I'm not even going to look at when my last post occurred because I know it was way too long ago. Blogging, like all sorts of pleasurable and yet healthy things -- working out, sex, cooking -- has taken a back seat to work, shlepping, shopping, and meetings of all sorts. Which is a lousy excuse, because more blogging, sex, and working out (if not cooking) would be a lot better for me and my mental stability than snagging a McChicken on the fly.

The karmic shitstorm of the winter continued from December (kids sick, nanny debilitated, pinkeye) into January. I couldn't write about it because, well, it was too hard. In early January, DH was feeling crappy. He had contracted the nastiest, ugliest case of pinkeye I think I've ever seen -- he looked like someone had gouged his eyes out -- and it lasted something like 10 days. And then, he was draggy. He was fluey. He seemed to have an on-again, off-again fever.

And then, in the second week of January, he started telling me he had abdominal pain. It wasn't purely on the right side -- more in the center, left and towards the back -- but it felt "organ-y." I nagged him to go to the doctor, but being manly, he refused. I'm sure he figured he was just worn down from the pinkeye and karmic shitstorm, and a day or two of rest would restore him. But it got worse.

The weekend we traded off house-and-dog-sitting for my parents, his situation degenerated. I came home on Sunday night and hit Google -- the worst thing, anyone will tell you -- to do when someone has symptoms of any kind. Many of his symptoms pointed to appendicitis, except everyone I've ever known with appendicitis had it come on very suddenly, with massive nausea, vomiting, and extraordinary pain. DH didn't look good, but it didn't seem like appendicitis. Instead, I started panicking about renal cell carcinoma. DH was groaning in his sleep, and it wasn't the happy kind of groans.

First thing Monday morning, he went to the doctor. I was already at work, preparing for new student orientation, when he contacted me. The doc was sending him to the ER. DH would call me from there; I shouldn't run to the hospital right away. I could feel the fear encroaching but attributed it to my natural sense of the dramatic, and just kept my phone tucked in my bra for easy access.

I got a panicked message at one point that DH didn't have the right insurance info but couldn't reach him to call back (the cell signal in the ER is shitty, most likely because they don't want you using a cell phone there). I was able to call the ER admitting desk and give them the insurance info, and was told that DH was going into Ultrasound. I started packing up to leave.

Snagging a ride back to Evanston, I called my mom and asked her to pick me up at home so she could take me to the hospital (DH had the car). I snagged DH's backpack and a change of clothes and took off. As I was walking into the hospital, I was getting a call but when I answered, the signal was lost. The ER admitting nurse remembered my phone call and told me DH was on a gurney outside of ER room 10 -- they were swamped.

"Do you know what it is yet?" she asked.

"No, I haven't heard anything back from them yet," I replied.

"You know," she said, "A lot of people come in here for just about anything... but your husband -- he didn't look good, you know? I took one look at him and knew he needed to be seen right away."

That should have scared the shit out of me, but her demeanor was so calm and warm that it didn't. I was relieved -- both because they were attending to DH, but partly because I WAS RIGHT -- he was sick and needed care. How selfish am I?

When I walked back into the ER, shlepping DH's backpack my purse, and my computer bag, I was kind of blinded by the noise and busyness of it all... and then I saw him. He was grey-green and had his face mostly hidden in his hands. He looked weird in the hospital gown. He looked... exhausted, worried, sickly... and scared.

"I was trying to call you," he said, and trailed off. It was heartbreaking. He had been in the ER for four hours or so and still didn't know anything. Lying propped in a gurney under thin hospital blankets, out in the middle of the ER, with all the bustle around him.... in terrible pain. We had a moment, and he started breathing normally again. But seeing him so vulnerable was terrifying. DH is not a guy who panics easily. He is the one usually talking me out of the tree. Seeing him even relatively nervous about his own situation was so unusual that it galvanized me into strength.

I pulled up a chair and sat next to him. I draped my overcoat over him to help him get warm. After maybe an hour or two, an orderly came to take DH to have a CAT scan. The ultrasound had been inconclusive, they said. DH was wheeled away, and I moved my chair back against the wall. An elderly volunteer stopped and asked if he could get me anything, and the floodgates opened. I sat there with my face in my hands and quietly cried. Something was wrong with my guy, and we didn't know what it was, and it looked ugly. But I didn't want him coming back from his CAT scan to find me sobbing, so I mopped myself up, pulled out a magazine, and pretended to pay attention to it.

