It'll Be Alright

“Nicole. You're not going to like what I'm about to say. I want you to go to the hospital, immediately. This is not OK. You have toughed it out long enough. It's time to find out what's going on.”

I've never felt more excited about a trip to the Emergency Room. I had become so weak, so scared, and so exhausted, that I was actually looking forward to being in a hospital for a couple of days. I was yearning for people to look after me and fix me, to know I was going to be okay. It was a Friday afternoon and I thought I'd be ready to go home by Monday. It was going to be a nice little “vacation.”

Part 1-- Trouble Around the Corner

In July of 2009, our family of four decided to take on a big change in our life. We made the tremendous move from Tauranga to Gisborne, a three-hour drive through a notorious gorge. We left a small city to live a simpler life in a country township and had found the perfect little semi-rural house to rent. At that time, my health was reasonably okay, after a brief run with endometriosis that had been treated in order to reduce my anemia and pain. I felt on top of the world, actually! I was excited about the move and my husband's new job, the new lifestyle we would be enjoying, the new friends we were already making, and living out in the country again for the first time since leaving my family farm 14 years earlier.

We had a smooth transition, our daughters seemed happy and our network of friends grew by the week. We were shown a huge and loving welcome by the community. Life was great!

I'm sure you saw the “but” coming. Sometime in 2010, I started to become tired. My stomach had a heavy feeling that couldn't be described as nausea or cramping, it was just this weight sitting in the top of my torso like a huge rock. I slowly withdrew from some of the activities that I had enjoyed weekly, became less chipper in my nature (a huge sign something was wrong!), and felt myself becoming weak in body and mind.

In November of that year, I finally went to my doctor to discuss what I was experiencing. I had put it off because I found it very difficult to describe what was going on. (And I didn't want to make a “fuss.”) But the pain had increased and my energy had decreased so much that I finally had to make the appointment. He was a little flippant, I must say. Not the usual response I had had from him in the past, so I graciously accepted his referral to have some tests done and a prescription for coating the lining of my stomach in the meantime.

My referral letter came in December, with an “expected appointment date” set for three months. That's the national health system for you, friends. We didn't have an insurance that would allow me to book an appointment privately, nor could we afford the testing ourselves. So I waited, telling myself “It'll be alright.”

March 2011 rolled around and I got my appointment with the surgeon who was to determine whether or not I required a colonoscopy. She wasn't on my “faves list” after that visit, let me tell you! I'm not one to complain, but I was honestly dreading ever having to see her again! She displayed impatience, disregard and utter disinterest for me in every way possible. I was shocked and terribly disheartened. I had anticipated that appointment for literally months, hoping for a plan of action that would relieve our stresses. Instead, I nearly cried my way through the explanation to my husband about how the appointment went.

I received yet another letter, a couple of weeks later, stating my case was reviewed as being “semi-urgent” and I should expect an appointment date within six months for my colonoscopy. Six months? ANOTHER six months on top of the four I had already waited since my initial visit with my GP? Yes, and nothing could be done to speed things up because there was a shortage of qualified personnel at the local hospital.

I trudged on, trying to push that heavy feeling aside. I tried vitamins and other supplements to help my fatigue be lessened, but all to no avail. I was home-schooling our 12-year-old daughter at the time, balancing the school schedule of our 8-year-old and dealing with health problems that were developing for her, operating my at-home business as the number one recruiting manager and Sales Leader in New Zealand, plus running the household in support of my hard-working husband. I was burning the candle at both ends, you could say.

July rolled around and I had a huge event happening in Tauranga. It was a Career Expo that I had organized for my team to be set up at, so I traveled up to support and assist them in building their recruitment leads. It was three days of hustle and great fun! However, I came home with a nasty cold. A week went by and the cold had gotten worse, so I again made an appointment to see my doctor. I don't usually make appointments for colds and such, as I prefer to let them run their course without antibiotics, but this time our family had a four-day weekend away planned. It had been on the books for months, and included staying with dear friends who were really looking forward to seeing us. I wanted to ensure I was fit and healthy for that trip, if at all possible.

The doctor did prescribe antibiotics, which I immediately started. Within 24 hours, I developed intense cramping and diarrhea. If you get a little squeamish about bodily functions, now would be a good time to skip a few paragraphs. It wasn't just “normal” diarrhea, folks. It started out that way for the first day or two, a few unpleasant trips to the en-suite throughout the day, and another couple at night. But the intensity increased, as did the frequency, and here comes the really yucky bit...blood made an unwelcome appearance.

I thought it was just my tummy reacting to the antibiotics. I had learned in my 33 years of wisdom (and 12 years of parenting) that stomachs aren't usually too pleased with antibiotics. So I said to myself, and my worrying husband, “It'll be alright! I'll just wait and see what happens when I finish the antibiotics.” Day seven came and went, and there were two obvious facts present: 1) my stomach was in serious rebel mode and 2) my cold had not improved at all.

Hubby then insisted I have another appointment. He actually ended up making the call for me because I had become weak and lethargic by that time. The amount of “fluids” that had exited my body were no doubt leaving me very little nutrition to function with. He came home to collect me and explained that my normal doctor couldn't see me on such short notice, but I had an appointment with another doctor. I didn't care, to be honest. I just wanted someone to help put me out of that misery!

