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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I am so glad that she’s okay and had the surgery she needed, and that you both have more time. Thank you for sharing with us.
I am so glad she’s going to be ok . Busted out crying when you mentioned that the female doctor found out the pain was not a stonè. I know nit all male doctors are this negligent, bUT yeah I really hate males doctors right now. I think of the times my issues weren’t taken seriously. Sorry for vebring. I’m glad she’s ok.
First, let me say I’m glad they figured it out and I’m sorry. I wouldn’t wish that pain on my worst enemy…
We were having a blast on our first family vacation in my birthtown of Charleston, SC. Then that morning I woke up for 24 hrs.
That’s how long it took for a female doctor in a different ER to identify my ovarian torsion. After the first (male) doctor ignored my insistence that it wasn’t a kidney stone (I’ve had them, I know the difference) and doped me up on morpine before sending me back on vacation to ‘sleep it off’… making sure my husband left that “out of state insurance info”. I’m still a little bitter about that.
That pain… that started out as gas pressure and morphed into a spiky yo-yo of agony that made me want to scream when I tried to push out a stone that wasn’t there. Arg.
I honestly never never thought about how scared my husband would have been. I am so sorry after reading your post that I never remembered hugging my husband and said “I’m ok.. don’t worry”. I just let him hold me and tell me “I know you hurt but you’ll be ok, don’t worry”. I think I hugged our son.. but he was busy playing so don’t bring up the scary past stuff. The drugs make me maudlin, no one wants to hear me babble about feelings. God that sucks.
You’ve lived through the bad stuff, let me give you a run down on the next day or two that I remember.
The pictures.. yes! I remember the pictures. Those are our little gold stars that say “Yay, you listened to your body of 35+ yrs instead of some smug asshole who you saw for 6 mins before he “fixed you” and sent you home!” Those are our validations. Mine are stuck somewhere in a file with baby teeth.
The scars, my laproscopy failed (can’t spell it either after several of them) so I got the smiling “mini-C-section” scar. It was too big to remove through the little hole. Which leads to #3.
How the fk did the original docs miss something the size of a grapefruit and focus on a tiny kidney? Yeah… that’s the mysterious woman parts floating inside of a normal body, ignore those.
Good luck on the recovery, Anne! Don’t go back to work in 2 days (I did because I’m stupid) the scars rub when you drive. Listen to your body and heal.
Wil, thank you for posting. I thought I was the only one who would ask “why the hell didn’t they listen to me?” Am I so uneducated (aka. not a doc) that you won’t listen to my words?
Oh my goodness! gentle virtual hugs to you both – am so happy and relieved that this part of your lives has had a happy resolution.
I’m thrilled Anne is on the mend and this fiasco is over. I wish I could have been there–just to be your shoulder, your chauffeur, your silent assistant. I was there for my dad, when he let me be, while my mom was going through all sorts of medical difficulties. I know the helplessness. I know the anger, sorrow, and relief all at once. My dad told me I was the best thing he could have in those hours even though we said practically nothing. He found comfort in me–in my presence. That’s what we are for each other, when we’re lucky to have another person there, that presence that is both support and relief.
You, personally, did everything right! You are a good husband (and a good person–not to mention strong because carrying even a small person to the car who is doubled over in pain is very difficult).
Love you both!
I’m so happy Anne is okay. I’ve been through 3 laps myself and 2 for my wife so I feel your pain, emotionally and physically. Hug her, love her, and allow yourself to recover from the pain you too felt along with her.
It’s good that you took Anne back and that you saw a doctor who recognized there was more to it than it seemed from the first visit. Isn’t it a shame though that one can go to an ER and get sent home when there is clearly something not right. Take care of yourselves.
First off, I am so happy for both of you that Anne made it through this ordeal alive and (overall) well.