I don't really remember how much time passed before someone came to tell us what was going on. It was maybe 4:30 or 5 when the ER doc came over and said that a surgeon had been called, and that the surgeon's PA would be by shortly. A very sweet, very young Indian woman came to tell us that it was indeed appendicitis, and they'd have to operate that night. The CAT scan was being sent electronically to where the surgeon was (at a different hospital or office) and he was going to review it before coming to where we were.

We exuded huge sighs of relief. Appendicitis! Shit, everyone gets appendicitis eventually, practically. He'd have a super-quick procedure, they'd snip it out, and after a few days, he'd be home. That screwed me for orientation at work -- DH was doing our IT -- but he was going to be okay.

"Did I wait too long to come in?" DH asked the PA. She shrugged.

I went to the parking lot with my cell phone and called my parents. Could they take the kids? I was going to stay at the hospital until DH's surgery was over and he was asleep in a hospital room. I called the babysitter to let her know, and went back to wait with DH.

And then, the PA came back. Upon reviewing the CAT scan more closely, they saw that DH's appendix had perforated, and there was a fairly large abcess on the abdominal wall. They did not know when they could operate. They were sending DH to Interventional Radiation to put a drain in. They were going to admit him. They didn't know for how long.

At the time, I didn't equate "perforated" with "burst." I didn't hear "peritonitis," or any other scary terms. It sounded yucky and maybe painful, but I didn't know yet quite what was involved. We gathered our things and I rolled DH's IV stand along with his gurney while we wound around hallways past the ER and into the hospital proper. Interventional Radiology, or IR, was a quiet, somewhat dim section with one main desk and just a few curtain-separated patient areas. A very friendly male nurse introduced the IR doc, who explained that he was going to give DH a local anesthetic, insert a tube into his abdomen, and attach a bag so they could drain the fluid from the abcess. They would give DH a sedative along with the painkiller, and he could request additional pain management while he was in there. The whole thing might take 20 minutes.

"Did I wait too long to come in?" asked DH. The doctor just said they had him now and they'd take good care of him.

Shortly after they rolled DH away, the male nurse came back to me. He showed me the TV and suggested I relax and watch something.

"Is he okay," I asked. "He's been in an awful lot of pain."

"Oh, he's very happy right now," the nurse laughed. "Frankly, I think he'll say yes to anything you ask him if you want me to scrub you up..."

He grabbed some supplies and went off to assist in the procedure. Twenty minutes went by. I watched "Scrubs." When the second episode came on, I began to be extremely conscious of every passing minute. After maybe 45 minutes, the male nurse came out.

"They're just finishing up," he said. He looked a lot more serious now.

"Is he okay? That seemed like a long time," I said.

"Well," he said, "It was really painful. We were hoping to bring DH right back out, but I think he needs some time. He started to get pretty nauseous and weak, so we've given him something for the nausea as well as pain. It may be a little while longer before we move him. But he'll be okay."

That didn't sound so great. And it wasn't until maybe another half hour before DH's gurney came back. DH looked shaken and worn. "That hurt," he whispered. He was experiencing terrible cramping, and the source site for the drain had been pummeled. A migraine was growing and he didn't know which pain was worse. A long tube came from his hospital gown and ended in a cath bag, which was beginning to fill with some scary-looking fluids.

A hospital porter came and took us down, around, through, and up to the third floor. The hallway was very quiet. DH was wheeled into a recently rehabbed hospital room with laminate floors and a flat-screen TV. A nurse came by to check his vitals and introduce herself. They were going to give DH some stronger pain medicine (a morphine derivative) so he'd be able to sleep soon. He was going to be on massive doses of IV antibiotics, and was allowed no food or drinks. He could maybe have ice chips. The surgeon would come by to see him that night.

"Did I wait too long to come in?" DH asked the nurse.

"Well," she replied. "All I can say is, you must have a pretty massive tolerance for pain. Most people would have been blown away by this. For you to have waited that long, you must be pretty strong." 

Once the nurse left the room, I called DH's mom. I hadn't wanted to call without knowing what was going on. DH was able to talk to her for a few minutes, and then I took the phone and told her I'd call her as soon as I heard more, that yes, he was in a very good hospital and he would be fine.

DH was exhausted and woozy from pain and drugs. The morphine hit him pretty fast and when he started slurring his words, I made sure his phone was plugged into the charger and within his reach before tucking him in and leaving the room. I stopped by the nurse's station, and verified that she had my cell and home number handy.

"He's going to be okay, right?" I asked.

