I realize that I’ve been going in circle for an hour, hoping that I’ll bump into something that unlocks a solution to Anne’s suffering. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator. Maybe there’s something on the patio. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch. Maybe if I walk into our bedroom and sit next to her on the bed. Maybe if I hold her hand. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator.
She can’t keep down any food, and barely any liquids. I give her some pain meds and she throws them up almost immediately. Maybe if I hold her hand.
“I’m going to try to just go to sleep,” she says. “You don’t need to stay here.”
I stay there anyway, until she appears to be sleeping. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand.
I gently get off our bed and step over both of our dogs, who haven’t moved from Anne’s side of the bed since she got into it. They both look at me, and maybe I’m projecting, but I feel like there is concern in their eyes. “I’m worried, too,” I whisper. I walk through the living room. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch.
I try to watch TV, but I can’t pay attention. I try to look at the Internet, but I can’t pay attention. I try to read a book but I can’t pay attention. I look into our bedroom. Anne is on her side, and I stand in the doorway, making sure that I can see her breathe. Because that’s a thing I worry about when I’m not worrying about everything else. I walk out to the game room and drive my car around Los Santos, because I don’t have to pay much attention, and it’s a way to pass the time.
It’s just after midnight when Anne texts me: Water.
“Oh, good,” I think, “she can keep water down.” I set the controller down and walk back into the house.
I can hear her wailing, nearly to the point of screaming, as soon as I open the door. My stomach drops out of my body.
She’s leaning against the bed, head in one hand, the other hand holding her side.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stupidly. I know what’s wrong.
“It hurts so much,” she gasps. “I … can’t …”
She doesn’t finish telling me what she can’t do, because what she can’t do is everything.
For the next hour, I try to console her. I try to convince her to take the pills she is convinced she will throw up. Through it all, she is crying out in pain so loudly and intensely, I half expect the police to show up at our house.
“I think I need to take you back to the emergency room,” I say.
“I can’t get up,” she says. “Will you call an ambulance?”
She’s in the most pain I have ever seen another human experience in my life, but I know that there are a finite number of ambulances, and there are people for whom one of them could be the difference between life and death.
“I need to get you eighty feet to the car,” I tell her. “Let me carry you, and we’ll get there faster.”
She tries to argue a little bit, but I pick her up and help her out of bed through it. The dogs are alert and looking at her, at me, at each other. “I’m okay,” she gasps to them.
“We’ll be right back,” I say, as we limp past them and across the house. Time does the thing it’s been doing, stretching out and compressing and it feels longer than it should take for us to get into the car. I notice that there’s fog rolling in, glowing orange from the streetlights. I drive us to the hospital through it, faster than I probably should. Anne kicks her legs and cries silently.
When we get to the ER, I park at the door. I run in and get a wheelchair. There are four people in the waiting room, and when I get Anne out of the car and into the waiting room, two of them are gone. I tell the receptionist that Anne has a terrible kidney stone, can’t keep anything down, and I didn’t know what else to do. She pulls up the information we gave a different person in this exact place twenty-four hours earlier and we wait. I feel useless while Anne cries and moans in pain, and I just watch the clock. It’s thirty minutes before we are taken inside. It’s another thirty minutes before a nurse gives Anne morphine. Another thirty minutes before she comes back in and gives Anne more. I realize that time is moving in thirty minute increments. Maybe if I sit on the edge of the gurney next to her.’
A doctor comes in. She looks concerned and I do my best to disappear while she talks to Anne. She listens while Anne recounts the last 48 hours, then she does some simple tests, including this thing where she pushes on Anne’s abdomen and pulls away quickly. Anne screams in pain.
“That isn’t normal for a kidney stone or constipation,” the doctor says. “I’m going to get you an ultrasound, and some more pain medication.” Then, she does something I realize that the two other doctors we’ve seen since this all started didn’t do: she takes a moment and says, “I’m so sorry that you’re in so much pain, and I’m sorry that hurt so much. We’re going to figure out what’s going on with you, and I won’t send you home until we do.”
I realize how unhelpful the two male doctors we saw were, and I allow myself the luxury of being angry at them, if only briefly.