Second, as someone who has seen more than his fair share of ER doctors, nurses, techs, & EMTs; I can totally empathize with the whole “WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME ANYTHING USEFUL/INFORMATIVE YOU MOTHERFUCKING [next 100 or so invectives redacted]!!!” I don’t know why, but whenever I have to go to the ER because of a seizure (I have epilepsy), it always seems to rake at least 8 hours before anyone who can–and will–speak competently about whatever the fuck’s going wrong in my head even bothers showing up. I’ve come to loathe the opening question, “So, how are [you/we] doing, today?” I’m in the ER, motherfucker, lying in a bed with at least one, probably two I.V.s and an oxygen tube. How the fuck do you think I’m doing, asshat?
I am totally behind you having those malw docs who misdiagnosed Anne upbraided. Don’t know that it’ll change their behaviour, but it most certainly ought to be on record that their mistakes nearly cost a patient her life.
And lastly, TOTALLY understand the “waiting to find out ANYTHING” trauma (’cause let’s be honest, that’s what it is, traumatic) of being “the spouse” or “the parent”. Years ago my son swallowed a whole bevy of my morning anticonvulsants, and the remaining 24+ hours was spent waiting for him to wake up & breathe on his own. I think you have some idea what that waiting feels like.
Some unsolicited advice: Part of taking care of Anne while she recovers physically is making sure to take care of yourself mentallt & emotionally. From what you’ve written, so far you’ve been the rock she’s needed and not broken down while things were going on “because it [wouldn’t] be helpful”. I get that. I’ve been that rock for my own wife…more recently than I’d like. But–and speaking as someone who also has mental & emotional issues to deal with every bloody day–you are no good to her if you don’t release that stress & anguish & pain & all the other raw emotion I just know must be coursing through you. You process things through writing. Then write. Take walks or runs or bik rides. I find physically exhausting myself ironically helps clear my head. Maybe that doesn’t work as well for you, Wil, but find something, or a bunch of somethings, that do and USE THEM.
Oh, and don’t forget to take your meds. That’s just all kinds of bad waiting to happen. (I know you know that, but it oft helps to be reminded…and re-reminded. 😊)
My love to your whole family. I’m glad Ryan & Nolan get to hug their mom (gently) the next time they see her!
Thank goodness they found what was wrong.
So glad to hear Anne is on the mend. Thank you for sharing.
All the best to you, Anne, and your fuzzy family. Thank goodness she is on the mend; feel free to be firm and cranky with ER and other docs if they’re not listening.
I’m so glad Anne is ok! I sat with her at the Geekie awards a few years ago and she was so nice, I’m glad you two are recovering!
i am so happy for you bith that anne is feeling better. i guess i cannot imagine going through what either of you two have been through these days.
somewhat speaking for (i guess) many people here, i hope our comments on this dont give you more stress (for need of reading) than our kind words and thoughts help improve your spirits. the world sure is a nicer place with the both of you in it – even for someone who (like myself) doesnt know you in person.
all the best to the both of you, i hope you can recover soon.
Happy for your and your family, Wil. You did the right things.
I’m so sorry Anne had to go through that. There is an undying trend among physicians to disregard the degree of feminine pain which causes situations like this. Which is deplorable.
Make sure you drink a lot of fluids and try to get “normal” amounts of sleep for a bit now that you’ve reset with a big sleep and that should take care of your headache. But you probably already knew that. Take care of yourself and Anne.
Wil – this is horrifying. It’s not unusual though and I hate that it happened to Anne. I’ve had 5 bouts with an ovarian torsion that were not as serious, but then I found this article from The Atlantic, where a man describes how his wife was also misdiagnosed by a male doctor, assuming kidney stones but not checking for ovarian issues: https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2015/10/emergency-room-wait-times-sexism/410515/
It’s so painful to read and to this day, I am terrified to go to the emergency room.
Anne is lucky to have you. I hope the entire family is able to have some quiet time to recover.
As someone who is helplessly waiting for test results for a loved one in the hospital, thank you for writing this. It helped.
