The Journey Back to Health

On September 22nd, 2018, I entered Shadyside Hospital knowing from the pain in my right side that something was very wrong with my body. The dull ache had given way to continuous sharp stabbing thrusts that radiated around my back, right shoulder, and up into my jaw.  I remembered times my grandmother used the phrase, "this is not my first dog and pony show." I'm diabetic and a recovered alcoholic, so I knew this was another bout with pancreatitis, but it had never felt this bad. 

My husband says I have a "tough guy complex" and I had driven myself to the emergency room, turned the keys over to the valet, and gingerly made my way to the automatic doors. A spasm erupted, and I felt like a hand grenade had ripped through my organs. Everything went white and I hit the group. The security guard ran over with a wheelchair and helped me into the lobby and the triage nurse took me from there.

The triage nurse called someone over to me.  A young man in scrubs wheeled me to the intake area and took my blood pressure: 190/120. He asked a barrage of questions to which I could not remember the answers. He finally threw out a word to which I could anchor myself: Garth.

"Yes. He's my husband. He's my emergency contact. He doesn't know where I am. Please call him."

"We'll call him. I'm taking you back to a room now. You look terrible."

You look terrible. Those words and the concerned tone in his voice still echo in my conscious mind.  I think now of how I felt in October 2015 when I went to Fall Run Park after the devastating flooding of the September rainstorms from another hurricane that had snaked up the East coast, sending thunderstorms and torrential downpours all the way to Western Pennsylvania. The entrance to the trail was blocked by orange comes. A sign said: DO NOT ENTER! FLOOD DAMAGE!

I needed a waterfall that day and there was no way I wasn't getting one. I stepped over the cones and onto the sodden trail. Mud engulfed my shoe, creating a vacuum. With considerable effort, I wrenched myself free. No matter. I needed to see what I thought of as my waterfall.

I walked along the grassy edges of the path, water filling gaping holes of blown out soil. My pace slowed as I got closer to the first, smaller waterfall, the one that sometimes faded away when there wasn't enough rain. A pedestrian bridge had been torn from its moorings and laid on its side. Two fallen trees blocked me from going further. I could hear the waterfall, but could not get close enough to see it. It was then I noticed the debris: splintered wood from the bridge; branches and scattered in amongst trash from the picnic areas; clots of mud and earth pummeled into rocks, damming the stream. You look terrible.

I'd heard the phrase "it looks like a war zone" before. That was the first moment I'd felt like the tired cliche was apropos.

My body felt like a war zone. Another battle to fight with my chronic illness. This time, I feared I would lose.