The doctor excuses herself and a nurse comes back in, gives Anne some more pain meds, and makes some notes on her chart. It is around 3:30am. Anne sleeps a little bit, and I sit in the chair next to her gurney. Maybe if I rest my hand on her leg. I wait.
An orderly comes in and helps Anne into a wheelchair. He takes Anne to the ultrasound. I climb into the gurney and try to sleep.
It feels like no time has passed when they’re back and I feel like I haven’t slept at all, even though I must have because I can’t account for the time. Anne tells me that it hurt a lot, and another nurse comes back in, gives her more pain medications. I make a joke about how she’s used more drugs than the Rolling Stones. Did I make that joke before? The last time we were here? I can’t remember. I’m so afraid and so worried and I feel so helpless and I’m so tired. I want to cry but I can’t because it won’t be helpful to anyone.
I wait.
The doctor comes back and tells Anne that the ultrasound shows something called an ovarian torsion. She thinks that a cyst burst, and it was so big when it happened, it literally spun Anne’s ovary around. She tells us that there’s a dark shadow on the CT scan we had the last time we were there, and it’s in stark contrast to her other ovary that’s healthy. She doesn’t say it, but she seems incredulous that neither of the other doctors we saw seemed to notice it. I allow myself another moment of anger, but I keep it to myself.
“I have called the OB/GYN and she’s driving in. We’re going to admit you, and have that ovary removed,” she says. Anne has some questions. I have some questions. I don’t remember what we asked or what her answers were.
We wait, and it doesn’t feel as long as all the previous waits have been. The surgeon arrives and she asks Anne lots of questions. She examines her. She looks at Anne’s CT scan and her ultrasound. I realize just how utterly, totally, profoundly unhelpful the other doctors we saw before this night were. I remember a woman, speaking at a ceremony when Anne was given an award for National Women’s Health Week. She said, “women need to work in medical research, and in applied medicine, because too many men treat women’s bodies like they are just men’s bodies with female parts, but our bodies are fundamentally different and need to be treated that way.”
I know that an ER doctor’s primary responsibility is to keep people alive, and it’s logical that the ones who aren’t in life-threatening danger will get a different level of attention. But when we went to Anne’s primary care doctor he didn’t even ask about anything else, didn’t check her at all, and just gave her six different types of pills. I don’t know why the ER doctor didn’t even ask why one of Anne’s ovaries was a big dark mass, even after all the tests for kidney stones came back negative, but I understand why he tried to manage her pain and turned us over to another doctor to look at her more closely. While I sit in that chair and listen to this new doctor talk with Anne, I can’t excuse or understand the other doctor we saw not even trying to look into whether or not there was a misdiagnosis in the ER. I get angry when I realize that my wife, the most important person in my world, has suffered longer than she should have, because two men didn’t ask themselves if pain originating in part of a woman’s body that is fundamentally different from a man’s body may have something to do with that difference.
But the OB/GYN is kind, and she tells Anne that she’s sorry to meet her under these circumstances. She tells Anne that she can get this ovary out with a quick surgery, and that Anne will be able to go home later this afternoon. I glance at my watch. It’s 7am. I’ve been awake for 24 hours.
The OB tells us that she’s going to do laparoscopy (a word I’ve written so many times in the last ten hours, I should know how to spell but still don’t), which will require general anaesthesia (another word I can’t see to spell, though I’ve written it almost as much). My stomach clenches because I grew up in a medical family, and I know that there are risks associated with anaesthesia. I know that they are small, but they are greater than zero, and I’ve been awake for 24 hours, on about five or six hours of restless sleep, and my rational brain is easily knocked into submission by my emotional brain. I keep my concerns to myself, because expressing them around Anne won’t be helpful. I realize that I’ve been keeping a lot to myself, because to express any of it wouldn’t be helpful. I’ve been holding myself together, delivering what will be, at least to this point in my life, the most convincing performance I’ve ever given.
The orderly comes into the room and we begin the journey to surgery. All the hallways look alike, and the same grey light of early morning that I first saw when all of this started two days ago is filling the windows. I notice that we haven’t seen any other people since we came in. I guess it was a quiet night in the ER, and it’s a quiet morning in the hospital.
