Storyline: Thinking in Autumn Colours
From the horse’s mouth
If you remember from the previous post, we finally headed out for a long-awaited road trip. The first week or so went according to plan. We travelled east across Ontario, crossed the provincial border into Quebec and then hopped over the St. Lawrence River at Grande Ile, and continuing northeast, generally following the south shore of the St. Lawrence as it made its way towards the Atlantic. The temperature and humidity began to rise along the way, but not nearly so much as it did back home, and we were more than comfortable in our little home on the road. We entered the famous Gaspésie region at the mouth of the St. Lawrence as it enters the St. Lawrence Gulf and the Atlantic Ocean and set ourselves up for a few nights at a campground at the edge of the village of Mont-Louis.
That’s when I felt that the left side of my tongue had been scoured by sandpaper. And my throat was a bit sore. Nothing major, I mistakenly thought. Over the next few days those feelings didn’t entirely go away.
(Here in this small campground, for the first time we’d use public showers and walk for a short time through high grass. These two facts would bring a lot of speculation later-D)
A few days later, on August 26 we were in the village of Percé, where I felt fit and strong as I hiked from our campground into the village and back uphill to the van. That was the last time I felt that way. By the morning, I had a severe headache and was incredibly fatigued. In fact I slept most of the day.
When I was awake, Diana broached the idea of heading home. Being in denial that I was very ill, I suggested that we give it more time. We progressed the next day to our next destination in Campbellton, New Brunswick. By the time we reached the campground, I was noticeably worse. So we left early the morning of August 29 and headed home. Diana drove the 1200 kilometres, using highways that she would normally avoid like the plague.
A day and a half later on August 30 2021 (and after spending a night at a truck stop – D), she dropped me off at our local hospital’s Emergency entrance, and I plodded slowly up through the automatic doors, passed through triage, registration and into an examination cubicle. Several hours, one Covid test, blood tests and vitals recorded, I was sent home, told that subject to the Covid test result, I had an unspecified virus and should go home and sleep it off. Diana, duly relieved, picked me up and drove me home.
(Did he pick this virus from the public showers? Or was it a tick we missed? We did walk about 5 min through high grass in the village of Mont-Louis – D)
The week progressed. And I continued my downhill trend. By Saturday September 4, I was back in Emerg. This time, in additional to my earlier symptoms, I had a severe cough and was choking on anything I tried to eat or drink. Once again, I was given a Covid test, and after blood and vitals were taken, was eventually told to head home, so I texted Diana to come and get me. I shuffled out of the hospital and sat on a bench to wait. Moments later my phone rang. It was the Emerg doctor. He had missed the fact that my potassium levels were high, as was my white blood cell count. I dismissed the blood count as being CLL. But the doctor said I needed to return for hydration to lower the potassium levels. Two hours later I was home. And no better.
By now I was also finding it difficult to swallow softer foods. I chewed and chewed and chewed a piece of chicken, but it was a major effort to get it down. It didn’t really matter much since I wasn’t hungry anyway. My voice was also getting hoarse and weaker. I was happiest when asleep, which was much of the day. And night.
September 6, Monday morning – Labour Day in Canada – rolled around. Diana and I were sat in the living room as I took a sip of tea. Not a big deal, eh? (Had to use that Canadian stereotype somewhere.) Well, I choked. Then I tried to breathe. I’ve only seen a severe asthma attack once. When I was a 17-year-old lifeguard. I’ll never forget the way my fellow lifeguard gasped and struggled to breathe. That was me now. I was gasping, lungs straining to draw in air, but nothing was getting in but a high-pitched wheeze. I just thought, “Slow down. Breathe in slowly. Don’t strain”. Meanwhile I was frantically motioning to Diana to get the car out. She said, “Emerg” and I nodded. Then, as I forced myself to draw a slow, measured breath, the muscles in my throat relaxed and I drew a deep breath. I got up, headed upstairs and put some things together for the hospital. Diana made sure that I had a big box of facial tissue as I was also spitting out what felt like litres of saliva that I couldn’t swallow. I knew that this time I’d be staying there, at least overnight.
I wasn’t disappointed. But it took some time for the doctors to decide. More blood tests, vitals (my potassium and white cell counts were back where they were expected to be), Covid swab (my third in eight days), a scope stuck down my nose, which I suspect the Emerg doctor only performed so he could demonstrate it to a junior colleague – he spent more time talking about how the scope was used than he did looking through it – and lots of sleep in between. I remember saying several times that I hadn’t eaten or drunk properly for a couple of days, and was dehydrated, but the focus on my problems at that time was on other things And I continued to generate the saliva.
Finally, after being moved to a different area, a gastrointestinal doctor visited. He said that he’d be performing a gastroscopy (like a colonoscopy, but with entry from the top end) the following day and that I was why I was being admitted. But it would take some time to move me to an inpatient floor. By then, I really didn’t really care much what was going to happen: just let me sleep. I again mentioned dehydration and he ordered a litre of saline by IV. Told that it would take 10 hours for the litre to drip into me, I relaxed and slept more. I’m sure that I was not just sleeping, but was semi-conscious. And the IV drip seemed very slow. At one point, I asked a nurse to check it. “It’s set to take 10 hours. Don’t worry”, she said. “But it’s five hours now and only 100ml have dripped. I think the IV line is not set right.” She took a look and said that all was fine, and I didn’t have the strength to argue more. I lay back and slept. Or passed out.
I tried again with the next nurse, who had just seen me go to the washroom. “If you are urinating, you’re probably not dehydrated. And see, it’s dripping.” “Yeah”, I thought, “One drip every ten seconds”. Exhausted from the trip to the washroom five metres away, I lay back and slept. Or passed out.
Around three in the morning I struggled to my feet and went to the nursing station about three metres away, leaned on the counter and told the nurse that I was very weak and that my IV wasn’t working. He took one look at me and the IV. Ten hours after the IV was started, it had dripped about 200ml into me. He helped me back to my bed, quickly put in a new line and told me he was running it a twice the speed. Finally! I lay back and slept. Or passed out.
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