My Twisted Guts
- fivestarsbarb
- Jul 7, 2023
- 7 min read
PART 1: EMERGENCY
The only real downside of living alone, I’ve always figured, is the risk of being stricken by a medical emergency in the middle of the night. Considering the possible scenarios and outcomes, I lucked out.
The evening of May 31, 2022, I went to bed around 9 p.m. and woke up an hour later with mild stomach discomfort. As I tossed and turned the pain worsened - maybe bad gas? Soon it was a lot worse. Must be food poisoning. I could barely move, so transporting myself to urgent care was out of the question. Yet, the thought of 9-1-1 seemed dramatic and ridiculous: Who calls 9-1-1 for a stomach ache? I’ll just wait it out. It’ll be fine.
I rolled out of bed onto the floor and was seized in pain. I lay curled in agony for a while, getting progressively worse, until I realized I might pass out and lose the option to call for help, and maybe this is how it all ends. When the operator picked up I was barely able to get any words out, I remember mumbling “food poisoning.” I think this was around 11:30 p.m.
It took all my willpower to crawl to the patio door and flip the lock before I was completely immobilized and fading out of consciousness. Eventually I heard the paramedics searching for the apartment, then opening the gate.
I couldn’t move or open my eyes. The paramedics lifted me onto the couch but had a hard time doing their work since I wouldn’t uncurl or be placed on my back. I shuddered uncontrollably and it took tremendous effort to moan a barely discernible “yes” or “no” to their questions. There were no real words.
I was wearing a t-shirt and underwear. There were three or four EMTs working on me, but I had no embarrassment whatsoever. My body felt like a machine that was breaking down and needed fixing. There was nothing personal about it.
When checking my blood pressure and looking for veins they asked if I was a runner. Small twinge of pride even in that moment. Cool.
In the ambulance I was asked if I needed painkillers but was in too much pain to understand or communicate anything.
Over the next few hours I was in some kind of waiting room or holding area, and then moved around a few times. It was the middle of the night, Stanford hospital was crowded and they were trying to figure out where to put me. I was only vaguely and intermittently aware of the world outside my pain hole. I remember hearing “she denied painkillers,” which was definitely not true - but again, I was unable to clarify the situation. Hospital records say I was admitted at 2:13 a.m. on June 1, so I don’t know where the intervening hours went.
At some point a flurry of different things were done to my half-naked body. I have no idea what those things were, I mainly remember shivering so hard my teeth chattered. Then I was put in a still room and everything was quiet. They must have started pain meds, because there were periods over the next few hours when I unclenched a bit and could briefly open my eyes to peer at the clock. A light blanket was draped over me. Thank God.
I wouldn’t have expected to be stashed away for hours in such an acute condition, but there were probably more acute cases to deal with. I was hooked up to monitors; if I wasn’t crashing then I wasn’t the priority.
At around 6:30 or 7 a.m. the morning shift came in; I’m pretty sure that’s when they started the morphine drip and gave me extra blankets, and I finally saw a doctor. It took maybe another hour to get me scanned. I finally received a hospital gown and socks.
Throughout the morning I was wondering when my absence from work would be noticed. I didn’t have my phone and can barely remember my own number on a good day, let alone anyone else’s. The kind staff offered an iPad normally used for remote consultations, but it’s impossible to log into most accounts without a phone for two-factor authentication. So, no access to Gmail or Google contacts. The only two sites I could access with messaging features were LinkedIn and Facebook. The handful of SOS notes I sent on LinkedIn must have seemed bizarre and pitiful, when people eventually saw them.
I finally reached Carrie on Facebook Messenger, and she was able to kick off the phone tree to the rest of the family. Luckily I maintain a shared Google doc including key contacts (friends, work) so outreach moved quickly from that point. Tamara arrived sometime between 9-10 a.m., in time to hear the details of my diagnosis and keep me company until I went into surgery.
PART 2: DIAGNOSIS AND REPAIR
My large intestine had become unmoored and twisted on itself, in a rare condition called cecal volvulus. Sometimes this takes multiple surgeries to fix and can involve a colostomy (eek!) but in my case the surgeon thought it would be straightforward.
