I thought March would be a month of writerly delights. No less than three weekends were planned, all centering on what I enjoy best. The first of these was the much anticipated Tucson Festival of Books, a weekend long writer’s conference/book fair I’d been looking forward to ever since attending it the year prior and having such a grand time. Getting there was to be a fun road trip with friends Char, Diana, and LaDonna, all serious writers, and interesting people.
For a lover of books the TFB is a kind of high desert Nirvana. This year’s schedule included the likes of Alice Hoffman, Elmore Leonard and Jenna Blum. My friends in the ANWW and I planned to have dinner together Saturday evening, and a few of us would probably spend Sunday morning sipping lattes in some campus coffee shop or another, before a second delicious day of everything bookish. I would also finally get to meet fellow Arizonian Twitter writers, Melissa Crytzer Fry and Jessica McCann in the ‘real world’.
The following weekend in March was the Saturday meeting of the ANWW…always a weekend I look forward to with anticipation and joy.
The third Saturday would be spent in the Phoenix living room of my dear friend Trish, an awesome writer who organizes and hosts a Pulitzer book study group that is attended by writers. Again, the conversation here would center around everything I love best to discuss: novels and writing.
Those are the events that were supposed to happen. Here’s what actually did.
In February March shimmered on the horizon of my life like a literary oasis. I dragged my small overnight suitcase out from storage and made reservations for a room to share in Tucson with Diana. I worked diligently to wrap up outstanding business, bought batteries for my camera and notebooks small enough to fit in my purse. Last year we starved during the day at the festival—the cafeteria was jam-packed and the workshops are scheduled so close together there’s no time to wait in food lines if you don’t want to miss anything—so this year I bought beef jerky, nuts and dried fruit to share with whoever was with me. I had it all planned. It would be great fun, and I wouldn’t allow anything to spoil even a moment of it.
The week before the festival I developed what I first took to be allergies. By Thursday I realized it wasn’t allergies, but either a sinus infection or the flu. Thursday night I was so miserable I didn’t sleep at all, and as the sun rose on Friday I realized I would not be going to the festival. I called my friends and let them know. I looked up the confirmation number for the hotel reservations and emailed Diana. I also cried for a few minutes. But stuff happens, and I’m a big girl, so I got over the disappointment and set my sights on getting well.
And I did get better. By the time Sunday rolled around the worst of the snotty, sneezing, aching misery had passed and I knew I’d be completely well in a day or two.
But now I had a small pain in my lower back, just to the right of my tail bone. Had I perhaps sneezed too hard and pulled something? The pain wasn’t bad. I took some of the Motrin and flexural my rheumatologist prescribes for MCTD, and figured it would pass. My sinus infection got better but the pain in my back did not. I met with clients on Wednesday and one of them pointed out I was limping.
By Friday I knew something was seriously wrong. The small pain was not so small anymore, and it had spread like flaming napalm to my hip and down my right thigh. By 7pm Friday night I could find no position that didn’t hurt, and my right leg could not be bent without causing me excruciating pain. I could barely walk by this time, and I couldn’t sit, because that required bending my leg at the hip and knee, so it was a tense ride to the nearby urgent care clinic. We got there right before their 8 pm closing time. I stood leaning against a wall in the waiting room as the attending doctor saw to the last people who had been there before me. I was fighting back tears, and trembling with pain, but more importantly, I was beginning to feel frightened.
I am not a sissy when it comes to pain. I’ve given birth to two children, both of them large babies, and the first without benefit of pain meds. But this pain I was experiencing was so widespread, severe and inexplicable it actually frightened me. The doctor saw me. He suspected bursitis of the hip and gave me a scrip for pain meds, which my husband went and got filled, after taking me home and icing my hip and thigh as the doctor had recommended. I took the vicodin and waited for the pain to abate. But it never did.
By 5:30 am Saturday morning I was officially out of my mind. I was experiencing back-arching, claw-handed agony that nearly made speech impossible, and the pain meds the urgent care doctor had prescribed, even doubled, weren’t touching it. The large muscle in my right thigh jerked and jumped like it was electrically charged. My husband half carried me out to our truck and attempted to get me up into the passenger side. I was sobbing and frightened and in the most complete misery I have even experienced, outside childbirth. On a scale of 1 – 10 this pain was a 10, and I was completely freaked out by it.
Jim took me to the nearest emergency room, which happens to be located in a nearby retirement community. At the emergency room entrance I fell into the proffered wheelchair. But since my hip and knee wouldn’t bend without exponentially increasing the pain all I could do was perch on the edge of the seat with my back arched and my head resting on the top of the seatback so I was staring straight up. I could not lift my right leg onto the foot rest, so whoever was pulling the chair wheeled me into the hospital backwards, with my right foot dragging, as my husband went to park our truck.