We stop outside the operating room. We have forgotten to tell them that Anne is allergic to latex, so they have to clear the OR and wipe everything down, and start over. I apologize, but nobody is bothered (or at least they don’t let on that they’re bothered.) Anne holds my hand and we just look at each other while we wait. I don’t want to think about how something could go wrong — however unlikely that is — and I may have to face life without her, but I’m so tired and so emotionally raw, I can’t not think about it. I don’t mention it to Anne, because it wouldn’t be helpful.
They finish up in the OR, and the surgeon comes over to tell us that she’s ready. The anaesthesiologist (nope, can’t spell that one, either) is a gentle man. He tells us what he’s going to do, asks if there are any questions, and leaves me with a feeling of confidence that everything will be okay. I know there’s no reason not to be confident, that there’s no rational reason not to worry, but I can’t help it.
I kiss Anne. We tell each other that we love each other. I don’t want to hope that it isn’t the last time, but I can’t help it.
“I’ll see you before you know it,” I tell her. When they wheel her toward the OR, I lamely say to the surgeon, “please take good care of my wife.” She tells me that she will. She doesn’t tell me that OF COURSE SHE WILL BECAUSE THAT IS HER JOB. I’m sure it’s not the first time a worried husband has said this to her.
A nurse takes me to the waiting room and tells me that it will be about two hours. I decide that I’m going to go home, feed our dogs, and take a shower. Maybe I’ll try to eat. I’ve been awake for 25 hours.
I almost crash twice on the way home. Maybe it’s not as close as I think it is, but it’s too close. The dogs interrogate me when I come into the house and they look for Anne. I tell them what’s going on because I have to talk to someone and everyone else we know is asleep. I make some food. I take a shower. I make and drink two cups of coffee, and go back to the hospital. I make my way to the waiting room and sit down. I try to watch TV but it’s a blur. I try to close my eyes but when I do, my brain relentlessly plays out the rest of my life without Anne in it. And I don’t just mean the images. I mean the emotion and the loss and the loneliness and the reality that I will be adrift and lost for the rest of my life if anything happens to her. I sit up, open my eyes, and I just walk around the empty room, grateful that there isn’t anyone else there.
Her surgeon comes in and tells me that everything went well. Anne is in recovery and I can see her in about thirty minutes. She shows me pictures from the laparoscope, because Anne asked for them. Anne has more pictures of the inside of her body than a human should have, because she always asks for them. It’s one of the things I love about her. So her surgeon points out how her one ovary is healthy and the one they took out was enlarged my several factors, and almost completely black because it was filling up with blood. She shows me the twist. It’s almost microscopic. “It’s the same kind of pain that a man would experience if he had a testicular torsion,” she tells me. “It’s one of the worst pains a woman can experience.” I thank her several times. I know that I’m repeating myself. I know that I’m delirious. I know that I’m exhausted. I know that I’m not making any sense. I know that I am relieved beyond measure. She shakes my hand, tells me that she wants to see Anne next week for a follow up, and leaves.
I walk up to the room where Anne will be recovering. I pull out a reclining chair to try and rest while I wait for her, but my brain is now overtired and caffeinated, so I just look out the window and watch the sun burn off the little bit of lingering fog and haze. I hear movement behind me and turn around to find an orderly pushing Anne into the room. A wave of relief washes over me and I again feel like I’m going to cry. “Good morning,” I say to them both.
“How are you?” He asks.
“Entering my 27th hour since I last got any real rest, but okay, I guess.”
“Hi, puss,” Anne says. She smiles a little bit and I reach out to hold her hand.
“How are you feeling?” I say.
“I’m thirsty.”
I get her some water. A nurse comes in and does nurse stuff. I sit in the chair, and I drift off to sleep for about three hours, forty or so minutes at a time.
