Pneumonia

It’s only 3:00 a.m.

Good Lord, how can it be only 3:00 a.m.??

I had finally slipped to full sleep after the 2:00 a.m. nurse visit, floating in a jewel-toned dream of book sales and Chinese paintings. When another bone-jarring seizure of coughs pulled me back to consciousness, I was convinced, with eyes still closed, that the worst was past and morning was near.

Nope. Three-o'-bloody-clock, the face on the wall insisted. Still no real sleep, and what little I’d had had been interrupted by the boiling, monstrous barks emerging from somewhere deep in me as I leaned helplessly over my outstretched legs.

Apparently, I thought in the cold light of the clock, pneumonia is going to be tougher than I thought.

The sleepless night wouldn't be so bad had I not spent the entire previous night wide awake in the Emergency Department. That first night in the hospital was almost fun. Medical types bustled in and out every five minutes, “checking my vitals” (such a mysterious, slightly sexy phrase, even if it only means they shove a thermometer in my mouth and poof a cuff around my bicep) and asking my birth date 100 times. When they weren’t in the room, I listened with a grin as nurses wrangled the old man across the hall who kept trying to escape. Sure, sleep would have been a nice alternative, but a night on the ER graveyard shift held its own beguiling energy.

I hadn’t expected my trip to the hospital to turn into anything, much less a several-day stay. Sure, I’d felt crummy the past few days. I’d huddled under mounds of blankets, body trembling and throat raw from coughing spells. A slow trip from the couch to the bathroom and back left me heaving for air and swearing I’d never pee again. But that was normal. Or, at least, it was the expected result of the final of six chemo treatments, for which I’d rattled the rope under a bell the previous Monday. You’re SUPPOSED to feel rotten by the end of chemo. And, frankly, I skated through most of treatment with so little difficulty, I felt this final beating up of my body as a badge of honor, marking me as One of the Strong who survives and thrives through difficult times.

Then my husband told me my cheeks were awfully pink, and I remembered what I had promised Aimee. Before I started chemo, my nurse navigator talked me through a list of red flags which, if experienced, meant you absolutely positively SHOULD CALL YOUR DOCTOR, no matter what and no matter when. Right there at the top of the checklist, there they were: chills, fever, sudden onset of coughing, difficulty breathing.

Dang.

I picked up the phone and dialed the on-call number. A few minutes later, a no-nonsense doctory voice called me back. I figured he’d suggest an OTC med for overnight, then an office visit in the morning. No, he said. You need to get your butt to the ER.

I crawled out from under my blankets, layered on several sweatshirts, a scarf, and two hats against my inner chill, and tumbled into the passenger seat of my car, my faithful hubby claiming the keys. I had been a frequent visitor to the hospital in recent months, but only to the oncology side. The ER was a new experience, and the security guards lifted their eyebrows at me as I tried to explain why I was there.

I hadn’t realized I needed to sit down until the wheelchair bumped against the back of my knees. Then I was rolling, stopping, telling someone my birthdate, describing the chills and the checklist and apologizing for taking their time.

The husband had parked the car and caught up with me and the check-in woman was asking more questions when my head clouded over. “I’m,” I tried to say, “I,” but then the clouds pressed in, and then I was gagging and grasping at breath and trying to figure out where I was.

Here’s a thing I learned about ER visits. If you want to get a room quickly, pass out at the check-in counter. Apparently I lost consciousness for 15 seconds or so, and — oh, the delightful drama of it! — my eyes rolled back into my head, the whole shebang. I awoke tearing at my layers in the wheelchair, desperate for cool air as they trundled me to Room 20 and got me safely penned onto a cot.

My fever and chills evaporated as soon as I got settled, and I worried I had come for nothing. But hours of bloodwork and tests validated my presence. I had pneumonia, said Dr. Caleb “Call me Dr. Egg” Eggenberger, a genuinely nice guy whose name would be a great special at IHOP.

Pneumonia didn’t sound too bad. I’m ignorant about most things medical, but as long as I recognized the name of the sickness, it couldn’t be too zany or off-the-wall dangerous, right? Maybe, said Dr. Egg. But, the chemo. The inner military that usually fights so effectively to keep me healthy is crippled by personnel shortages. I needed to stick around for a while. Just to be sure I’m OK.

The clock on the wall reads nearly 5:00 a.m. now. The coughing has subsided, though I’m sure it will be back. My overnight CNA just tested and retested my blood pressure, unsatisfied with the numbers. I think I can drift off to sleep soon, even knowing it won’t last long.

I’ve been feeling pretty sorry for myself tonight. The coughs hurt. My body needs sleep.

But in the quiet of the hospital night, I feel people all around me who are so much stronger than I.

Who bear so much more than I, and do it with grace and valor.

As they wheeled me from the ER to whatever they call this part of the hospital, the faces that peered at me from room after room were creased, their bodies small. I’m no spring chicken, but I still have relative youth on my side to help me fight disease. So many people spend their golden years battling one physical enemy after another, their fights so much bigger than mine. And yet they keep smiling, keep volunteering at church, keep giving time to their grandkids and encouraging the next generations to work hard to better their world.

I have the privilege of sitting in a mostly comfy room as I cough, a call button at my elbow and a television on the wall for entertainment. So many people cough alone in their homes, unable to jump through the hoops to access medical care. They cough, they grimace, and then they go back to work, determined to keep a roof over their kids’ head and food on the table.

The nurse who makes me feel like her favorite patient looks out the window for a moment, and I see on her face the long, long days of cleaning up other people’s grossness, ignoring other people’s demanding rudeness, breathing other people’s pneumonia. That she comes back night after night strikes me as astounding. Yet, here she is, calling me honey and asking if she can get me anything.

People have been so kind since I started cancer treatment. They tell me I’m courageous and inspiring. I have done nothing to earn that – nothing but let the systems designed to help me take care of me so I don’t die.

Heroism is not having those systems and fighting anyway.

The sun will rise in a few hours, I suppose. Maybe I can squeeze in a little more sleep before then. I’ll probably cough, and I’ll probably throw myself a little pity party, and then it’ll be morning and I’ll order some scrambled eggs that will come to me on a tray.

And then maybe I’ll look a little harder for the heroes fighting around me, take a deep breath, and see how I can help.

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A nurse just added a new band to my right arm. It’s an indicator that my blood pressure shouldn’t be taken on that side, she said.

The band reads, “Limb Alert.”

Maybe it’s just lack of sleep, but I find that really funny.

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Good hubbies, when you're in the hospital and it's 2:00 a.m. and the test results haven't come back yet.