What Happened, Part 1

In A Week in the Hospital I made a conscious decision to try to write in an expository, rather than a narrative style. Heightening the drama wasn't exactly the place for that posting; in fact, I wanted to make it as undramatic as possible. I tried to stick to the traditional newspaper journalist's inverted-pyramid style, with the most important information first, followed by lesser facts. This is of course in contrast to my usual inverted-labyrinth style, wherein I start at the perimeter, and wander aimlessly untill I'm hopelessly lost, at which point I'm eaten by a minotaur. Or something.

My avoidance of a narrative format (and playing down the scarier parts) left some confusion about what occurred and when. Let me try to correct some of that.

On Wednesday, March 31, early in the morning, I passed out in the bathroom. My collapse made enough noise that Charlotte came running, and found me unconcious on the bathroom floor. I came to a couple minutes later in a cold sweat, bruised from the fall, but otherwise feeling pretty normal. It wasn't a particularly traumatic experience for me (after all, I wasn't even awake for most of it), but it wad terrifying for Charlotte, and the image of me out cold on the floor has haunted her since then.

Once my doctor's office had opened for the day, Charlotte drove me over, where the nurse practitioner, Maggie Satterfield, looked me over and pronounced me in pretty good health, though with rather low blood pressure. I admitted that the previous night I'd gone to the Burner Meet 'n' Greet with a light wallet and ended up having nothing but beer and french fries for dinner. This was pronounced a plausible explanation for my episode.

The next day, Maggie called to tell me that lab tests on my blood had shown significant anemia, and that it didn't seem to be caused by iron or follic acid deficiency. The most likely culprits, then, would be my liver or my bone marrow. There'd be further testing to determine which, and she'd get back to me with the results.

Meanwhile, Charlotte was preparing for a long-anticipated trip to Germany, arranged by her dear friend Erik, and I had arranged a concurrent trip down to DC to visit my mother.

On Friday afternoon, I called Maggie and found out that the problem didn't appear to be my liver, which made my bone marrow the prime suspect. She told me she had made me an appointment with a hematologist, Dr. Lisa Weissmann, but had accidentally made it for the ninth, when I was scheduled to be in DC. I asked her for hints in researching my situation on the web, and she suggested querying for "myeloproliferative disorders."

Once I got off the phone, I rescheduled my appointment for after the DC trip, and then hit Google. What I found scared the shit out of me. The myeloproliferative disorders tend to be lingering, painful, and often fatal. I soon realized i couldn't possibly go on my DC trip with the diagnosis unresolved. Specifically, I realized this about 5:05 PM. Dr. Weissmann's office was now closed; I couldn't try to re-reschedule the apointment until Monday, and I couldn't try to reschedule the flight until I knew when the appointment would be.

That weekend was one of the worst of my life. I was consumed with uncertainty and fear, but reluctant to tell too many people about it until I knew more. I cried a lot. The support of those I told--particularly Charlotte, Spike, and Ion--helped me get through that period, but it wasn't easy.

On Monday, I managed to get back the appointment for the ninth and reschedule the flight for later that day. I called my mom, and was evasive about the reasons for the change--I wanted to wait and talk to her in person, a decision about which I still feel guilty.

On Thursday the Eighth Charlotte left for her trip, miserable at not being around for my appointment. We spend a couple hours at the airport holding hands, but it didn't make the exit any easier for her.

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