The texts begin to arrive, from our friends who are waking up. They’ve read my blog, they’ve seen our posts on Twitter. Everyone offers whatever help they can give us. I’m grateful to all of them, and grateful that Anne, who they all love so much, has chosen me to be the guy she married. I go to the cafeteria and eat hospital food. I come back and sit with Anne while she rests and recovers. She doesn’t hurt, and there’s very little residual gas in her abdomen. She is able to get up and use the bathroom. She is able to walk around. She can eat. She is going to be okay. Around 5pm, they discharge her. We’ve been in the hospital for eighteen hours. I’ve slept for three hours in the last two days.
We get home. Anne’s friends have flowers delivered, and then they have dinner delivered for us both. I’m so tired and so emotionally exhausted, I feel like I’m going to cry from so many different kinds of relief, but I just eat, instead. Anne eats. She walks around the house and farts. I fart back her her when I can. We laugh. She’s going to be okay.
I’m overtired and don’t get into bed until about eleven. Anne is already asleep. Our dogs are on the floor at the foot of the bed. Seamus is snoring. Marlowe is chasing something in her sleep. Watson is on the back of the chair. I turn off the light and slide the covers up. The sheets are cool and soft and the bed is as comfortable as it’s ever been in my life. I hold Anne’s hand while I drift off.
I sleep for almost fourteen hours. I wake up with a headache, but Anne is doing great. She’s in the living room with our pets, watching TV. She tells me that she slept well, and isn’t in any major pain. She’s been able to eat.
I try to have a normal day. I keep checking on her. She’s doing fine, and naps in our bedroom. She lets me hold her hand and sit on the edge of the bed and give her food and stroke her hair.
There are hundreds of comments on my blog that I haven’t had time to read. There are thousands more on social media that I will never be able to reply to. People who don’t know Anne love her, and I know how lucky I am to have her in my life. I’m too tired to go anywhere or do anything, but I have too much boiling around inside of me to do nothing, so I sit down to type it all out, because that’s how I process things.
The weight of the last few days crashes down on me while I write this. I listen to Hamilton. It’s Quiet Uptown, and I cry as hard as I have in recent memory. I was so scared and felt so helpless and I’m so grateful that the most important person in my world is just a few steps away in another room, recovering, trying not to laugh too hard at the Sarah Silverman comedy special she’s watching, because it hurts her stomach when she does.
We have more time.
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You made me cry dude! I’m glad Anne is alright and on the mend. I’m glad you have writing as an outlet. I’m glad you had your animals to talk to when you needed an ear. Prayers and hugs for you both. 💜
Harrowing and beautiful writing. I’m glad that Anne is on the mend. Reminded me of too many ER trips that I have subjected my husband to, though nothing like what you two went through here. Your sharing helps so many, and your writing is spot on. Thank you,
So angry that women get overlooked and not believed by so many male doctors but so very thankful that she found help and she had you to fight for her. Knowing someone is there for you when you are hurting and scared is the best thing you can do for someone. Wishing you both some comfort and serenity as you recover from your ordeals.
Forty one hours. I called an Uber (which is what one does when you’re in unbearable pain but single) at about 2 am on a Tuesday. I was in surgery to remove my right ovary by Wednesday night. I called my best friend Whitney and cried. She left work the second I hung up, drove during rush hour from Burbank to San Gabriel (where an ambulance and my insurance took me from downtown LA where I live), and held my hand when the ultrasound technician left like he hadn’t just said cancer (a word not used by anyone until that moment). She didn’t let go until the nurse sent her away an hour after visiting time was over. My mom and brother were already packing to fly up to LA. I spent the next day waiting for the surgery that night, learning that my family was on their way and trying to nap between morphine doses. I don’t remember much of the day. It blurs into Pain and Not Pain times.
I know that exact pain Anne went through. I was very lucky to have female doctors who saw what was wrong quickly. I also can’t spell laparoscopy without spell check despite how many times I said and heard it in the course of two and a half days until I was released to go to the nearby hotel where my family was staying. I’m now sans an ovary as well. And up four more little scars, three from the cameras, one from where the dead ovary was taken from my body. I know that pain and wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, let alone a kind, warm person like Anne. But I also know the recovery. It’s going to get better everyday.
I’m going to send this post to my best friend Whitney in the morning. We’re not romantic or married, but I think this helped me see what she and my family went through, in a way. I hate to think they might have felt as scared and worried and helpless as you did.
