Smote!

A wake-up call to appreciate what you take for granted

iStock image

When you live long enough, eventually you get a shout-out from the universe that it’s time to pay attention. For me, it happened on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day when my right kidney threw a thunderbolt. “Hey! Look at me!”

Several weeks and many tests later, I learned that I had a condition called hydronephrosis, which meant that my plumbing wasn’t working. The flow of urine was blocked, causing my right kidney to swell. I was hurting.

Since this is a column about “How to Eat and Drink,” I won’t go into the gory details of all the diagnostic tests and the doctor visits. I learned to use AI to help interpret results that I didn’t understand and to search for the best place to resolve my issue. It was a puzzle to piece together with every bit of info that came in. I admire the people who can speak that medical language, and I relied on both my sisters for interpretation.

The bottom line is that our amazing gastrointestinal and urinary systems digest all that we eat and drink. Foods and drinks are processed by our quiet organs that do their jobs so efficiently that we barely notice—until something goes wrong.

On the morning that I woke up at Barbra and Geoff’s house in Frederick to head into Baltimore for the surgery, there was an alert on my phone about Lynda Carter donating $10 million to the urology department at Johns Hopkins. I took that news as a good omen. I needed a robotic laparoscopic pyeloplasty, and the Brady Urologic Institute is rated as one of the best in the world. I met my surgeon, Dr. Arun Rai, in April and liked his low-key interview process and direct approach. When I commented on his 4.9 star rating, he smiled and said he had no time to track that, but his wife did.

My dinner the night before surgery was simple and delicious. Geoff grilled marinated chicken cutlets, and Barbra steamed green beans. Her dessert, an asymmetrical apple pie redolent with cinnamon and barely sweet, was perfectly matched with a scoop of Ben & Jerry’s vanilla ice cream. If it was to be my last supper, that pie was the perfect send-off.

Photo of Barbra’s apple pie as an afterthought. I was not on my game that night.

John delivered me to the Bayview Medical Center at 10:15 for my 10:30 surgery appointment, and the rest of the day ran like clockwork. Received on the third floor, wrist-banded, and then into my bay to wait for the operating room. John met me there, and I encouraged him to peel out and explore Baltimore since the procedure would take all afternoon. I’d be out by 5, and he would get text updates. Dr. Rai came in to touch base, looking clear-eyed and confident. I encouraged him to have lunch before our date. The anesthesiology lead came in with questions and the promise of courage. This is routine for them.

John took this “before” photo

I wanted to see the operating theater and the robotic octopus that would perform the miracle, so I didn’t get sedated until I was in situ. It was impressive.

And by 5 I was out and wheeled into a hospital room. My throat was sore, and I had tubes in place to do the function of my immobilized organs. For good reason, I felt exhausted. And then John was by my side and telling me about the great afternoon he had at Fells Point, taking a water taxi out to see the Tall Ships. I was happy to see him but encouraged him to go back to Frederick for the night because I just wanted to sleep. He did and I did.

Somewhat. Is sleep possible when you are in the hospital? Nurses were coming and going, taking vitals, monitoring the beeping equipment—busy. I had a roommate behind a curtain who was 90 years old and had fallen and fractured her neck. Marilyn was in severe pain and very vocal but polite and apologetic about her outbursts; it broke my heart; my unscathed organ responded to her.

Then around 8 or 9, I realized—I’m hungry!

I had been NPO, nil per os, (always glad to use that high school Latin) since midnight, and my roughed-up body needed fuel. The standard liquid diet that appeared miraculously was quite satisfying—the fragrant vegetable broth, chewy orange gelatin, and refreshing mango water ice.

It doesn’t look like much, but it was incredibly satisfying, though the chicken broth on the left was inedibly salty.

My night was not restful, but the hours ticked by steadily. Joan, my night nurse, was a gentle angel who had just returned from a trip to Scotland, a five-day excursion that she squeezed into her busy schedule. When she came by for my 5 am vitals, she suggested a walk around the ward, and it felt like I was on the best date of my life. She pushed the pole hung with various bags and looping tubes, and we did three laps as the sun came up over Baltimore Harbor. I heard about her growing up in Maryland, her years away in NYC and Chicago, and her return to MD to be near her family. I informed her of Lynda Carter’s Wonderful-gift to honor her late husband and hoped it might make her job easier.

The sunrise and promise of a new day.

Tucked back into my bed with the sheets smoothed out, I rested, and attending docs came by to assure me that all went well and I could go on a regular diet. I would be released later that day. I ordered breakfast, and when I called the number on the menu, someone brightly answered, “Room service.”

Half-eaten breakfast that was delicious,

My warm cheese omelet, breakfast potatoes, bacon, and English muffin arrived eventually and tasted great. I even ordered coffee that was strong and almost hot. The food quality was excellent. Marilyn, behind the curtain, was also breakfasting, but being fed in slow bites by an attendant, and it wasn’t going well for her. I remembered feeding my mom breakfast in the hospital before she went into hospice. Her last breakfast, it turned out. That’s the reality of the hospital: some people recover and get to go home. Some people do not. Father Benjamin visited Marilyn that morning for a blessing, and her family asked if he would also do the Last Rites, just in case. I am one of the lucky ones.

Papers to sign, tubes to remove, much activity that morning. The day nurses, Mildred and Erin, encouraged me to order lunch because the release could take a while. I enjoyed choosing from the extensive menu, even though I wasn’t hungry at all, and ordered Thai broth, Shrimp and Grits, and coleslaw as my farewell meal. John arrived and helped me with some of it, and the rest we took home.

The Thai broth was quietly delicious and filled me up, I could only sample the Shrimp and Grits but it later became my first dinner at home.

This is how they Eat and Drink at Johns Hopkins.

The nurse in charge of the release delivered a bagful of medications from the pharmacy along with lots of discharge instructions. I was released into the sunshine, and we drove back to State College.

My sick bay room was well-equipped and John kept up a steady flow of ice water. Local friends came by for quick visits with flowers and smiles. Three days post-op, friends from Philly, Michael and Grace, delivered lunch from Roots Kitchen--healthy bowls-- and that was when I felt truly recovered. I showered and washed my hair. Grace, a retired nurse, changed the wound on my abdomen that I wasn’t brave enough to look at and said it all looked good.

Lunch delivered! The assortment of bowls from Roots Kitchen was perfect for my first day of feeling recovered. Roasted yams, mushrooms in chimichurri, marinated chicken, and barbecued tofu varieties.

It’s over. I’m healing, and I have a new appreciation for all those organs, doing their jobs so I can get back to eating and drinking. And I have a deep appreciation for a husband who is very good at care-taking.

A sad postscript: While I was in the hospital, I got the news that Sc’Eric, a loyal subscriber to this newsletter and frequent commenter, was in a bicycle accident and is in a coma and in Intensive Care in Geisinger in Danville. Sc’Eric, if you read this at some point, know that you are in good hands and have faith. Surrender. See you on the other side, maestro.