Detour from Normal (2 page)

On the morning of Thursday, April 14, 2011, I was driving east on Highway Loop 202 on my way to work, '80s rock and roll blaring from the tinny speakers of my aging Kia. In my right hand, I held a Hostess Mini donut from the open six-pack sitting on the passenger seat. My left hand vibrated gently on the steering wheel from the unbalanced tire that I'd always meant to get fixed but never did. I shoved the entire miniature donut into my mouth, chewed for a bit, savoring the rich cake and cinnamon flavor, and then washed it down with some Diet Coke. The construction for the new carpool on-ramp was finally complete, and the myriad cones, barricades, and reduced-speed-limit signs were gone. The effect was like an asthmatic taking a hit off his inhaler and
suddenly having his lungs open up. Instead of tensely waiting for the brake lights of the car ahead to come on, now there were no cars in sight. The road was breathing again, and my mind was free to wander as it often had before all the construction.

As I drove, my body complained loudly to me about how badly it needed to use the restroom. I wondered what could possibly be going on. Since April 10, I hadn't had a normal bowel movement. I didn't consider that it could be something serious since both Beth and my children had been sick for days with similar symptoms. It had to be stomach flu of some kind. In any case, there wasn't much I could do about that now, so I attempted to distract myself from my discomfort—my inability to relieve myself despite the fact that I felt a desperate need to do so. I forced myself to think about something more pleasant: my anniversary—my twentieth anniversary, to be exact. It was coming up in August, and I had been trying to figure out something special I could do for Beth. That led me to daydream about when I'd first met her.

When I first saw Beth in the spring of 1990, she had just walked through the door of Old Chicago's in Colorado Springs. It was a blustery day and she was bundled in a heavy coat, scarf, and hat. I could see nothing of what she looked like but was drawn to something about her nonetheless. Unbelievably, she walked across the room and took a seat directly across from me. She then proceeded to unravel her many layers of protection. It reminded me of a moth wriggling out of a cocoon. I had no idea who she was, but she mesmerized me. As the evening wore on, I found that I loved the way she interacted with her friends. I loved her laugh and her smile, and, on top of everything else, she was gorgeous. She had dark, shoulder-length wavy hair, beautiful skin, a slim athletic
build, and glasses. For some inexplicable reason, I had always been partial to women with glasses.

I was single at the time and really wanted to get to know her, but I was there that night to celebrate the college graduation of a female friend of mine. I was sitting at her side that evening in a kind of position of honor. I didn't want to disrespect that by using the opportunity to pursue another woman, particularly someone I didn't know. So I spent the evening spying on my future spouse. What followed was a kind of cat-and-mouse game over a period of weeks that I won only by tenacity and sheer luck.

Just over a year later, we were married. Our early years together were full of adventure, and wherever we went, we were always hand in hand. If ever we were apart for long, all we could think of was the other and we'd talk on the phone every day until we were together again, even if we were half a world apart. We were soul mates, and I couldn't imagine anyone I'd rather be with. As time passed, we were blessed with two wonderful children, Kaitlin and Hailey. Beth had a new mission once they came into our lives, and her focus shifted toward motherhood. Beth was a terrific mother. She taught our children compassion and good manners. She instilled in them confidence and a zest for learning. She was a dedicated cheerleader and knew when to comfort and when to say, "Get out there and try again." Though I was no longer the center of attention, I deeply admired her dedication to raising the children right, and through her, I learned how to be a good father.

Reminiscing about our life made me smile. The smile quickly faded, however, as painful cramps rippled through my midsection. I took a deep breath and arched my back in hopes that would stop them. Eventually they faded. I took that to mean that perhaps things were on
the move inside me and I'd soon have relief from my days of gastrointestinal torture.

After the cramps subsided, I took stock of where I was and realized I was about to miss my exit. I gritted my teeth and swerved quickly barely clipping the tip of the gore triangle. There's a huge fine for cutting through the gore triangle, but I'd never heard of anyone actually getting a ticket for doing so. Still, I glanced nervously in the rearview mirror, expecting to see flashing lights. That quick decision saved me from having to drive another mile down the freeway to the next exit to turn around, something I'd had to do a few too many times due to day dreaming.