"Well, peritonitis is really serious," she said. "But he's in good hands now."

Peritonitis. Appendix. Surgeons. IV. Morphine. In a daze, I drove through the darkness to my parents' house to pick up the boys. The kids were playing Monkeyball and my parents pulled me aside. My dad asked who the surgeon was, and when I said his name, he visibly relaxed.

"I know him, he's excellent," he said. "In fact, I've filmed him operating. He's from a huge family of doctors and nurses, and a really good guy. DH couldn't have done better."

So that was good. My dad has filmed zillions of medical procedures for educational purposes, so if he's seen this surgeon in action and knows he's good, that helps. While I was still there, I enlisted my parents to help tell the boys that Daddy had appendicitis, which is when the only organ your body doesn't need gets infected, and that the doctors would take it out soon. Daddy was going to stay in the hospital to get rest and take medicine to be strong for surgery.

The boys took that in stride. We bundled into the car and started for home.

"Mommy," Jacob said. "I'm skeptical. What if the doctors take out Daddy's appendix, and then they find out later that he needed it after all?"

I'm skeptical? How funny is this kid?

"Well Jakey," I said. "Someday, doctors may find that there was a use for the appendix at some point, but they have decided that it's vestigal -- meaning we've evolved from using it -- and so many people already have had them out. Daddy will be just peachy without it."

Then Danny piped up.

"Mommy?" he asked. "Is Daddy scared?"

Oh, my.

"No, sweetie," I said. "Daddy is tired but he is in a really good hospital with lots of great doctors and nurses to take care of him. He knows he's going to be just fine."

I got the boys settled into bed, and did the dumbest thing ever. I Googled "peritonitis." It was a long night.

On Tuesday morning, I sent the boys to school, packed up some things for DH, and went to the hospital. I'd packed some DVDs but when I got there, DH said he hadn't even turned the TV on. He didn't have the strength to watch anything, he said. Wasn't that ridiculous?

He was still green and grey and crap was pumping out of him into the cath bag at his side. He was thirsty as hell and extremely weak, and still had a migraine. He was starting to refuse the morphine because the doctors and nurses said that sometimes it could cause headaches.

I asked about the surgeon. DH had met him and liked him. They didn't know when they could operate. He would be back that night, and I could meet him then.

"I asked him if I waited too long to come in," DH said.

"And?" I asked.

"He gave me a look like, 'yes, dumbass.'"

"Ya think?" I asked.

With some reluctance, I left DH in the care of his very kind, solicitous nurses and zoomed downtown where my new class of students was undergoing orientation. I got to work just in time to find out that the caterers had shorted us on lunches and only half the students got lunch. Snagging my Amex card, I ran down to the cafeteria with our physical therapist, only to get into a semi-argument with the catering manager. They couldn't possibly have shorted us, she said. But we have 23 students up there with no lunch, I said. If there aren't 50 boxes, we didn't get everything. Then we went back and forth about how to fix it. I said I needed 25 more lunches, and if I had to stand at the deli counter while they were made, and/or take all of the ready-made lunches, I would plunk down my Amex and pay for them.

"You can't take all of our sandwiches," she said. "We need those for lunch."

"What's the difference if I buy them or someone else does?" I asked, exasperated. I finally got to the point where I said, "I don't care what it costs or how we have to do it, but I'm saying I will buy 25 people's worth of lunches and I can't make any other decisions right now. I left my husband in the hospital to come deal with this, and I'm DONE!" At this point, I was starting to weep so the physical therapist grabbed lunch trays and began stacking sandwiches and bags of chips with me. We made three trips back and forth to the 17th floor with sandwiches, salads, chips and bottles of soda, and I spent nearly $200 on my Amex card, not giving a shit anymore.

The afternoon was a blur, and finally I got through the reception and ran out. My parents had taken the boys for me so I could go to the hospital and wait to meet the surgeon. He came in around 7:15, with his resident and assistant. An extremely tall, fairly young guy, he was confident and quiet but not cocky. He explained to me that the situation was pretty serious. He couldn't operate, maybe for as long as two months.

"If I go in there now," he said, "the inflammation and abcess make it really dangerous. To get to the appendix, I'd have to remove DH's colon, and with the full laparotomy, we'd have to leave the incision open for as long as 10 days or ever more. The risk of major infection is just too high. At this point, his appendix has already burst -- the goal is to control the peritonitis, remove the fluid from his abdomen, and get rid of the infection. I'd like to see his fever gone within the next day or so."