Anne is probably not up for hugs right now (even after a week my Mom and I said goodbye with a half hug as I wasn’t up to full hugs until maybe a couple days before the CYOA reading at the library), but you tell her from someone who recently went through the same thing that she is a warrior and I wish her the speediest recovery possible. 🙂 Take care of her and yourself.
Wishing Anne a speedy recovery and lots of rest for you both. Thank goodness she was finally properly diagnosed and treated. Thank you for sharing.
Here’s another among those hundreds of comments…
I am so glad and so relieved that Anne is okay. I’ve never met either of you. I’m not sure I’ve even left a comment on your blog before, although I follow it, and both of you… but I’ve been thinking about you both constantly since your first post went up.
I gasped out loud with grief and anger on your behalf when you shared that it was ovarian torsion – horrified that it was not caught in the first place. I went and educated myself on the signs of how it presents – just in case. For the future. For the reasons that flickered through your mind.
Both of my older nephews, within a year of each other, experienced testicular torsion and had to be admitted for surgery to treat it. Both of them were immediately diagnosed and treated with no issue.
Yet Anne had to suffer through this – and my heart broke on behalf of the both of you.
As someone with anxiety and depression, I can only imagine the toll it’s taken on you. I’m glad you’re both able to recover now.
Thank you for being willing to share your processing with all of us. As a young woman in her mid-20s, I’m committed even more to advocating for the health of women, so that no one has to suffer like that in the future.
And weird as it is to say – I’m glad you were able to get all of that pent up emotion out. Thank god for the tear jerker quality of Its Quiet Uptown. Sometimes, that’s the best thing you can do.
I hope you’re able to continue to rest and recover alongside Anne. Sending you both even more otherwise anonymous love, and well wishes.
So glad everything turned out alright. My wife had an ovarian cyst and, luckily, her doctors caught it early enough they used medication to bring it down. I was worried the whole day and I didn’t even know anything other than she was in pain. I can’t even imagine how relieved you must feel.
Good luck and speedy recovery.
I’m so relieved Anne is okay, Wil. I hope she fully recovers soon.
Wasn’t sure where else to write this. Long story short, I was looking up who you were because of something I was watching. On Wikipedia it said that you deal with generalized anxiety disorder and chronic depression. Have you ever looked into MTHFR? It’s a genetic defect that predisposes someone to those conditions. The “cure” is simple if a blood test verifies you have this. It’s an OTC called Methylfolate. We’ve seen lots of people helped tremendously. You might look into it or you can contact me at the email identified and I’ll send you some articles… or go to MTHFR.net. Hope it helps. Feel free to delete this after you read it.
Oh my! I’m so glad that she’s ok and that you’ve both gotten some sleep. Continue to take care of each other.
Jesus, you must have been so scared! I’m crying thinking about how awful the last few days must have been for both of you. I’m so glad Anne is better, and that you two still have each other to hug. Sending all the healing thoughts from Portland.
Best horror story ever. Best love story ever.
Many hopeful wishes for a quick recovery.
That hits too close to home for me. It reminds me so much of when i had to care full time of my cancer ridden late wife, back in 2003/4. 😧
First of all,just wanted to say I am very glad Anne is home and doing better. Thank you for sharing all of this with us-I went through something similar about a month ago. I was sick with the worst viral whatever of my life and wound up passing it to my 60 year old nurse of a mother who in turn passed it onto my 89 year old grandmother. I had to take both of them into the ER and argue with doctors for them to receive the care they needed-my mother was sent home with pills for pain and nausea she couldnt keep down,and within 24 hours she was almost dead and on her way back. I had to argue with them for most of the night before they would admit my grandma-they were wheeling her out the door when she started uncontrollably vomiting and THEN they finally admitted her.
Both of them were in the hospital for 3 days,and my mother developed cardiac issues that landed her in the ICU. I was bouncing back and forth trying to take care of both of them while still sick myself. Did I mention my grandmother has dementia and freaks out when anyone other than myself or my mother is around? I swear I aged 40 years in those 3 days.
