It started out as a "normal" menstrual period. I was resigned to my obligatory one week a month without sex. Since Kathy started taking birth control pills a coupla years ago (just to keep her periods regular and to moderate intensity. Her tubes were tied about 20+ years ago.) it has been pretty much like clockwork.
About half way through the week, things started downhill. Instead of tapering off, the flow got heavier. I started getting reports of "clots the size of a small fist". (men love hearing this degree of descriptive detail of their mate's menstruation)
This went on for a few days -- getting worse rather than better. She had to change her hygine-product-of-choice hourly, all through the day and night.
I suggested, hesitantly, that she might actually call the doctor. She was concerned that the doctor would do a pelvic exam. It had been 20+ years that she had been able to avoid these procedures and didn't want to ruin her record. Finally, she was so weak from blood loss that she could not make it the 20 feet from the bed to the toilet without my help. She called the doctor and made an appointment for the next day [1].
I went to town to get some body-strengthening, blood-building foods for her. I came home and began preparing something for her to eat. I heard a crash from the bedroom/bathroom area. I went in to find her laying on the floor in her own puke.
Normally, I like to let people make their own decisions; but I was seeing my sexual partner approaching a condition where continued sex would not be nearly as interesting and, perhaps, even illegal. I called the doctor and said that I was moving the appointment up to *now*.
I managed to get her dressed (as it turns out, this was not necessary) and managed to get her down the stairs (now stained with blood. Anybody know how to get blood stains out of redwood? Never mind. I'll be rebuilding the porch and stairs in the next year or so) and into the back of the VW van, on the floor. Sitting in the seat was just not an option for her at this point.
I started off driving at something approaching the speed of light. Given that the roads, here, are narrow and twisty; and a stockly suspended VW van handles almost as well as a 10 story building during an earthquake; this was no easy feat. For this first time, though, I got no complaint about my driving from Kathy. She was fairly inert.
I made it a point to break every traffic law that I could think of: The posted speed, the basic speed law, following too close and passing by crossing a double yellow line. I'm sure that there were others, too. It was kinda difficult to stay focused on the California Vehicle Code at that point.
Just as I got to Boulder Creek, I remembered the tire. I pulled into the gas station and checked it. It seemed to have held the pressure. Then I checked the spare. It had leaked down to about 20 PSI. I filled the spare and was off, being mindful of the condition of the tire.
I had made it to 17, getting on at Sims road. I stayed in the right
lane, doing a reasonable 55, but was pumping absurd amounts of
adrenaline. We were just a few minutes away from the doctor's
office if the traffic wasn't too bad. Just before the Pasatiempo
off ramp, it happened:
"OK," I thought to myself, "I can get this changed in 5 minutes." I
notified what-little-life-there-was-in-the-back-of-the-van of what
was happening, then set about changing the tire. I had to yank the
front passenger seat out to get the jack and found a 4-way tire iron
behind the driver's seat.
The 4-way had one end with a screwdriver blade. Good thing, cuz
there were those damnable wheel covers on each tire. I found the
best fitting end and applied it to the lug bolt and turned ... or
tried to turn it. [3] I'm 6'5" and about 200# (mass) +/- 20#. I
have reasonable strength. I could do nothing to convince the bolt
to loosen.
I set the opposite end of the 4-way on the jack, then jumped on one
of the arms of the wrench.
Well, *that* isn't working!
I clearly had to do something different. I had some choices:
1) I could sit there and watch Kathy ooze her life blood all
over the floor of the van. (I didn't want the floor ruined)
2) I could get to a call box or a phone and call somebody. (I
didn't know exactly *who* to call; and, to me, walking is
an unnatural act -- somewhere below molesting little boys
or selling used cars)
I guess that the condition of my van floor was the most important to
me. I walked to the Pasatiempo Inn and used their pay phone.
First I tried calling a friend of mine who is into VW vans ands is
smart enough to carry the appropriate tools with him. He wasn't
home, but I got to waste one of my few quarters listening to his
answering machine.
Then I called Kathy's doctor. It was after 5, by then, but his
answering service put me through to him. I explained the situation.
I was gonna be a bit tardy because I had to get a tow truck out there
to break the bolts loose. He said "Well, if you can be here in the
next half hour ..."