So glad it was successfully found and treated.
Both of you need to be proactive, and when you find a good doctor (as that ob/gyn seems to be) keep them. If a doctor is dismissive or not thorough enough, especially if they don’t apologize for missing something—drop them. One’s life can actually be at stake. There are some good doctors out there, unfortunately the American Health Care system tends to put many of them in an almost adversarial relationship with patients. i don’t say that lightly or cynically—i am 70 yrs old and as young woman, especially when a single Mom i was dependent on Clinics where they tend to assume all the patients are ignorant. But i’ve also worked for places that had good insurance and learned that even that does not guarantee the doc will listen well to the patient’s concerns. Especially male doctors to women patients.
All the best to you both, and your dogs. Our 3 dogs and cats much the same when one of us hurt or sick.
By the way, i enjoyed your novella, Dead Trees Give No Shelter. My daughter (age 33) is a regular visitor to your blog and told me about it. Also want to commend you on how you try to help people battling depression. (A fight i’ve fought most of my life—and in my day they didn’t think people as young as 11 could be ‘depressed’.)
Great Read. So Glad everything worked out.
What an intense experience for you both. Happy for the outcome.
Female doctors are far superior to males, in my experience. I’ve had multiple surgeries, and for one I recall (removal of left ovary), the entire OR team was female, including my GYN/surgeon, anesthesiologist, techs, and nurses. ALL of my chosen physicians are women.
Holy maerd, I cant even begin to say how sad I am that this happened, how mad I am that it could have been so much better, and so happy that you and yours are on the mend. I know I’m just some random guy typing a comment on the internet version of a bulletin board but, as a husband, I DO understand how I would feel.
Hold her, tell her you love her (but don;t smother her) and know that random people on the internet care. too.
Wow. I hope noting like this ever happens to you and your loved ones again.
Thank goodness they found the problem! Wow, you really have to be your own advocate these days don’t you? Glad she is resting and is good now.
I love you guys. I’m so glad she’s recovering.
So many tears flowing while reading this… still flowing while typing this reply. Scared for you both tears, relief tears, not yet “happy” tears. Just so many tears.
Thank you for sharing it with us; I don’t mind the tears.
I am so glad she is ok and I am pissed that the doctors didn’t catch it at first. Much love.
Wil, your story is something that I can very personally relate to: Back in 2010 my ex-girlfriend (who I’m still on very good terms with and still care about very much) went to the emergency room with pains in her stomach. She’s pretty tough, so the fact that she called me while I was at work to come at take her to the ER was telling. Her initial experience was not unlike yours. They told she had Gastritis and sent her on her way. We’ve both had Gastritis before, it’s not that painful, and it generally passes after a few hours. My ex didn’t have health insurance, though, and its clear the hospital didn’t want to be bothered. I took her home, she tried to wait it out, and it didn’t get better. She called me to take her back in, so I took her back to ER…at a different hospital. This hospital was a different story. They took her in and prepped her for surgery, under the idea that it was an ovarian cyst. Turns out it was diverticula of the small intestine (which is rare in and of itself…diverticula usually affects the large intestine, coupled with the fact my ex at the time was in her late 20s, and very nearly a vegetarian who ate super healthy). As they began surgery, the diverticula ruptured…because they were on top of it, the surgeons were able to clean it up fast, remove the affected part of her intestine, and get her patched back up. If she had gone any longer she’d have likely been dead…all because the first hospital couldn’t be assed to do a basic x-ray and/or mri.
She made a full recovery (two days later she came home and they day after that she made me go get a giant lamb roast sandwich from the greek/Italian place in town).
I also am very familiar with the feelings of helplessness, and just trying to keep it together so that if there is something that can be done, you’re able to do it.