Surgery was scheduled that afternoon, and everything went well. A bit more than a foot of colon was removed, along with my appendix and cecum. Hospital notes report “very dilated, twisted cecum with serosal tear.”
The worst was over.
While recovering in my hospital bed I learned some information about the condition from medical staff - but mainly the internet. Cecal volvulus is most common in people aged 30-60, with 3-7 cases per million annually. About 11-25% of the population may be predisposed as a result of insufficient fixation of the colon, making it more "free and mobile" - or as I imagine it, "floaty." A possible risk factor is air travel with low travel pressure; I’d just returned from a trip. Long-distance runners are susceptible; while I wasn’t running marathons I was covering 6-8 miles most days. I had very low weight and body fat at the time, which I'm told is also a risk factor. (Later, reading the medical records I saw I'd been deemed at-risk for malnutrition, which might explain the six cans of Ensure delivered to my room daily.)
Untreated, the mortality rate is high. Fortunately I was close to excellent medical care. A couple of days prior, I'd been alone in a cabin in the mountains.
After a couple of foggy days of close monitoring and increasingly ambitious shuffles around the hospital floor, Tamara took me home the afternoon of June 3.
PART 3: RECOVERY
I was advised not to lift more than 10 pounds or drive for 4-6 weeks, and that full recovery could take a year. Of course I immediately over-exerted.
I vacuumed my apartment on the second day home, which was dumb and reckless. I realized I would continue to do stupid things, emboldened by pain-masking and judgment-blurring medications, so I quit taking them immediately. Apparently I needed a constant reminder that my stomach had just been sliced open, in order to take it easy.
I also tried jumping back into work way too soon. Once I stopped the pain meds, I had enough self-awareness to consider that my work emails might not be making sense and I wasn’t reliably present.
So I slowed down, gradually ramping back into physical activity and daily life. There were lots of slow-motion walks around the green space in my apartment complex, then around the block, then over the hill to Sharon Park for a few laps around the pond. Eventually I was slowly jogging my usual route at Arastradero preserve, and then finally running again.
While most of the recovery happened in the first few months, the doctors weren’t wrong about the whole process taking a year. It took a long time to feel myself again, and I still feel minor prickles from time to time as the nerves grow back.
I’m proud of my bad-ass scar, which has healed well but will probably always be visible. It’s a reminder of the fragility of life, and what the body can overcome.
PART 4: GRATITUDE
A year later, I feel incredibly grateful.
I’m grateful to the people who took time out of their busy lives to support and care for me. To Carrie for triggering the family phone tree and keeping me company on Facebook Messenger during the first weird, alone hours. To Susan, who kept more people posted and humored a stream of morphine-addled play-by-play texts from my hospital bed. To Tamara for taking time off work to stay at my bedside, communicate with the medical staff, gather things from my apartment, get me settled in once I was discharged, and bring me a Starbucks soy latte and coffee cake for several mornings after. To Elizabeth, my “twisted sister” who crazily had the same thing happen a few years back and knew exactly what supplies I’d need. And who kindly sat on my couch through several episodes of “Is it Cake” which was the most sophisticated plot my brain could handle. To my parents, relatives and friends, who checked in on me and sent flowers and other gifts of love. To Thao, for dropping by on a Saturday to deliver a gorgeous orchid and a bursting gift basket including a microwaveable heating pad which sat on my stomach for weeks. And the other generous coworkers who sent gift cards for Whole Foods and Door Dash to keep me stocked when I couldn’t leave the house. I’m still overwhelmed by the kindness.
I’m grateful I live near a top hospital and was treated by a highly experienced surgeon. I’m incredibly fortunate to have good health insurance that covered the surgery, hospital stay and ambulance ride.
And I’m grateful for life and health. Before the incident, I motivated my early morning runs with a reminder that the ability to run miles in the hills is an absolute gift. After the incident, the truth of that mantra is undeniable. I almost can’t believe I’ve made it this far with good health and a still-reliable body. I’m keenly aware that everything could change tomorrow.
My bowels could twist again, due to the same factors that caused the first incident plus adhesions from the surgery which introduce additional risk. But this is not high on my list of things to worry about. And next time I have an extraordinarily bad stomach ache, I am calling 9-1-1.