Adrenaline flowing freely and frustration well beyond what is
reasonable for a caged rat, I quietly exploded. Then, realizing
that I was gonna get no help from him, I just said "Never mind,
Less." and slammed the phone down. Satisfying, but useless.
I had 2 quarters left -- all of the money that I had with me. I
called a tow company and told them the problem. The dispatcher
asked "And how will you pay?"
Realizing that calling for a tow truck wasn't going to make it, I
walked (!!!!!!!!) back to the van. I informed the gray, inert mass
in the back of the van of what was happening. Then I started
flagging down passing VW's.
It was commute time, but there were still precious few. All but those
with lone females stopped (well *that's* not a good way to pick up
babes). None had either a tire iron or the time to help.
Finally, in desperation, I flagged down a CHP. I asked if he had a
tire iron. Yep -- and it fit! I supported the opposite end and
jumped on an arm. Nothing.
I asked if he could call a tow truck. I made the mistake of telling
him the reason for the urgency. "I'm trying to get my wife to the
doctor." He looked at the van and, seeing nothing, questioned my
sanity (something that I do all of the time. It doesn't help.)
"Where is she?" he asked. "In the back."
Uh, oh -- now, instead of a motorist needs assistance, this is a
adrenaline pumping, every-crew-in-the-county, lights-and-sirens,
tie-up-traffic call.
ME: Can you call a tow truck so that I can get them to break the
bolts loose and be on my way?
CHP: It will take them 45 minutes to an hour to get here. How about
if I call an ambulance?
ME: A tow truck will be fine.
CHP: Given her condition, I think that she should be given immediate
medical attention. Then we can get a tow truck out here.
ME: (thinking for a second) OK, but can you call the tow truck,
first?
Apparently all that he heard was "OK". He talked to his shoulder as
he walked back to his car and got a rather large satchel from the
trunk. He brought this bag back to the van and started opening
various compartments, looking for something.
Recognizing that we are dealing with a "bleeding medical emergency"
(as opposed to a "broken bone medical emergency" or a "no breathing
medical emergency"), I asked "Looking for a bandaid?" Somewhat
flustered, he mumbled some comment about it having been a long time
since he had to use this medical kit. I'm sure that he said that to
instill confidence.
Finally he pulled out an oxygen mask, then dragged out a small
oxygen bottle and regulator. He took this special equipment into
the van with him. He hooked the hose to the bottle, turned on the
bottle, adjusted the regulator and put the mask on a fairly comatose
Kathy.
The bottle was on the seat, above Kathy's head. I mentioned that a
passing bus might cause sufficient wind to rock the van and knock
the bottle off the seat and onto Kathy's head -- moving this to a
"concussion medical emergency That actually might have been an
improvement, cuz they just tend to send concussion patients home and
tell people to keep an eye on them.
About this time, a full size diesel-snorting fire truck pulled up.
3 guys got out and piled into the back of the van with Kathy and
started trying to get some answers from her. The CHP and I were
standing outside the van. I asked the cop if we should grease up
and squeeze in, too.
One of the firemen, apparently seeing the uselessness of trying to
get answers from somebody who just doesn't give a shit, got out to
get some answers from me. That firemen were there at all was kinda
amazing to me. Neither Kathy nor the van was on fire.
An ambulance arrived. 2 attendants get out and, without the aid of
grease, get in the back of the van. The firemen manage to get out.
Now, 3 more CHP's show up. And me without donuts! Let me tell you
-- I kept my arms in the air! All that weaponry and adrenaline.
The ambulance attendants exchanged their oxygen bottle and mask for
the CHP's. They looked exactly the same as the set that the cop had
used. Maybe it was just better oxygen.
The CHP's and the firemen are standing around, talking about various
testosterone/adrenaline pumping macho stuff.
Still no tow truck.
The ambulance attendants bring over a gurney and manage to get Kathy
on it. One of them mentioned nitro glycerin. I yelled "NO NITRO
GLYCERIN!!!!!" [4] Apparently Kathy mumbled something similar and
they understood. They put her in the ambulance and left.
Still no tow truck.
The firemen got back in their smoke-belching, overweight truck and
left.
Still no tow truck.
Then, all but the first CHP left.
Still no tow truck.
The CHP comes up to me and asks "Do you still want the tow truck?"
Lacking the proper words (or weaponry) to express my frustration, at
that moment the best I could say was "If you had called them
*first*, as I had asked you to, I would have been on my way by now."