I’m happy for both of you that Anne is doing better, and I hope that brings you both needed peace (and rest). 🙂
I’m so glad she and you are okay. Yes, the women’s pain thing is real.Yes, “I’m fine,” combined with “I can make it,” are an artifact of understanding survivable versus optimal conditions for functioning. I’m so very glad you got to the hospital and got it handled well.
I’m grateful you get the time.
I am someone who has dealt with ovarian cysts. I even had one burst while I was driving in to work, later went to the walk-in and had a male doctor that it was only an ovarian cyst. JESUS! NO! It was the worst pain I ever had! Eventually I saw my normal female doctor and she was angry at that male doctor, we also figured out that I have fibroids along with small ovarian cysts. Fun times. So, I understand what Anne went through with her male doctors. I hope Anne switches to a female primary care doc. I cannot go to a male doc for female issues anymore.
I’m so glad she’s ok! I wish I were more surprised that those first doctors didn’t give her the care she needed and deserved. I hope nothing like this ever happens again but if it does, go ahead and call that ambulance. It’s alright to be selfish when someone you love is in that much pain.
Wil,
I am happy that Anne is recovering and the problem was identified and resolved. I am so sorry both of you had through this. I am so mad that the male doctors were so terrible at their profession and humanity, but so glad that the female ER doctor was there to see Anne.
So sorry that this post seems to be all about me (I am this, I am that) when this is all about you and your family.
Jaime
I know the relief. My husband ended up with unplanned surgery last week; carotid artery surgery (think: avoiding stroke). The time waiting for that surgery (almost 2 weeks) was terrible – praying to God he didn’t stroke out out me.
Best healings to you both – Anne physically and you emotionally.
Love and light to you all.
I am so glad you both are okay. I have been thinking about this situation since I read your earlier post, and I am super relieved that everything turned out okay.
I may be the 500th person to point this out to you, but the way Anne way treated on your first trip to the ER is eerily similar to this article:
https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2015/10/emergency-room-wait-times-sexism/410515/
I wonder how often this exact scenario plays out at hospitals all over the country!
Wil, I love both of the articles you’ve written about this. I think you capture the patient/family experience in the ER exceedingly well.
As an ER doc I want to respond to everyone posting about how awful it was that Anne was misdiagnosed. The fact is, medicine is often more of an art than a science. Doctors, whether we believe it or not, are not gods or computers; we don’t have tricorders, we are fallible humans who do the best we can in understaffed, overworked ERs. This is only going to get worse as people lose insurance and flock to ERs.
A CT scan is typically the proper test for severe abdominal pain. It will not show ovarian torsion, but it will show almost everything else. If a patient’s labs and CT are negative and the patient’s pain is somewhat controlled with medication then it is not unreasonable to send someone home with pain medication to follow up with their doctor that week, with instructions to return to the ER if worse. Ordering every possible test on every person who comes to the ER is simply untenable.
On a second visit to the ER for abdominal pain, a doctor’s suspicion level goes to 11. We start looking for alternative diagnoses, for anything we could have missed, especially when the pain is severe. For women or men (testicular torsion is also a thing) ultrasound is the next logical imaging test to order if a CT scan is negative.
Depending on history and physical exam and what is on your differential diagnosis list, an ultrasound might be ordered first, then a CT, or a CT then an ultrasound. Both might be ordered on the same visit to the ER, or it might take two visits to get both ordered.
It has not been my experience among younger board certified Emergency Medicine physicians that a woman’s pain is ignored or dismissed more often than a man’s. That is not to say it never happens, we only have to look at the last election to know that misogyny is deeply ingrained in our culture, and both men and women can fall prey to it.
Several things may have contributed to Anne being misdiagnosed on the first visit to the ER. One reason is that torsion comes and goes as the ovary twists back and forth intermittently cutting off its blood supply (which is problematic as it can lead to a negative ultrasound). The pain can wax and wane as tissue is deprived of oxygen then improve as circulation returns. Another reason is that I suspect Anne is very stoic, and probably didn’t complain as much about pain after she was given morphine. I wasn’t there, so I cannot know, but if you put these things together it could have seemed to the ER doc who does not know her the way you do that she had improved sufficiently to warrant discharge after just the CT scan.
