very own eyes.

That sort of experience is often life-changing, thought provoking, inspiring.

And still, I didn't feel one thing. I felt nothing inside. Nothing at all.

23 comments:

pepektheassassin said...

...to be continued...?

Granny J said...

Good Grief -- what an absolutely unimaginably gawd-awful experience. Thank goodness you survived it -- and those that followed.

prettylady said...

Wow, how gorgeously you told that story. Please keep on, and tell every single bit of it.

I do find it shocking that even I could have told that you were in anaphylactic shock, and I have never been to medical school. Such ignorance and irresponsibility is wholly disgusting. Your friend is my hero.

Morris said...

Yes, that friend certainly was a true friend. With such an incompetent in charge, your friend did exactly the right thing, and almost certainly saved your life. As for feeling nothing about the experience, I had the thought that perhaps because the whole thing was so outside your experience it would seem so unreal - almost like it wasn't even happening to you. Just surmising, as I had a similar experience once.

Nancy said...

It could have been that you were in shock. That severe an allergic reaction can shut down all sorts of functions in your body. I am amazed that your breathing wasn't shutting down as well.

That ER staff should'a been shot.

pepektheassassin said...

You were like the god Shiva, the fire of destruction on one hand and the drum of creation on the other....

Mickysolo said...

Your writing is beautiful and meaningful.

I’m reminded of an experience I had with an incompetent cardiologist. My heart rate was 30 beats a minute, and I could hardly breathe. The sawbones said my condition was only moderate and told me to see him in six weeks. Time for a second opinion at a different hospital. It’s amazing how one doctor can be so poor and uncaring and another can reek with competence. A young cardiologist at Crawford Long Hospital Atlanta quietly examined me. He told me he was admitting me ant that the next morning I would get a pacemaker. I enjoyed my first full breaths in two years. The old, established doctor would let me die while the young doctor made sure I wouldn’t.

Desert Cat said...

Incredible.

Y'know I used to be such a trusting soul--anyone in a position of authority automatically had my confidence. Not any more. This story is one of so many confirmations why that is.

k said...

miss assassin, yes. Slowly but surely. Well, verrrry slowly. I am slow. ;-)

This post took two years to get out of my head and onto the page. Been burning a hole in my pocket all that time.

But eventually it gets out there.


granny j - I like to survive. I really love to. Not everyone has that strong of a drive as I do, and to this day, encountering them always surprises me a bit. It's just...foreign to me.

That's why I don't feel like I can take any *credit* for it. I was born that way, so it wasn't my doing. I just got lucky.


PL, my goodness. Thank you. You are very encouraging! That helps. Hugely.

I think that young doctor was too easily motivated by fear. Fear of making the wrong diagnosis, fear of the wrath of the on-call doc. That's not a good thing in a doctor. Add that to his inability to see what was right in front of his eyes? Yikes. I wonder what he's done since then, and I hope he hasn't killed anyone.


morris, I agree with you 100%. My friend did save my life. I didn't have much farther to go, and the follow-up docs actually admitted that to my face. J was magnificent.

morris and nancy, I think you're both right, that those were factors in that sense of nothingness I felt. The experience itself was quite unreal. And clearly, I was in shock both physically and mentally at what was happening.

But the overriding source was post-traumatic stress disorder. I had learned to dissociate in order to deal with the brutality I lived with every single day for 5 years until the first husband and I separated. It stays with you for a long time after the underlying traumatic situation is resolved.

It's a survival mechanism. It comes in handy for situations like a dangerous ER experience. But of course, like any extreme state we find ourselves in, it needs to be applied only when necessary. The years that followed taught me, slowly, how to feel again. It took a very long time.


miss assassin, that was priceless. I didn't know that about Shiva. I will never ever forget it now.


mickysolo, thank you. I'm so very glad you went for that second opinion! Isn't is amazing how different they can be? You end up just sort of shaking your head, speechless, when you consider how radically different the two were, and how the one who did the right thing saved your life.

Breathing is GOOD, isn't it? Ha! And getting the treatment to make you feel better after all those years...just wonderful.


DC, here's one of the times that instead of finding a parallel between us, it's more like opposite sides of the same coin. I was always automatically distrustful of anyone in authority. This was true from at least the age of 1 1/2 or so.

Now, I've moderated some. I understand that those in authority aren't all bad, and like anyone else, I need to take each one individually.

But that early experience with an incompetent doc helped me understand that there are times you have to *fire* them, and do it now. Don't politely wait until their time is up, then quietly go home and find someone else. There isn't always time to be courteous about it.

That's why what J did saved my life. In essence he said, Don't wait any longer. You had your chance to fix it and you didn't. So get someone else.

And he was right.

prettylady said...

You are very encouraging! That helps. Hugely.

Good, I'm glad. As you know, I am both an artist and a healer, and I have thought long and deeply about how the two are intertwined, as well as pondering the passages of souls about earth. I have come to the conclusion that our lives are integral works of art, that we come here for a specific purpose, and that that purpose suffuses every moment of our experience, and our reflections upon those experiences.

It strikes me that writing your story as beautifully as you have done here is an absolutely crucial part of your life's work in this incarnation. It will have, and is already having, profound resonance in ways you cannot anticipate, in very far-reaching places. I am awed and honored and agog to be witnessing it.