He said that I could simply leave the van here and get a ride to the
hospital with him. I recognized that Kathy was in reasonably good
hands [5], so I opted to stay and deal with the other part of my
problems.
*Then* he called for a tow truck. He said that they should show up
in "a bit". He left me to enjoy the fumes of passing cars.
I waited there over 2 hours. I saw more than 10 tow trucks pass by
in both directions -- most were empty. Now it's dark and getting
kinda cool. This gives a whole new meaning to "boredom".
A CHP pulls up. It's one of the others that was there, earlier.
"Did the tow truck show up?" he asks. Yeah, right -- I didn't like
the color of his truck, so I sent him on his way. He called for
another truck and said that he had some paperwork to do, so he would
sit there and do it with his flashers on so the tow truck could spot
us.
We usually go to bed at about 8pm. It was approaching that hour and
I was feeling it. I tried to go to sleep, but the flashing lights
from the cop car cut right through my eyelids.
After about an hour, I told the cop that I'm gonna just drive up to
the Pasatiempo Inn and park the van for the night. He said that he
just got a call from the dispatcher, saying that the tow truck is
due in about 5 more minutes.
I waited 10 minutes, then just started the van, turned on my
headlights and flashers and drove along the shoulder up to the Inn,
with the CHP behind me.
I pulled into the first parking place (which, as luck would have it,
was marked for handicapped parking. Well, the *van* was
handicapped!). After making sure that I was OK, the CHP drove off
into the night to find a donut shop or an unsuspecting motorist to
jack up.
I called another friend of mine for a ride home. While I waited for
them to arrive, I asked the desk clerk if it was OK to leave the van
there until morning, when I could get back with appropriate tools to
change the tire. He, most graciously, said that it was no problem.
This is kind of an up-scale place and, given my somewhat ratty old
van, I was a bit surprised, but pleased.
I got home about 11. The generator had run out of gas some hours
ago, so everything was dark. I always carry my mini Maglight, so I
could get into the house. I called the hospital and talked to
Kathy. She was being well taken care of with multiple tubes of
multitudes of various fluids and a staff of thousands of good
Catholics.
I finally got to sleep, comfortable in the fact that I had just
expended more tax dollars than I had paid over the previous 2 years;
when a simple tow truck would have been so much simpler and easier.
The next morning I brought an appropriate lug wrench and changed the
tire. Amazing how well a proper fitting socket and a 3 foot
extension handle works.
I drove over to the hospital to see Kathy. She was off the oxygen;
but had 3 bags hanging and dripping fluids into her.
Nurse Surly told me that Kathy needed to rest. Kathy told me that
they gave her a sleeping pill last night, then woke her up every
half hour to test her blood.
Among the many and various blood tests that they ran was blood
glucose (she was a borderline diabetic -- it increases under
stress). Her normal (occasional) high was something like 180. That
night it was 471.
Somehow they determined that she was running on 6 pints low on
blood. I have never seen a dipstick for such a test, nor any place
to insert it, so I'm trusting the technician on this one.
She was still looking pretty pasty, but resting and well cared for.
2 of our daughters showed up. When they found that Kathy was being
charged $200/pint [6], they went to donate replacement blood. [7]
We left to give her some rest.
That afternoon I went back to see her again. She had convinced them
that 5 pints was enough, thanks. Apparently the transfusions hurt
like hell. I guess that one has to suffer to be a vampire.
The Ob/Gyn came in. She spoke to us like we were babies. I so
enjoy being patronized. She wanted to give Kathy a pelvic exam
(well, there goes *that* record!) so I went outside. I *really*
didn't want to see this.
Apparently a pelvic exam takes longer than the time that it takes to
burn a butt, cuz when I came back in, Dr. Baby-Talk was in a
position with my wife that I have had fantasies about .... well, under
other circumstances.
When she shoved that metal device into Kathy it was bad enough; but
hearing the sounds of gears and mechanisms coming from Kathy's
vagina was just a bit too much.
When a small degree of dignity had returned, Dr. Baby-Talk started
talking to Kathy about the hysterectomy. I let her go on for a bit
(information is information -- I can never have too much of it); but
I realized that this seemed to be a foregone conclusion.
"Excuse me." I said. "What *caused* all of this to happen? Isn't
it just a bit premature to discuss a hysterectomy without knowing
*why* all of this happened?"