I’m sorry that Anne and you had to suffer through this. I wish I and other docs could be less humanly imperfect when diagnosing and more humanly empathetic when talking to patients and families. I’d like to think that if I had been her doctor on the first visit to the ER that I would have ordered both the CT and an ultrasound. But I honestly don’t know if I would have.
Thankfully she has you Wil. You took her back to the ER so she got the care she so desperately needed, and you gave the performance of your life just when she needed you most. You two are clearly soulmates and I hope you spend the next 50 years not going to the ER together.
I am so very glad that she’s going to be ok!!!
Wil, I love both of the articles you’ve written about this. I think you capture the patient/family experience in the ER exceedingly well.
As an ER doc I want to respond to everyone posting about how awful it was that Anne was misdiagnosed. The fact is, medicine is often more of an art than a science. Doctors, whether we believe it or not, are not gods or computers; we don’t have tricorders, we are fallible humans who do the best we can in understaffed, overworked ERs. This is only going to get worse as people lose insurance and flock to ERs.
A CT scan is typically the proper test for severe abdominal pain. It will not show ovarian torsion, but it will show almost everything else. If a patient’s labs and CT are negative and the patient’s pain is somewhat controlled with medication then it is not unreasonable to send someone home with pain medication to follow up with their doctor that week, with instructions to return to the ER if worse. Ordering every possible test on every person who comes to the ER is simply untenable.
On a second visit to the ER for abdominal pain, a doctor’s suspicion level goes to 11. We start looking for alternative diagnoses, for anything we could have missed, especially when the pain is severe. For women or men (testicular torsion is also a thing) ultrasound is the next logical imaging test to order if a CT scan is negative.
Depending on history and physical exam and what is on your differential diagnosis list, an ultrasound might be ordered first, then a CT, or a CT then an ultrasound. Both might be ordered on the same visit to the ER, or it might take two visits to get both ordered.
It has not been my experience among younger board certified Emergency Medicine physicians that a woman’s pain is ignored or dismissed more often than a man’s. That is not to say it never happens, we only have to look at the last election to know that misogyny is deeply ingrained in our culture, and both men and women can fall prey to it.
Several things may have contributed to Anne being misdiagnosed on the first visit to the ER. One reason is that torsion comes and goes as the ovary twists back and forth intermittently cutting off its blood supply (which is problematic as it can lead to a negative ultrasound). The pain can wax and wane as tissue is deprived of oxygen then improve as circulation returns. Another reason is that I suspect Anne is very stoic, and probably didn’t complain as much about pain after she was given morphine. I wasn’t there, so I cannot know, but if you put these things together it could have seemed to the ER doc who does not know her the way you do that she had improved sufficiently to warrant discharge after just the CT scan.
I’m sorry that Anne and you had to suffer through this. I wish I and other docs could be less humanly imperfect when diagnosing and more humanly empathetic when talking to patients and families. I’d like to think that if I had been her doctor on the first visit to the ER that I would have ordered both the CT and an ultrasound. But I honestly don’t know if I would have.
Thankfully she has you Wil. You took her back to the ER so she got the care she so desperately needed, and you gave the performance of your life just when she needed you most. You two are clearly soulmates and I hope you spend the next 50 years not going to the ER together.
Peace and healing to you both. I’m so glad this is moving behind you finally.
So glad they finally diagnosed Anne’s pain correctly and solved it in surgery. I’ve been in your situation with a family member and ended up on the dark side you feared so much. The dread I felt while reading your accounts of the days brought it all back vividly. Your much happier ending is a psychic relief. Health and much happiness to you both going forward.
