It’s hard to remember exactly everything that happened during my 12-day hospital stay, but certain moments stick out. I specifically remember day 2. I woke up to a breakfast tray being placed next to me. I said good morning to the nurse, she assessed my pain, gave me my meds, and went on her way. Chris was in the chair beside me; he had slept there that night. I looked at my food and decided I’d much rather return to whatever dream I was having and shut my eyes again.
A few hours later, I saw Chris getting out of his chair. ”I’m going down to get some coffee, I’ll be right back.” I nodded in approval. He definitely deserved his caffeine fix. I suddenly felt really nauseous, and then remembered that I hadn’t eaten my breakfast. I brought the tray over to me and scoped out the grub. I went for the muffin, which seemed to be the safest choice. As I was sinking my teeth into my first bite, a nurse ran into the room and grabbed the muffin out of my hands and took the tray away from me. She was out of breath and seemed nervous. ”Why – ” I began. ”Doctor’s orders,” she said. I was utterly confused. I finally decide to feed myself and I have the food literally snatched from my fingers! How rude.
Chris returned from his coffee run and looked at the empty table. I knew what he was going to ask. ”They took it!” I pouted. ”What? I leave you for 2 seconds to get coffee and people are snatching your breakfast?” I giggled. My mind was racing with possibilities. Why on Earth would a nurse steal a patient’s food?
I’m not sure how much time had passed because I had drifted off again, but I awoke to a doctor saying my name. He introduced himself to me and told me that he was going to send me for a swallow test. ”It’s highly unlikely, but we need to rule out an esophageal tear as the cause for your pain,” he explained. I asked him what would happen if I did have an esophageal tear and he responded, “It’s not good. Let’s just cross that bridge when we get to it.”
Everything else from that day is a complete whirlwind. I was shuffled from one test to the next. I got to see my esophagus as I swallowed radioactive dye, I felt like I had peed in my pants when they injected the contrast for my CT scan, I chatted up the nurses and entertained the residents’ questions about my strange symptoms. My esophageal tear was diagnosed within a few hours.
I’d say about 90% of the time, if you Google your symptoms, whatever pops up on WebMD or any of those sites, is probably not an accurate diagnosis. However, in my case it was. (Feel free to Google: esophageal tear prognosis.) Some people have died within 24 hours if the tear went undiagnosed (which mine was for almost 4 days). So, I dodged a bullet and received my first official diagnosis: esophageal tear (with subcutaneous emphysema, pneumomediastinum, and slight pneumothorax).
I needed to stay in the hospital because I was put on a PICC line (a catheter they insert into a vein in your upper arm and slide it through your arm, over your shoulder and into a large vein in the chest near the heart to obtain intravenous access). I needed this PICC line because I was NPO (no food) and that was the only way I could get nourishment. My dad and my sister flew out to LA to stay with me. I also met Chris’ mom and sister for the first time. What a great way to meet your boyfriend’s family, right? One of my shining moments was when the nurse (my least favorite because she treated me like I was 5) asked me if I had “poo-pooed” that day. First of all, aren’t nurses supposed to use technical terms? All the others say “bowel movement.” Second of all, do you not SEE that I have company?! Can the “poo poo chart” get filled out AFTER they leave? Geez.
I figured since I was going to be in the hospital for so long, I might as well ask to see their ENT, since my initial complaint was actually that I had been having severe ear pain.
An inpatient ENT visit was scheduled for me. I won’t go into detail about exactly what happened, but I felt like I had hit a wall. The ENT at the hospital told me to continue taking the allergy medication and nasal spray and explained that since I was being followed by an outside ENT, she couldn’t help me. I was furious. The reason I was in the hospital was because my previous ENT gave me a medicine that didn’t sit well with me and failed to fix my problem.
The hole in my esophagus healed on its own after 12 long days in the hospital. Luckily, I have wonderful friends and family that kept me entertained!
So there you have it, my first diagnosis: torn esophagus, subcutaneous emphysema, pneumomedoastinum and slight pneumothorax. Sadly, it had nothing to do with my underlying problem.
My Jugular Foramen Schwannoma Story 