I mean this very, very seriously. Thank YOU.

Cindi said...

k, first of all I wholeheartedly agree with what you said in the second paragraph. So true!

What a horrible experience you had and I am so glad you had a friend that took the reins and insisted on a second opinion. I have seen instances when a seasoned er nurse has taken the reins and done the same sort of thing with a doctor, right down to giving her diagnosis and suggested course of action. Probably see that sort of thing happening more in this day and age than back then, since doctors have always been seen as god-like and all knowing. Back then a nurse probably wouldn't even dare to do something like that.

While reading about how your reaction was progressing as the minutes ticked away, I was shocked that they didn't do anything for you right away!

You ought to write a book!

k said...

cindi, it makes me glad and sad at the same time that you understood what I was saying about the controller thing. Glad, because not many people really get it, and that means those of us who've been through it hesitate to talk about it. And we should. Very much. Because if we don't, we can't teach others about that reality. And if we don't teach it, more people get caught up in serious trouble.

Living through it is bad enough. Dealing with the aftermath can be even harder in some ways, and a lot of the reason is simply that others, even trained psychologists, don't get it.

The reason it makes me sad that you understood it is because it means you've had some sort of personal experience with it. I always hate to hear that about anyone, most especially a very decent and giving and kind person like you. Of course, those are the very qualities that make you a ready *target* for such creeps.

One of the two nurses there, the one that knew what it was right away? She asked me the right questions, too: Did you change laundry soaps recently, have you eating something new to you, did you change deodorants or shampoo...She knew. She talked to the doc about it and he agreed it might be, but the red circles on my arthritic joints confused him.

When he got sidetracked on that? Her face just sort of closed up and she went back to her desk and didn't say anything else.

And WHY he didn't do the *conservative* thing and treat me for an allergic reaction right away? Talk about *define conservative approach!!!* To him, being conservative meant not treating it while he was still unsure. To me, being conservative means staving off a possible killer allergic reaction first, ask questions later!

Cindi said...

k, yes I know what you meant because of personal experience. I was only married to my late ex-husband for about six years and it took at least ten years to heal from the emotional fall-out from that dysfunctional marriage.
I completely fell apart after the judge declared our divorce final.
It seemed like throughout all the turmoil during the marriage I was "strong" when I really thought at the time that I was very weak. It is almost like maybe I had grown so used to the turmoil and everyday drama of living with an alcoholic that once it was "over" I didn't know how to handle it. Not sure how to articulate what I mean.

I remember months after my divorce when I was sitting with my mother, her friend and a male friend of Mom's friend. We were all joking around and laughing. After Mom and I went back to her house, we talked about the fun visit and I was still laughing and then I just started sobbing. I was crying from the realization that I hadn't really smiled or laughed heartily in such a long time and it had felt so new and good. To be able to find my laugh again...it just made me cry to realize that maybe life could become full again. It was such a raw feeling.

I forgave my ex-husband and feel sad that his life was so messed up even after he finally stopped drinking seven years after our divorce. In his final years he battled severe mental illness and he never found his laugh again.

John P. McCann said...

God bless J and his decisive action.

Livey said...

Even if you had not wrote that first paragraph, I would have understood. Yeah, been there and all that. I understand that not feeling anything more than most people.

k said...

Cindi, when you look back at what you considered *normal* life during your marriage, does it still shock you? After all these years it still does that to me sometimes. I can't believe how I stood up under it.

I remember from...some comment somewhere maybe? rather than your blog? - about when you found your laugh again. And I think I told you then about what I call the silence, how very quiet I was for so long. That was true all during the marriage, and also for years after it. Now I'm very different, I talk TOO much sometimes. And I know it. And I don't care. Because it's not the silence any more and I'm never going back there again.

It was five years after the divorce before I was finally able even just to feel anger toward him. And that, of course, was only the beginning of recovering a semblance of normal emotion. It was scary, in its way. When you've protected yourself with numbness for years and years, and then you start to feel again, it's like there's no hard ground under your feet.

I'm so sorry your ex never found his laugh again. So sorry.


John - Yes. Can't you just picture him, with that slow delivery he has? And such a peaceful and quiet person, to do what he did. It was amazing. He was so careful to throw me off, joking at me like he had no concerns at all, and he didn't know I could see and hear him talking to the doctor.

And bless you, too. Your example had a great deal to do with how I was able to realize not all men were like that first husband. That it did NOT have to be that way. If I never did before, let me thank you for that now.


Livey, our first husbands had a great deal in common. There are some striking similarities there. I say that both from what I've read in your archives, and what I read into them too. Things that most other people wouldn't ever even guess.

It's good to be free.

Cindi said...

k, back then while I was living that life I never considered it "normal". I was painfully aware of how abnormal it was but I lost my voice and wimped out. I was always hoping, hoping, hoping things would improve. When I look back on those days I get mad at that young woman (me) for putting up with it!

Anyway, hey I left you a comment after your last comment to me over at my place.

I love the pictures of all of your plant life! When my ex husband passed away, my daughter received a beautiful bromeliad at the funeral. It was so huge and wouldn't fit in her tiny sports car so my mother kept it.

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