One in a Bazillion

Once again, rumors of my online blogging death are greatly exaggerated. Though after what I’ve been through the last five days, I can tell you what near death may feel like. And, believe me, when you least expect it, expect it!

For every pharmaceutical drug, vaccination, or medical procedure, there’s either a tiny warning message on the side of the bottle or the form you have to fill out before the vaccination or the procedure. The message or form usually warns you that there’s a one in a bazillion chance that the drug, vaccination, or medical procedure in question will cause some type of bad thing to occur; I don’t know about you, but I usually sign this form thinking, “That’ll never happen to me.”

Well, after signing the paper, something happened. It did happen to me. I was the one, the one in a bazillion, Jean Bazillion.

When it came to the lottery, why wasn’t I ever Jean Bazillion? When it came to finding a sunken treasure chest filled with gold doubloons, why wasn’t I ever Jean Bazillion? (On second thought, I had never found a sunken treasure, because I had a land-based occupation and didn’t know how to scuba dive.) But when it came to acquiring a bad infection, which required an emergency room visit, a three-day stay in the hospital and having tons of fluid (ringers lactate, which made me laugh in spite of my pain, because of all those episodes of Emergency! that I had watched when I was little), antibiotics, and two hits of morphine pumped into my body, I was Jean Bazillion!

After having all four impacted wisdom teeth taken out, a tonsillectomy, two c-sections, and the flu, I have to say that being Jean Bazillion was the worst I had ever felt in my life. At some points during my stay in the hospital, I had to wonder who hated me enough to subject me to this at this exact point in my life. Was it that person who I didn’t let into traffic, totally ignoring the “Yield to Side Street Traffic” sign, when I was late picking Iz up at her after-school program? Or was it my neighbor, the one whose yard I threw Monty’s poop into? There was a whole list of suspects, and as I lay there, I tried to crack the case!

As I stared at the IV pump next to me, which went “brup-mrrrrr” or brup-two,” the “two” said as if being spoken by an android, I thought that this was just one more unhappy thing to get through. There had been the sixteen months of unemployment that made it impossible for me to move my life in any direction and the initial stress of my “starter job.” And then there was the long and painful sale of my Dad’s house in Nantucket.

At one point, when I was either lying awake listening to my elderly neighbor’s mucus-laden cough at 4am or when I was experiencing Montezuma’s revenge (sans the lovely trip to Cancun but avec Flagyl) at 2am, I knew there was a reason why all this was happening to me. Okay, I’m not one of those people who usually believes in signs, okay, I really am. It was a sign!

I have to say that the whole experience was not without its bright spots. There were the visits from friends, the lovely flowers sent to my house, and the gifts from Isabelle, which she brought Saturday afternoon, when she visited me in my room.

She walked in carrying a pink bag. She said, “Mommy, I have presents for you. Open them.” I glanced into the bag and saw a book that a friend had given me as a birthday present, and I thought, “Oh, dear. I won’t tell her I already have it.”

I unwrapped what looked like a mug wrapped in pink tissue; the mug was filled with a Hello Kitty hair band and bracelet. I then realized that the mug was one I had bought at Kohl’s for Iz a few weekends ago, and the Hello Kitty items were hers and book was indeed mine. She had re-gifted but not to get rid of unloved items; it was to give a loved one loved items.

I thanked her. She beamed. Then she asked, “Mom, who gave you that book? Is it good?”

The experience wasn’t without its lovely people either; you know, I’ve never ever met a nurse I didn’t like. My Mom was a nurse, perhaps I could never not like a nurse for that reason; however, I don’t think so. I think you have to be smart to be a nurse, and you also have to be a special person.

I had one male nurse, Randall (not Randy but Randall), who looked like he rode Harleys when he wasn’t administering morphine. In the emergency room, I fretted because I had not showered in a day. Randall promptly told me a story about a patient he dealt with at another hospital who came in and then subsequently told him that she hadn’t showered in three weeks. Randall, a seemingly very no-nonsense and no-humor kind of guy, told the story like he was saying, “Yeah, you’re stinky, but you’re not three weeks stinky.” Randall refreshed my perspective on the degrees of stinkyness.

Then there was the nurse who walked in and who I felt I knew instantly, but I couldn’t figure out why. When she returned a second time, my brain, just exiting its morphine rush, said, “Oh, my God. She looks just like her.” I then said, “Has anyone told you that you look like….” She said, “Yes! Sara Sidle from C.S.I.?” As she took my blood pressure, something pivotal happened on the episode of Law & Order that I happened to be watching on TV.

She looked up at the TV and said, “Yeah, like that would ever happen!” I said, “You must sit there and say the same things when you watch shows like ER, huh?” She said, “Oh, yeah. You know when you watch “House” and you see all the doctors visiting their patients? Well, that never happens!”

Sara went on to tell me other things that were false on medical shows. It was funny how when I watched those shows, my brain didn’t question them, even if I thought, “Doubt it,” while watching them. Sara refreshed my perspective on reality.

The next nurse walked in my room, her presence illuminating the four gray stone block walls that held me prisoner. She was wearing a bright scrub top that had wild animals all over it, and I then felt that hospital administration had mistakenly sent the Welcome Wagon not the Vital Signs Soldier. Within three minutes, she divulged that she had two Corgis, Mazie and Poppy, which I thought was pretty amazing given that she didn’t know I owned a Corgi, my Montgomery.

I said, “That’s quite a coincidence! I have a Corgi, too.” Iz happened to be visiting and upon hearing this news said, “We made a video of our dog. It’s on YouTube!” Corgi Nurse asked, “Really, because my daughter shows me all the corgi videos there.”