The wait in the emergency waiting room would have been humiliating…if I had cared what anyone thought of me. I was sweating profusely and my teeth chattered uncontrollably. My waist-length hair was wrapped everywhere around me and under me. I sat arched back in the chair, gripping the armrests with white knuckled intensity, hissing and sobbing with pain. I wore an old pair of black yoga pants and an old tee-shirt and flip-flops. I’m sure, in retrospect, I looked perfectly demented.
You would think a person in this condition would be brought right into the treatment area of an emergency room and cared for, but such is not the case. I was deposited in a public waiting room full of the disembodied voices of curious strangers while my husband had to fill out and sign a lot of papers. I don’t know how long I sat in that waiting room. It may have been an hour, it may have only been ten minutes, but every second ticked by like an hour. I recall hearing a woman nearby say, “Oh, my, that poor girl. She can go in front of me.” Next I heard the deeper rumble of an indignant man: “No. You’ve been waiting. When it’s your turn you go.”
“But I’m not that bad off,” said the female voice.
My husband returned and hovered over me, trying to comfort me. “Hang in there, babe. Just a little longer.” I heard him return to the admittance nurse’s window numerous times to ask how much longer I’d have to wait, and asking if they could at least get me out of the chair and onto a table, because sitting was not really possible and the position I was in was making the pain worse.
Eventually they called my name and someone grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and attempted to push it. The metal footrest jammed into the soft ligament at the back of my right ankle. “Mame, pick up your foot and put it on the footrest.” The demand penetrated the red haze surrounding me and I tried to respond. My leg wouldn’t move on its own and I couldn’t relax my grip on the arms of the chair or lean forward, both actions that would result in my hip bending. “Can you hear me?” Louder now. “I said pick up your foot.” The chair jerked impatiently. I think I said something like: “Uhhgrr.” I heard the low murmur of my husband’s voice. Then I felt hands lift my leg and place my foot on the footrest. The institutional acoustic tile ceiling above me whirled dizzily and I was wheeled off to the station where temps and blood pressure are checked.
I was so out of it that I remember very little of the next fifteen minutes or so. I was cuffed and questioned, and did my best to answer coherently. But I’m not sure I made much sense. I have no recollection of what anyone who spoke to me looked like, or what they asked me. I was wheeled into the treatment area of the emergency room and parked beside a bed, which my husband helped me up on to, all the while gently encouraging me. More questions were asked, and a short, middle aged Hispanic woman got an IV in my left arm.
“Where’s that noise coming from?” a male voice asked on the other side of a white canvas curtain. “It’s this one, in here,” another male voice replied. “I just ordered up morphine for her.”
My husband stood beside the bed I lay on, alternately stroking my hair back from my forehead and rubbing my spasming right thigh, while I worked on breaking the world record for saying ‘oh’.
The morphine took a long time to get to the emergency room. It seemed it needed to be brought in by camel, then unpacked and accounted for, before I could have it. Hard as it is to believe, morphine is apparently not kept in the very place where it is most needed.
The relief, when it finally arrived, hit my blood stream like mother’s love. The pain, which had grown to colossal size, shrank to a smoky throb in my lower back, hip and down my leg. My madly twitching thigh muscle slowed and my teeth ceased chattering. I felt my senses begin to return. It occurred to me I might be in some serious trouble. I could even be dying.
Over the course of that long Saturday I was again given morphine, and a little later something called dilaudid, when it became obvious the morphine wasn’t ‘holding’. The person assigned to me, a P.A. named Grace, ordered up tests and asked more questions.
Somewhere near the middle of the day I realized it was the Saturday of my writers workshop, and I was missing the second pleasure I had been looking forward to in March. My children came to see me, faces worried as they bent above me. My daughter brought me a birthday card, and I remembered it was St. Patrick’s Day…my birthday.
It was nearly 7pm by the time Grace had ruled out all the dire things she thought might be causing the problem. It wasn’t appendicitis, and it wasn’t anything to do with any of the other organs in my abdomen. Should I be admitted? Or should I go home? My only fear, at that point, was going home and having the pain return. The dilaudid was beginning to wear off and the pain was bearing its teeth at me in a wolfish grin, so Grace ordered up percoset to see if it would be sufficient to see me through until I could get to my GP on Monday.
Jim and I arrived home near sunset: me pale, hobbled and shaken; both of us ravenous after a long day without anything to eat other than some crackers the nurse had provided when she brought the Percocet. He brought me into the house and got me settled. There was a card on the front door from Diana, who had been worried and come looking for me when I hadn’t showed up at the workshop, which really touched me.
Jim went out front to retrieve my purse from the truck, and returned with his arms full of Tupperware. Our next door neighbor, Laura, had given him a corned beef supper, the traditional meal of St Patrick’s Day, complete with homemade Irish bread. This unexpected act of kindness completely shattered me. If I could have moved, I would have run next door and hugged her. It’s funny who the angels turn out to be, when something like this happens.
To be continued…