Like Wil,I remember being so angry at the Dr’s who wouldnt listen. I remember feeling guilty whenever I ran home to shower or eat or take care of the dog(also did the forgetting my meds thing too-almost gave myself a heart attack). I remember sitting in my grandmas hospital room trying to calm her down while mentally going through everything I owned and calculating what I woukd have to give up to pay the mountain of medical bills poised to ruin my family. Most of all,I remember the terror of realizing just how close I was to losing my entire family-all 2 of them-and how alone I would truly be when they were gone. I’m very glad I got more time with my family,and I’m very glad you and Anne got that time as well. I hope something somewhere can change,because no one should have to go through what our families and others have had to endure.
Hugs. Lots of hugs to both of you.
I know that you’ve probably read tons of comments like this, but please let Anne know that we are all so glad that she is okay. I recently had an ovary removed due to ovarian cysts that kept bursting. The (male) ER doc told me it was “just” an ovarian cyst that burst and probably bled into my abdomen a little. He said it was “no big deal” and happens to women “all the time.” Fortunately, my primary care doctor sent me to an ob-gyn who immediately agreed with me that if it was causing me constant pain it should come out!
I’m glad that Anne has such an amazing husband who was able to take care of her the entire time. Having someone with you when things like this happens is the best gift.
I was gripping my computer so tightly reading this, because that is exactly what I thought about your previous post! I have read an article about an extremely similar situation (ovarian torsion) where it took (only!) eighteen hours to treat the woman. I am so glad you had a good outcome!
Relish your time together.
p.s. That article was about doctors not taking women’s pain seriously. They need to re-valuate that!
Wonderful that you now have certainty, and a good surgical outcome. No two experiences are identical, but here are the Cliff’s notes to what we learned – going through something un-nervingly similar about 5 years ago. As she recovers, she will have days where she feels great and then doesn’t. Pain will come and go. Mood will go up and down. It might be a handful of months before you go a week without it affecting her in some way – from a sharp ‘stitch’ pain in her side or difficulty getting comfortable trying to sleep. Pillows are helpful. In the small of her back to keep her from moving around too much as those little stitches can pull as she tries to get comfortable. Between her thighs to keep her hips apart and comfortable because she’s not moving around as much as she normally would during the night and her hip bones will get sore from pressing into the mattress and because she’s athletic, she doesn’t have a lot of padding, so hips/lower back… will get sore… and pillows help. Good soft down pillows – no synthetic down – the real thing is cooler and spreads/bears force more evenly. Oh, and a water bottle beside the bed with a straw in it so she can drink without having to sit totally up. Of course good mind-candy books… Phryne Fisher mysteries, almost anything by Donna Leon, Maisie Dobbs, that sort of thing…. well written but light books about kickass women doing fun things so she can consume them like popcorn to keep her mind occupied. She’s active, athletic & a go-getter… she’s going to go a bit stir-crazy laying in bed. Books will help.
Cysts may come and go for a while along the interior sutures. Some will be so small that they’ll just pop and bring nausea. One or two may be painful – or may be really painful, but not as bad as the initial event. The basic external healing will happen more quickly that you’d think. The Lapro surgery is a miracle in terms of speeding up initial recovery, but bottom line, they took things out and moved things around and so her insides are going to be ‘grumpy’ for a bit, no matter how small the surgical entry wounds are or how quickly they heal. So, her feeling “normal” on the inside will take longer than you think. She’s lucky to have you as she goes through this. In a couple of years, as the other ovary starts to cut out, you may need to think about hormone patches to make mood swings easier. You’ve dealt with depression so it won’t freak you out if all of a sudden out of nowhere she’s very emotional. Patches help a lot. Given that she’s latex sensitive, keep in mind that although the generic patches are covered by insurance and are less expensive, they are more prone to causing allergic discomfort. I’m not sure what is in the adhesive of the generics, but we’ve tried 3 of them and all of them caused reactions. You can argue with the insurance company till you’re blue – it won’t help – they won’t pay for the premium patches. FWIW, buck up and get the expensive ones and pay full price. Again – not a doctor – just have gone through this situation and if you were a relative or friend, I’d share our experience with you for whatever good it may do you as it was nearly spot-on what you experienced – though in our case, fortunately our GP is an amazing guy and so was our surgeon (also a guy) so — good male doctors and surgeons are out there. We’ve been lucky with physicians to date. When you find a good one – do what you need to do to get into their group. We had to join MDVIP but it was worth it.