Iz went onto explain our video in great detail. Corgi Nurse listened and before Iz could finish, she asked, “Wait, is he playing soccer in it?” Iz said, “Yes!”

Corgi nurse said, “I’ve seen that.” Iz said, as if she were a rock star, “That’s me biking in it!” She said, “I’ll have to watch it again.” Corgi nurse refreshed my perspective that 1) It was a small world, 2) I had fans I didn’t even know, who were right in my own backyard, and 3) When you’re sick, the Great Cat Goddess sends you Corgis. well, at least people who own them.

I met my last nurse at 3:30am. There was a knock, and she blast through the door and appeared at the side of my bed. I thought I had died and gone to Heaven, which was a movie starring ex-60s blonde movie goddesses; she was a very pretty woman in her 60s wearing these huge owl glasses who said, “Hello, my friend!” in an accent that I didn’t recognize.

A bit startled when I realized I wasn’t in a movie and still in the hospital, I said, “Err, hello.” She immediately said, “I’m here to take your vital signs.” No, she didn’t say that, and if she did, I would have felt like I was still in the hospital, but her remark transported me back into that movie.

She said, “Oh, what a beautiful sweater!” I then realized that was sitting there in Nathan’s t-shirt, my underwear, and wearing my pink vintage mohair sweater. I wondered if I were the sight to her that she initially was to me.

I said, “Thank you. It’s vintage.” She asked, “Where did you get it?” Still thinking that Bobby Darren might enter the room at any moment and start singing, “Beach Blanket Bingo,” I said, “Um, eBay,” because I never expected this kind of conversation at 3:30am while in the hospital.

She then said, “Let me take your temperature.” No, she didn’t; she asked, “So, what year is that from?” I said, “I think it’s from the 60s.” She then said, “Oh, I met my husband in 1965, and we used to wear those big skirts.” I said that I didn’t own any of those, but I had a few dresses that required a crinoline. I then asked, “Where are you originally from anyway?” She said, “Oh, just Denmark” like she had come from down the street instead of across an ocean and a few continents.

After looking at the temperature, oxygen level, and blood pressure machine to make sure it was real and not going to suddenly turn into Annette Funicello, I told her about my vast vintage collection and she listened intently. We chatted vintage up and down until 3:45am. Even though she owned no vintage, she seemed intrigued by me and my love of it; after taking my vitals, she left, making me feel like my Fairy Godmother had just left the room, leaving me with only with a pumpkin and a few mice.

She returned the next night after I pressed the call button at 3:30am to complain about my visit from the evil Prince Montezuma. I heard the knock on the door, I said, “Come in,” the door flew open, and she said, “Hello, Jean Marie!” (If there was one thing I had hoped to leave the hospital with, it was a “Mariectomy,” but Blue Cross Blue Shield didn’t cover it.)

By the way, my Fairy Godmother’s name was Hannah. I found that out earlier that morning when I mention her to Corgi Nurse who said, “Oh, that’s Hannah. She’s kind of wacky.” And does it surprise anyone that my Fairy Godmother was “wacky?”

This time, however, Hannah didn’t catch me sitting on my bed. I was going back to my bed after spending some more quality time in the bathroom wishing I was Cancun have the runs instead of in the hospital having the runs due to the other evil Prince in my life, Prince Flagyl. Hannah saw me standing there and exclaimed (imagine this in a Danish accent), “Sweet Marie! You look like a model!”

Once again, I was sporting a look you’re sure to see on the runways of Milan next Fall. I was wearing another of Nathan’s t-shirts, my underwear, and my pink vintage Mohair sweater. I laughed.

She said, "You should go to NYC, model, and earn lots of money!" I thanked her, and then I said, “I need to lose 30 pounds for model standards, not to mention that I’m too old. Hannah said, “Nah! Nah!”

I then got into bed, and she came over. I complained about the runs, began to cry, and she said, “I wish there was something I could do for you, Jean Marie” in a most heartfelt matter and then hugged me. I wiped away my tears. I knew it was going to be a long night, and that Hannah couldn’t stay with me all night.

Hannah left my bed, turned out the light, and then said, "Good night, Sweet Jean Marie. You're gorgeous." After she left, I thought, “I don't think she's wacky at all.” Hannah kept my mind off my inside by making me feel good about my outside. She was my Fairy Godmother.

The next morning, Hannah popped her head in my door at 7:25am. She was in her coat and had a bundle of papers in her arms. Her shift was over; however, she had made a special effort to say good-bye to me on her way home. She said, “Good luck, Jean Marie. I hope everything works out okay for you,” and then she was gone. Poof!

I wasn’t her patient; I was her princess, albeit it way before the transformation. Hannah refreshed my perspective on people; sometimes people are only meant to be with you for a short time. And, if you’re lucky, they leave you a carriage, two white horses, and a footman, and whenever you are ride in that carriage, you’ll feel like a princess if only in your heart.

Later that morning, I waited for my doctor to arrive. As I listened to my elderly neighbor’s mucus-laden cough again, the intercom call light dinged. A voice on the other end asked, “Can I help you?” I heard my neighbor say in her gravelly voice, “I need the bed pan.”

It was all about perspective; Jean Bazillion, despite feeling horribly rotten for three days, had a very good life. Maybe I was one in a bazillion, because as I lay there, I realized that everything I had gone through was nothing. And even though there was more to go through, it would be nothing too as long as I kept my perspective knowing that I had my health, my kids, my friends, my sense of humor, and most importantly, my carriage. ♥