With my reverie interrupted, I was back to where I'd started: thinking about going to the bathroom again. I really had been making a lot of trips to the restroom lately. It was one of those things that, though uncomfortable, wasn't bad enough to convince me to miss work, stay home or (God forbid) see a doctor. The strange thing was that every time I rushed to the restroom feeling that disaster was imminent, I couldn't go. Lord knows I tried, but I just couldn't do it. I was a little concerned about what would happen if I couldn't go to the bathroom for several days or even a week. Would I explode? Would I start rotting from the inside out? I let it rest there. It was bad enough feeling the way I did—no need to make matters worse.

I arrived at work just after 8:00 a.m. I rushed straight into the three-story building, and leaping several stairs at a time, I covered the flight to my office level in no time. Instead of heading to my desk, I went straight to the men's room—much as I had on previous days. Again I was unable to relieve myself, but this time I couldn't urinate either.
This can't be good,
I thought to myself, but remaining optimistic, I persisted in trying.
I pressed and poked my abdomen, twisted my shoulders to the left and right, stretched to either side, held my breath, and pushed harder, but it was all to no avail.

Giving up, I headed to my desk, powered up my laptop, and checked my e-mail. I was pleased to see that from a work standpoint at least, everything was under control. I checked my calendar and made a mental note of the 10:00 a.m. meeting with my boss. Just as I finished with my e-mails, I felt as if an unseen assailant punched me in the gut. "Ow," I moaned as I doubled over in my chair. The pain quickly escalated, and within moments I felt as if I'd been knifed to the hilt and the blade had been twisted for good measure.

I should have stayed put and called 911, but I was raised to be strong and independent, and I'd always been reluctant to ask for help. I stubbornly stood from my desk and staggered toward the stairway I'd sprinted up only a short time before. Once there, I leaned against the railing and let it slide through my grip as I stumbled down the stairs, swiped my ID badge over the badge reader, and exited the building.

Once outside I was in so much pain that I could hardly stand, let alone remember where I'd parked the car. I reached into my pants pocket, retrieved the car keys, and pressed the key fob repeatedly until the Kia responded with two familiar beeps. Although I'd effortlessly made the trek a short time before, the car now seemed impossibly far away. I meandered toward it, sliding along one car and bumping off the next as I went. I held my belly with both hands as if trying to prevent it from exploding. When I finally reached the car, I opened the door, collapsed into the driver's seat, and retrieved my cell phone to call Beth.

"Beth? Hi, it's me."

"What's the matter? You sound out of breath."

"Something's wrong with my stomach. I'm in so much pain. I need to get to an emergency room. Where should I go?"

I thought that Beth might ask a lot of questions or try to convince me to call an ambulance, but instead she cut right to the chase. She had been through countless emergencies with her own mother, and because of that she was intimately familiar with emergency situations, and with most of the local hospitals.

"Don't go to Chandler General, go to Desert Hope—they have the shortest wait time."

I winced at that reply. Chandler General was only two miles away and Desert Hope was nine. "OK, I'll call you when I get there," I said.

Beth, unbeknownst to me, was already headed to her van to meet me there—or perhaps she'd find me slumped over the wheel somewhere along the 202.

The pain had lessened but was coming in waves. I was sweating profusely, and perspiration ran off my head and into my eyes. I frequently wiped it away with my shirtsleeve, which soon was soaked. My pulse raced and my vision blurred as I finally arrived at Desert Hope. I drove frantically around the main building looking for the ER entrance. When I found it, I drove right up to it, screeched to a halt, swung the car door open, and waited expectantly for someone to save me. If it had been television, two young, strapping male nurses, or perhaps doctors complete with lab coats and stethoscopes would have rushed out to my aid. I would have collapsed in their arms, and they'd have loaded me onto a gurney and proceeded posthaste to the emergency room. But this was the real world. No one came for me. I took a deep breath, stood, and headed through the automatic doors, past black leather and shiny chrome wheelchairs that looked as if they'd never been used, and
through more automatic doors. I looked around the unfamiliar facility wondering what to do next and spotted a sliding glass window to my right with the words "Check In" above it. I made it to the window by sheer willpower and then lowered myself, wheezing and drenched with sweat, into a chair in front of it.