Your last two posts brought me back to a very scary day. Finding your soulmate on the floor clutching the side of the bed and screaming in pain… is… man… wow… singularly unsettling. I’m sorry you folks had to go through it, but love gets you through these types of things and clarifies how precious life and love is.
I’m so happy that both Anne and you are on the mend (mental anguish often takes longer to recover from). I had a burst ovarian cyst when I was in my mid 20’s, and wouldn’t wish that pain on my worst enemy. I can only imagine the pain from the torsion. I’m glad that she had you there to take care of her(my circumstances were very much not like that- alone in the E.R. drove myself there and back – had to wait to take meds until I made it home).
I would write a letter to the hospital board and make sure that those two make docs were informed/disciplined, so no one else goes through what Anne(and you) did.
*internet hugs and a promise of homemade fudge for Anne the next time you both come back to Planet Comicon in KC.
Good writing mr wheaton, my only concern is why you don’t let Google do the spelling for you =)
So happy things are on the up and up.
You just might have a future in writing word stuff, young Wil Wheaton. 😉
A tale both harrowing and hopeful. Sleep, my friends. Rest and recover. I’m glad Anne has you. I’m glad you have Anne.
I offer you hugs from across the internet, I’m glad everything got sorted properly. My wife started having “seizures” after our daughter was born. Nobody had any good answers and I almost lost my mind. 2 years later we decided they were anxiety attacks presenting as pseudoseizures and she hasn’t had any issues in a year now. Recently she had her gallbladder removed and I went to grab lunch while she was in. As I left to head back to the hospital, I got that flash of “what if something happened,” imagined the worst case conversation, and thought “great, I’ll have to throw up Thai noodles.” I guess I just mean to say I know this feels and I’m sorry that you guys had to go through it.
I’m so glad your darling Anne is okay. Love and gentle hugs to you both.
So glad Anne is doing well and that you guys have got through this ordeal. I’m very angry at those first two doctors!!! Enjoy spending time with each other and getting back to normal.
I know exactly how you feel. My wife has had Ovarian Cancer for the last 2 years. I still wake up every morning and make sure she’s breathing and, like you, spend sometime of every day, multiple times a day, thinking about my life without her. If I wasn’t at work reading this I think I would have cried many times at how you expressed exactly how I feel and have felt in similar situations. I know there are a multitude of horrible things happening in the world at the moment, but they don’t get me in the feels as much as how you expressed yours and mine fears and love for our wives!
Andrew, UK
Thanks for sharing Wil. I’m glad you’re both recovering and healing well.
I’m so glad she’s okay, thank you for letting us know!
I am so sorry you had to go through this. I just knew that it wasn’t a kidney stone. So glad you took her back to ER. Having gone through a similar misdiagnosis twice I know how she felt. After reading about your experience I know how my poor husband must have felt. Thank you for sharing this with all of us.
So, so glad to read that Anne finally received the care she needed…so not happy that the other Drs. did not take care of her. Please take care, both of you….
“We rarely get to prepare ourselves in meadows or on graveled walks; we do it on short notice in places without windows, hospital corridors, rooms like this…where the cafe curtains cover blank concrete. In rooms like this, with so little time, we prepare our gestures, get them by heart so we can do them when we’re frightened.”
― Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs
I’m very, very happy to hear that she’s going to be okay.
I as a -almost 40 year old- man, cried… Glad to see evertything went well and Anne will be ok.
So many feelings right now as I am either on a slide down further or back from a particularly bad mental health issue, and I know you have plenty of proof of this fact, but you are a profoundly great writer and I feel so lucky you chose to share this experience with us. Thank you.
SOOO pleased they were able to “fix” Anne!! It is frightening feeling so helpless in situations like this when you can do nothing to take the pain away from the one you love more than life itself. My wife was in similar circumstances with gallstones – intense excruciating pain!
I’d definitely be writing a letter to the hospital and doctors who messed up Anne’s first prognosis!!
