Emergency Room Crisis

I believe that just as our family can help us in difficult times, we benefit from our community in times of trial. We are not expected to face hard times on our own.
In 2006 I experienced a serious health crisis. I heard a social worker refer to it as a “medical catastrophe”, and I believe that description is quite accurate. I had gastric bypass surgery to save my life. Little did I know, a week after the surgery, I would experience an event that would almost cost me my life.
While I was recovering nicely, not quite one week after my surgery, I had symptoms that my discharge instructions clearly indicated I should visit the emergency room because I could be in trouble. While I was in the emergency room, an unfortunate event happened that I believe led to the fight of my life. I will spare you those details, but it was extremely scary and traumatic.
I remember the next morning that my abdominal muscles ached more than they ever had before. I was in so much pain that I took my first dose of narcotic pain medication since coming home a week before. After that, I don’t remember anything for eight weeks. Within a few days I was in emergency surgery to have repairs done to my recent surgery. I developed peritonitis, sepsis and ARDS. I was comatose, followed by delirium, and on life-support for eight
weeks. During the first couple of weeks my family did not know if I would survive this ordeal.
From stories my family and friends have shared with me, I was rarely alone.
My best friend was passed off as my sister, enabling her to spend time watching over me and to obtain information from the nurses and doctors so that she could share these details with my husband. My husband continued to work long hours, spending the rest of his waking hours in my room. Other friends would come to visit. While I don’t remember any of these visits, it was obvious to those watching my physical reactions and the monitors displaying my vitals that I was aware of their presence. I would either calm down because of their contact, or would become agitated for unknown
reasons.
The best stories that I have heard about these lost weeks were of time my husband spent in my room and that acts of love he performed. These included applying lotion to my feet, holding my hand, nearly climbing into my bed to embrace me when I was clearly distressed.
Members of our ward brought meals into my home so my family would eat. They also delivered meals to the hospital for my husband or whoever else was there to sit with me. Other friends let my youngest child, who was 16 years old, spend time with them so she wouldn’t be so alone.
When I finally recovered from the final clutches of delirium, and came to understand what had been happening to me, I was extremely emotional. When I first saw the family who my daughter spent so much time with, I could hardly thank them for all they had done for my baby because I just wanted to cry. When I learned about the Relief Society taking care of my family’s needs for eleven weeks, I was extremely grateful.
Through this ordeal, I learned the importance of letting our community help out in any way possible. My family needed that love and assistance during the long weeks I was in the hospital. I needed it during my recovery, which took many long months. I don’t believe my family could have survived this trial without the support of our community.