"Can I help you?" asked a young, blonde woman with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She wore olive scrubs, and her ID badge indicated that she was an RN.

"Yes, please. I'm in awful pain," I replied.

"Where does it hurt?"

"My belly. I need to see a doctor right away."

"When did the pain begin?"

The questions went on incessantly. Just when I thought I couldn't answer one more, she finished. "That's all I need for now. Would you please take a seat in front of the second counter to your left where it says Emergency Registration? Someone will be right with you to take care of your paperwork."

Paperwork?
my mind screamed.
I'm dying and I have to fill out paperwork?
Despite my despair, I thanked her and followed her instructions. I rose in agonizing slow motion, shuffled to the registration counter, took a seat in front of it... and waited. After considerable time, it became clear that nothing was going to happen if I didn't take some action. "Excuse me?" I called out weakly. A plump brunette in a dark blue lab coat appeared seemingly from nowhere and proceeded calmly toward a chair on the other side of the counter. "I'm sorry about that," she said as she plopped her large frame down in a chair and donned the reading glasses that hung from a cord around her neck. "It will just take a few minutes to get you registered; then we'll get you
some help." She was very pleasant, but pleasant wasn't making me feel any better.

"Is there a lot of paperwork? I really need help. Could I just sign a few things and finish the rest later?"

"It won't take long. Do you have your health insurance ID card and a driver's license?"

"Yes." I reached for my wallet and pulled the yellow insurance card and my driver's license from it, then handed them to her. She took the cards and passed me a small stack of papers.

"Now if you'll just fill in the top section here with your personal information—you're just giving us permission to treat you. The next form is regarding your insurance coverage, and the last is about the HIPAA Act and your right to privacy. I've marked everywhere that you need to sign with an X. Please read all the forms before signing them."

I groaned and started filling in my address. I made it through half the paperwork and buckled in pain.

"Are you OK?" the woman asked.

I didn't reply. I just took a deep breath and attacked the paperwork again, determined not to die while completing it. I skipped reading anything else and went directly to signing at the Xs.

"Thank you. Here are your cards back. Please have a seat in one of the chairs and someone will be with you shortly."

I collected my insurance card and driver's license and made my way to the nearest row of chairs, noticing that all the chairs faced a television. I picked up a magazine from the closest one, tossed it to another chair, and sat down. The television and magazine were hints that I could be there awhile—I prayed that wasn't the case.

Thankfully, Beth was right about the ER at Desert Hope. I was one of only three people there, and it wasn't long before a patient transport person came out with a wheelchair. He helped me into it, folded down the footrests, and then helped lift my feet onto them. He then wheeled me back into the ER. A male nurse arrived and helped me out of my clothes and into an ill-fitting hospital gown. I was barely able to make it into the gown before being racked with the worst pain so far. It felt as if someone had just thrust a fistful of red-hot pokers into my abdomen. I sought out my wheelchair with my hands and fell backward into it. As I fought the pain, I doubled over in agony and screamed through clenched teeth. Before long, involuntary tears mingled with the sweat running down my face.

Recognizing my extreme agony, the nurse said, "I'm going to get you some morphine. It should ease the pain." I nodded in acknowledgment but was secretly concerned. I'd never had morphine in my life and didn't know what to expect.

"Could you just give me a baby dose and give me more after a while if I need it?" Most people would have begged for all they could get, but I was adamant. He agreed, and a short time later I felt a prick in my arm as he injected a half dose of morphine. I waited and waited for the painkiller to kick in, but nothing happened. I was in so much pain by then that I imagined death must be imminent.