I’m so glad you took her back in. Thank you. And thank you, truly, for writing this. I never really understood what it was like from my husbands side when the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with me. I didn’t GET his side because I was so sick. This has been such an eye opener for me, and I’m so grateful. For Anne, for you, for love, and for you being willing to be real. <3 Love to you both.
Oh, just so happy for both of you. I know it must have been terrifying not knowing what was going to on. You and Anne are such wonderful people, and it’s puts a smile on my face that she is better. Sending big hugs to you both.
Hugs to you. Love is deep.
I’m glad all turned out well. Medical stuff is scary, and unknown medical stuff is especially scary.
Hey Wil,
I’m sorry you and Anne went through that experience. You both are in my prayers and I care about both of you and the rest of your family.
With love,
It’s not often that I openly weep on my morning commute. Even less often that I openly weep reading a story whose ending I already know. I’m so happy that your wife is doing well! And kudos to you for this extraordinary piece of writing.
Wil,
What a scary time for you and your family. I hope you all find some peace soon. Take care.
So so SO glad she’s doing better. So glad you got a doctor who cares. (My Anne is an OB/GYN, and much the same as your OB/GYN, i.e., nobody leaves until we know what’s happening and how to fix it.)
Anne, Wil, I wish you both gentle hugs and silly songs and fast recovery and rest and peace.
So happy it worked out. I had my right ovary removed as well when my GYN noticed it swelled to the size of a lemon and told me he wanted to avoid me ending up in the ER for exactly what Anne just went through. I was lucky to catch mine early, but it was still very scary for my husband and I. The one positive from it all was learning one of my new favorite words ‘oophorectomy’.
Bless you.
Boy, did it get dusty in here! I’m glad Anne is feeling better and hope she’ll be right as rain in no time.
I’m so glad Anne’s okay, and I’m glad it’s over. I’m sorry she had to go through this. But most of all, I’m angry. She didn’t have to suffer like that.
Ovarian cysts are so incredibly common. Talk to a group of women–make sure to include a decent number over the age over 40 and or who have given birth. They are so incredibly common. And… they are painful. And… they are very easy to identify with ultrasounds. Someone can correct me if I’m wrong, but the easiest way to spot them in a woman who is not pregnant is with a transvaginal ultrasound. Because the ovaries are normally small, perhaps an abdominal ultrasound or a CT is not the best way to detect them? If a CT and blood tests don’t reveal appendicitis or a kidney stone, wouldn’t a competent dr. look for cysts and or ovarian torsion? Untreated, this can be life threatening. Did I mention cysts are common?
I developed my first overian cysts when I was pregnant with my second child. We thought I would have to have surgery during pregnancy, but I was “lucky” and they ruptured (so fucking painful). More ruptured when I was pushing the kid out–fortunately I had an epidural because I had been in labor so long. They turned it waaaaay up. The cysts rupturing during childbirth was the more painful thing I’ve ever experienced (yes, way more painful than childbirth itself).
My dr. tracked my cysts. They hung out for years. Every once in a while one would rupture. I’d get a new one. They hurt but I was avoiding surgery (this was before the laparoscopic method had been developed for them).
Finally, one day at work, I collapsed in pain. My ovary was in torsion. It is unbelievable painful. Everything you described about your wife, which makes me angry again they missed it. They were able to diagnose my torsion l pretty quickly in the ER. Ironically, being laid on my back for the ultrasound helped put the ovary back into position and it resolved itself. My dr. and I decided to finally clean things up. The laparoscopic technique was now available. About a month later, I had (non-emergency) surgery. It was pretty straightforward.
Again, I’m sorry Anne went through this. She suffered unnecessarily though because of someone’s incompetence. I will also go so far as to say she lost an ovary unnecessarily because of someone’s incompetence. You may (or may not) be done having children, but it’s nice to keep bits that we don’t have to lose. The ovary died and had to be removed because of the time lapse. I’m sorry, and I’m angry.
Best wishes to Anne and to you. Get some rest.