"Well, if the hemorrhaging uterus is removed, it can't hemorrhage any
more, can it?" she asked, condescendingly.
"Good point" I said. "When I break my arm, your medical opinion is
that I should have it amputated?"
"The uterus of an older woman is not nearly as useful as an arm." [8]
I was sensing the utter uselessness of the conversation, but made
one more attempt. "And if the *cause* of the hemorrhaging has
nothing to do with the uterus?"
"Well, we are going to do a D&C. That will help stop the bleeding.
It might also show us why it's happening."
Kathy, ever practical, said, "If I get a hysterectomy, I can wear
white pants." Oh, good -- now a hysterectomy is a fashion accessory.
Recognizing that I was dealing with someone who was into dispensing
band aids and another person who was working under diminished
capacity, I left.
Next morning I went back. She had the D&C. They discovered
fibroids (apparently no major problem, in and of themselves) and a
greatly increased uterine lining. No known cause.
She was looking *much* better. She had a color to her face that was
something other than gray. No more tubes. They were letting her go
home to beef up for the hysterectomy that was scheduled in three
weeks.
She's resting pretty well. Getting me quite a bit of exercise,
going down stairs to make her something to eat every few hours.
They have her on hormones to stop/reduce the bleeding. It started,
again, yesterday, just a bit. She called the stand-in doctors [9].
Both of them said that a little spotting was OK. Seems that they
shoulda mentioned this when she left the hospital.
They gave her Darvon for the headaches that were caused by the
hormones. I wonder if they are gonna give her something for the
dizziness caused by the Darvon ... but that would probably increase
the bleeding.
On the way home from the hospital, I wanted to turn around and go
back. She asked why. I said "When you went in there, you had some
dignity. They took it from you and didn't bother to give it back
when you left."
[1] This doctor has been her doctor for the past 8 years. Prior to
that, Kathy worked in his office as an intern. Prior to that, he
delivered our first 2 grandchildren. He and Kathy were supposed to
be personal friends. I would think, given that history, he would
know that she only calls when she is approaching death. Maybe that
day he was thinking about what he was gonna have for dinner ... or
his upcoming ski weekend or something equally important.
[2] The previous time that I drove the van was on the previous
Saturday morning. (I do this every week to get the 23 gallons of
gas to feed the generator for the week and to get about 6 gallons of
kerosene to feed the heater.) I noticed that the rear tire was low
so I inflated it to the proper pressure. As I filled it, I noticed
that there was a lot of chord showing. I thought to myself "Oops!
Better not use this again until I get this tire replaced."
[3] I swore an oath, at that point, to kill (well, seriously
name-call, anyway) the next person that I see installing a tire on a
passenger car with an impact wrench.
[4] Kathy has a 25 year history of high blood pressure. About 15
years ago, the doctors at Kaiser were playing with various
medicines. One of the drugs cause problems that had me take her in
to Kaiser at 11pm one night. They hooker her up with IV's
(thankfully) and gave her nitro glycerin. Her blood pressure fell
*immediately* to almost 0. They cranked up the saline solution to
bring it back up. The first reading that I saw on the way back up
was 40/20. Normal is 120/80 and when she came in, hers was
210/160. I said "Make a note: No nitro". The doctor was sweating
profusely and missed the humor.
[5] Dominican *is* the hospital where Kathy's mother died a few
years ago, but I guess that I shouldn't hold that against them --
even though they did send us an "I'm sorry that we killed your
mother" card.
[6] Each pint was marked "Volunteer Donated". Kathy has O negative
blood -- this is the type that virtually anybody can accept. She
has always donated blood whenever there was a blood drive. She
asked the volunteers how much was charged for her blood. She was
told that there was no charge for volunteer donated blood, aside
from a small processing fee.
[7] They were told that it would cost them $100/pint to donate
replacement blood. Doncha love a good scam!
[8] When I was a kid, just getting into all of this sex stuff (one
of my favorite hobbies, as it turned out) I had said on many
occasions that I would *never* screw an old woman. Disgusting!
Yet, here I am, 30 or 40 years later, actually looking forward to it.
Kids!
[9] Apparently, Dr. Baby-Talk and her regular GP were away on a ski
weekend or something. Together or separate -- I'm not gonna ask.