The doctor explained that DH would be there for a good week; maybe more. He didn't want to make predictions until the fever was gone and they checked DH's abdomen to make sure the fluid was disappearing completely.

This went on for several days. I came to see him every night, nagging him for not taking pain medicine, surreptitiously checking his ab drain, taking home his boxers to wash. My parents were coming to visit him, and brought him new pajamas and balloons. After he didn't look like death, I took the two older boys to visit. Danny was scared and wanted to go home; Jacob was disappointed that Daddy wouldn't play chess.

I stopped to see the nurses every night to get the skinny. They were worried about DH... he refused pain medication but they could see he was in pain. The surgeon had prescribed Imitrex by injection if he needed it for headaches, but he was still refusing the morphine. "I'm just going to give him something anyway," one of the nurses told me. "I'll give him the Imitrex at the same time. I'm concerned that he can't sleep well for the pain."

A woman after my own heart, I thought, and thanked her. 

DH started to perk up after his third day in the hospital, and even helped me with IT issues from his hospital bed. At one point, I got a message from him that he'd been sitting up for nearly 45 minutes and he was exhausted. He hadn't eaten or had any drinks in almost four days. I think it was his fourth day in the hospital when he started to sound more like himself. After five days, his drain was clearer and he was able to walk around a little bit, pushing his IV pole (which he'd named "Fido").

On the sixth day, they moved DH to another floor, saying that the ward he was in was closing for the weekends. "They have to - they close it for benefits," DH joked to me in an email. His new hospital room wasn't as nice, and the floor was busier. He wanted to come home.

My mother-in-law came on her planned visit for Jacob's birthday party. DH was given liquids, and finally allowed to leave the hospital. I brought him home the evening after his seventh, long day there. His abdominal drain was to stay in for another week -- or possibly longer -- so he could wear only loose sweatpants and had to keep that part of his abdomen dry. But he was in weak attendance at Jake's birthday party, and slowly gained strength.

It's been over a month since he got out of the hospital, and he's still wiped out. He can work, and even comes downtown some days, but he's still easily tired and not used to being weak. The doctor has him on a somewhat limited diet to reduce any stress on his colon, and has scheduled his appendectomy for April 10th. The hope is, everything internally will be calm and healthy, so they can do the surgery laprascopically, but they may not know for sure until they get in there.

I don't know how seriously DH took this initially. I mean, his first few days in the hospital were mostly about getting through it. He was terribly weak, feverish, and in pain. He seemed to have a realization later in the week. He said one of the nurses stopped in to see him before they were going to move him, and said he looked good. He'd gotten to shave and clean up, and was able to be in a sitting position.

"Do you know how sick you were?" she asked him.

And I'm not sure if, until that moment, he really did.

I work in a medical school department that's located in a hospital, so I'm surrounded by both allied and traditional health professionals and administrators and students. And when people heard that my husband's appendix burst, I could see their pupils dilate and watch them regulate their responses. Our anatomy professor is a strict, elegant Romanian woman, and when she saw me, she said she'd heard about DH. "Dat is very sedious," she said, and kissed me on the cheek. "I wish for you bot dat he vill be healty."

Every time DH would express disappointment or surprise at how long the healing process was, I'd say "You know, you almost died. This takes a long time!" I think I have to keep saying it just to make it sound normal. That week was such a blur for me, and I don't think I've really recovered. Worrying about DH, protecting the kids, running orientation, being pulled in six different directions -- it was one of the worst weeks of my life, and the fallout is taking me a long time to recover from, too. It's not necessarily about me, it's more about fear and vulnerability and responsibility. Nobody wants to think about what would happen if one of the most important people in your life just suddenly died. I mean, you know you'd handle the details and you'd cry and you'd be mad and you'd get depressed, and there would be things you find out that you didn't know and a zillion things you wish you'd said and done.

I'd like to be able to say that now, I'm a really patient person and grateful for every living moment, but the guilty truth is, I'm not. I'm still cranky and tired and short-tempered and running around like a crazy person, and on top of that, I have terrible nightmares almost every night about losing something or someone. Gee, I wonder what that means?

Probably once the surgery is over, we can put the episode behind us and I can relax. But I have made DH call the doctor more than once when something scared me -- a pain he had, or a bout of nausea -- and my phrasing is "you can tell them that your wife is nagging you." I think I said to him at least once while he was hospitalized that if he ever did something like this again, I wouldn't wait for the infection to do it, but would kill him myself with my bare hands. But the truth is, I'm very, very glad that's only a joke.