All the best to you both.
I am so glad Anne is home and doing much better. I hope writing this all out has helped you to release some of that emotional build up. Take care of yourself and thank you for sharing so much with us. Wishing you both some peaceful days to come with much relaxing and snuggles from the furry ones.
Hi Will and Anne, I know that I am just another stranger passing on goodwill, but I really feel that I want to thank you both for sharing. I am so pleased that Anne is feeling better and I want to thank Will for being such an amazing husband. Thank you for reminding me how much I love my wife. Love to you both.
My wife Holly has gone through this also. A burst cyst, an ovary removed, and through it all a lot of pain. Hang in there, brother. The doc told us it would be tough for us to have kids. We have 2 wonderful boys.
This is so wonderful; I’m so happy for you both that it’s all going to be okay. You’re both amazing <3
I’m sorry to hear this Wil. I’m glad to hear that the outcome is good and I wish Anne a swift recovery.
I wish everyone had a partner as great as you. These are the things that really matter. It’s hard to be hurt and to be suffering, but it’s also insanely hard to be conpletely powerless while someone you love suffers. I’m so glad everything went well.
I suffer with Lyme disease and have had all sorts of scary experiences like these. No one knows what’s wrong. No one has answers for your pain. Relief takes too long to come. What’s amazing is how much it helps to have a name for your demons. I always ask for pictures too. Not every doctor obliges, but i have a really cool one of an angry gallbladder. Thank you for advocating for her. Thank you for considering whether voicing your concerns will be helpful or cause more pain. Thank you for carrying her instead of using an ambulance. Thank you for being your wonderful self. I see that i greatly missed out when I didnt meet you at Motor City Comic Con this year and i wont make that mistake again. Keep being amazing.
So glad to hear she is recovering well. And you did great dealing with it. I’ve been on both side of an emergency operating room door, and you did great.
CJ
Instructive. Thank you for sharing this experience and insight.
Just another random stranger, sending love to you both. Speedy recovery!!
Of all of this, as horrid as your shared experience has been, I hope that it encourages women to be a strong advocate for their own care because this is sadly a common result. Male doctors often forget their anatomy classes!
My best to you all!
I just love you two. You are so wonderfully sweet and goofy (fart anyone) at the same time. I miss having friends like you guys. Feel better fast Anne. I’m glad it wasn’t kidney stones so you don’t have to alter your diet. I’m double sorry that it sounds like it was worse than stones though. Much much love and hugs from Portland down to your house. Heal quickly, heal well, and take it easy. <3
Your words sketch such a scarily accurate picture of the pain. Grateful Anne is on the other side of that, and very grateful she had you.
So many have already shared their “yeah, me too! ” stories of that awful pain. But what stays with me most after reading your words, is profound gratitude that she had you. My story is 23 years old when I was a dumb, entitled 16 year old. And for a whole host of pretty crappy reasons, my parents didn’t believe the pain was as serious as you knew it to be when you heard it coming from Anne. Several days and nights of what you described well, until a good friend came and whisked me off to their Dr when my parents weren’t home. I was a minor, looking back they shouldn’t have seen me. But they did, and all is now we’ll because of it.
Anne had you, and despite feeling likely helpless at times, having you with her was worth everything. Prayers for quick recovery!
I am so glad the most recent doctors were able to figure out what was wrong with her. I wish you both a speedy recovery!!
“She walks around the house and farts. I fart back her her when I can. We laugh.”
That’s my favourite line ever! 😆 Sounds like my family.
(Didn’t even notice the typo until just before I hit post. lol)
I’m so glad she’s doing better but hate that you both had to go through all that.
❤️
tears srsly. All I could think of was when my own husband was holding it all in when I went thru stuff, and never told me how it was in his head. I think you probably just spoke for a billion men who’ve never shared this level of personal anguish. I know it sucked, but thank you for sharing, and bless your heart for ‘between the cushions. Can’t type bcuz tears don’t stop, your words are perfect & so been there. Anyway, hugs to you and Anne & I’m glad you guys are ok. 💗
Holy crap. I’m so glad Anne is going to be all right, and so angry on her behalf.