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I truly believe one should never say, "It can't get worse than this," because if you do, man, you are asking for a sign of the Divine's power. I don't know that I actually said it out loud, but I surely have thought it. When I woke up on Tuesday morning in Virginie's bed with her feet in my face, I noticed that I was somehow still exhausted, despite a relatively good night's sleep. (Well, as good as one can get in the twin bed of a one year old who nurses and cuddles during the night.) I had an ache in my lower back on the right side which I figured was due to my new exercise program or even from carrying the 22-pound Virginie around from time to time, okay often. Fifteen minutes later the pain was more intense and had started to wrap around my side to my front. I was sweating profusely, had a piercing headache and immediately thought appendicitis. Two minutes later I was doubled over on the floor, after straining to urinate but finding myself unable.
The pain was complete, all encompassing. It wrapped around me and through me and I thought of Michelle Pfeiffer's character in The Witches of Eastwick who was terrified of pain. Had I known something like this could come on so suddenly, it would have been my vision of a personal hell too. And now I was in it. It was my personal hell. Didier was trying to get out to work when he stopped in our room to say goodbye. His reaction was immediate and endeared him to me even more. He got on the phone and told his colleague that he would not be in that day and that his wife was very sick and asked that the man let all others be made aware. He called our doctor and made arrangements to meet her in Bridgetown at her office. He changed his clothes. Got the girls dressed. Packed some juices and food and got us all in the car. I believe he would have carried me if he'd had to. I walked, crept, crawled to the car.
We never made it to Bridgetown. I was crying and shivering and aching all over. In my irrational mind, I considered that I was one of those women on that medical channel that has no idea she is pregnant until she starts giving birth in the bathroom or in a car or something. Childbirth was the only other pain that matched this one so I figured I must be pregnant. How could that be? I thought I would pass out or vomit or worse, pass out in my own vomit in the front seat, so we made an abrupt left turn to the Sandy Crest Medical Center. Reminiscent of the scene in Terms of Endearment where Shirley MacLaine goes ballistic on the nurse who dares not respond immediately to her daughter's pain, Didier ran me into the waiting area of Sandy Crest and told them in the sweetest French-accented English, "My wife is sick. I think she has appendicite. I have to get the kids from the car." He left me there and got the girls. When he returned and I was still there, Didier was pissed. It had been about 45 seconds since our arrival. God love my husband.
They did admit me rather quickly and got me into a small triage area. They asked me a series of questions, saw me quivering and sweating and writhing in pain, brought me a pan to vomit in, at which time I obliged them. After three attempts at an IV, I was soon hooked up and the drip of Voltarin and fluids had begun. My allergic reaction to the Voltarin was instantaneous. I couldn't talk and my throat and ears tingled. I was given a dose of Histal to correct it and was then given the mother of all painkillers, morphine. It was while swimming in the hallucinatory haze of the morphine that I looked down and saw myself for the first time in hours. I was wearing khaki shorts, the t-shirt I'd slept in with no bra, flip flops, and a haphazard ponytail I'd probably put up to wash my face and never got around to. I think my teeth had been brushed because I do that first usually, but who knows. Even if I had, it had been negated by the constant vomiting.
The team was efficient and quite kind and, given my state, very gracious. I know it is their training, but it must be tough talking to someone as they prepare to vomit on you or in your direction. As she waded through my answers and examined me, the doctor began to suspect kidney stones rather than appendicitis. An ultrasound was done to confirm her suspicions. Two actually. When I arrived for the first ultrasound, the waiting period was too long and I proceeded to get sick in that waiting room too. I was moved by the kindness of strangers, many of whom held my hand, rubbed my shoulders, carried my IV bag and consulted with the doctors on what to do with me. One even gave Didier her telephone number and said she was experienced with housecleaning and babysitting should we need the help.
I returned for the second ultrasound after being flooded with fluids via double IV where irritated kidneys and ureters were discovered, although no stone was visible. The good news was that no visible stone meant it hadn't calcified and was more than likely rather small. The bad news was that I was still vomiting and would have to be moved to another hospital as Sandy Crest did not admit patients overnight and my vomiting and nausea was cause to keep me under observation. The only urologist of note on the island was notified of my need for him and we were scheduled to make a special guest appearance at Bayview Hospital, a private hospital recommended over the public hospital by everyone we spoke to. A toast to new adventures.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
The other day I was reading an article about Brooke Astor that made mention of her favorite retreat, an estate in New York called Holly Hill. I had to giggle as Holly Hill, a friend from Sussex, England I'd made in Barbados offered me a much needed break too. She was a place for retreat and for strength when I was here in Barbados with no friends or truthfully, friends from whom I got little solace and more stress. I miss Holly.
She was my best friend in Barbados, a friend I want to keep for life, even though she was here just a few months before she and her husband took their girls back to England. Holly's husband was a chef like Didier, quiet, artistic, an outsider not interested in the games or politics that are often played in ex-pat communities, and a bit shy too, like Didier. Their girls were the same age as Lily and Virginie and they played well together, all four of them. I'd met Holly at Blossoms Nursery School as she was dropping off her daughter Daisy and immediately wanted to be her friend. I thought of writing a note and leaving it in Daisy's schoolbag, but feared I might appear a bit desperate and slightly pathetic. Truth was, I was desperate. I needed a mate and got a soul sister.
Holly reminded me so much of myself when I was younger. She is truly hopeful and a bit cheeky and irreverent and funny. She dreams big but doesn't feel safe sharing those dreams without a laugh. I think she can do anything if she trusts in her own strength and beauty, and I hope she will. She understood how hard it was to have a husband who couldn't be home at night to feed the kiddies or bathe them or read to them or kiss them good night. The life of a chef's wife can be awfully lonely. Add two small children with demanding personalities and long hours on your own and it is depressing. Holly made me laugh about it and all the newness of my surroundings in Barbados, even as we both struggled in this situation, and when we couldn't squeeze out a giggle, we'd listen.
I knew early on that she'd leave. She told me herself before she'd told anyone else. I couldn't even allow myself to feel that loss, sometimes I feel that I have still refused to let it completely touch my heart or I might break. We chat and text nearly every day and I hear her voice in every key stroke. As she and her husband struggle with their next move (he's had a tough time finding desirable work and a good compensation package), Didier and I wonder what's next for us. What they are experiencing is exactly what we are afraid of. Taking that chance. And yet, we know that is the only way that we will be living truthfully. Even if we lead ourselves down a tough road, it will be on our terms.
Before Holly left Barbados, we spent the last night with the families together. Eating, drinking, playing, making promises and pledges of friendship. Steve had left for England a week earlier for some family business, and my mother was visiting for Virginie's birthday. As my mother is quite stoic, I was unable to really express myself freely, something I still regret. I was a little embarrassed to just love this person so openly when I'd known her only a short time. Tears would just explode from our faces, mid-sentence even, as the gravity of the goodbye became obvious. Didier would look up and say, "Not again!" as one of us would be wiping our eyes, trying to paste a smile on. The girls could not imagine what the great tragedy was, as they were playing and fooling around as usual. And just like that, dessert was served, a little rum, and then a farewell. A long goodbye made short by screaming kids and a steady rain falling. I could barely speak, nor she. But we'd both written notes and left gifts for one another.