Sarah was the new doctor's name. I'll never forget her kind face and the sympathetic understanding she showed me. She listened to the story, asked a few more questions, took her stethoscope to my chest and announced my cold had definitely progressed into pneumonia. She issued another round of antibiotics, careful to make sure it was a different type this time, and told me to drink as many fluids as possible. I was nervous about taking any more antibiotics, but at the same time I immediately trusted Sarah and was prepared to do whatever she suggested.

As that week went by, the diarrhea didn't stop, but my cold improved and the rattle in my chest slowly lessened. I still felt like absolute rubbish though! The cramps that were attacking my guts had me doubled over more often than not. The carpet became worn from my 20+ trips to the bathroom each and every day. The amount of blood I was losing was becoming increasingly worrying and I couldn't get out of bed except for those much-needed rushed journeys to the toilet. Everyone was having to look after me and themselves, plus I had just caused us to miss our vacation. I really felt horrible.

At the end of that week, I was finishing up the second dose of antibiotics. I was still trying to convince myself, and my family, that once I stopped taking them, my guts would start to settle and things would get back to normal. But I was also still losing weight faster than a bride the month before her wedding! My husband was skeptical and cautiously observed me like a hawk, feeling concern like he never had for me before. You see, I was the farm girl; capable of just about anything, strong and smart, ready to do whatever it took to get a job done, etc. He had never seen me in such a vulnerable and needy state in the 12 years we had been married. It was his worry, though, that likely saved my life.

By Tuesday of the following week, he was not having any more of my “let's just wait and see” business. He made another appointment and left work to drive the 20 minutes home to get me. I remember being so weak and nervous, unsure about what was going on and frustrated that I had become so ill. I've always been an independent and strong-willed person, so it really irritated me to be so much in need of him. But I was also appreciative and thankful that he was taking action, at a time when I simply didn't have the capacity to do anything for myself, including make an appointment and drive myself to town for it.

We sat down in her office, yes, it was Sarah again. I could barely hold myself up in the chair, could hardly muster up the strength required to make my breathes turn into words. Eventually, we got to the part where Sarah said, “There's more to this than just your stomach not liking antibiotics. I'm sending you to the hospital to have some blood work done and I want you to bring in samples for testing.”

“Okay,” I thought. “We're going to get to the bottom of this (no pun intended) and I'm going to feel fine again. It'll be alright. I sure hope it doesn't take too long.”

My new, lovely doctor told us before we left, “If you get any worse, I want you to call immediately. None of this 'being brave and waiting' stuff anymore!” Then she looked at my husband and he gave her a “Yes ma'am” nod, knowing it was going to be up to him to follow through with those orders because I never want to cause a fuss.

Blood was drawn (I was a little surprised my veins were willing to cooperate after how much had been lost by “other means”) and I was sent home with the sterile container for the dreaded “sample” in demand. If I knew then how public my stools were about to become, I'd have not been quite so shy.

A couple of days passed by and I phoned in on the Friday to ask how my lab results had turned out. Sarah returned my call and asked me to give her an honest answer about how I was feeling.

“I can't lie to you, I am really struggling. The bleeding, the cramps, the constant diarrhea is still going on. I have absolutely no energy for anything. I'm at the point where I wish I could set up a cushioned toilet seat with seat belts to just hold me up and I could stay there all day and all night instead of having to get up 20 times.”

“Nicole. You're not going to like what I'm about to say. I want you to go to the hospital, immediately, I will call them and tell them I want you admitted through the ER. They will be expecting you. This is not OK. You have toughed it out long enough. It's time to find out what's going on.”

You know what folks? I've never felt more excited about a trip to the Emergency Room. I had become so weak, so scared, and so exhausted, that I was actually looking forward to being in a hospital for a couple of days. I was yearning for people to look after me and fix me, to know I was going to be okay. That was August 19th, my husband's birthday. It was a Friday afternoon and I thought I'd be ready to go home by Monday. It was going to be a nice little “vacation.”

Wrong!

To read Part 2-- The Answers, and Part 3-- The Process, please click here and scroll straight to the headline "Part 2" to get started.

I have shared my story here because I once thought I’d never be able to work again due to the impact these conditions have had on my body. The frustration, disappointment and resentment ate away at me and took me into a dark place of depression and woe. I WANTED to be working and contributing to the family income. I didn’t want to be a warm body in the house, one that everyone else had to tiptoe around because of her fragility. I wanted to use my brain and my skills to help others, even if my physical body couldn’t.

That’s when I found freelance writing, out of determination to simply DO SOMETHING. The health benefits of this work have become astounding. I no longer spend most of my day in bed or on the couch, scrolling through social media and playing Words With Friends. The endorphins have started pumping again and I literally feel better, both mentally and physically. I have steady work streaming in after a short period of persistent dedication to my new journey. You can read about that here if you’re interested. The excitement and creative activity keeps me looking forward to checking in, keeps me looking for more, and keeps me engaged.

I hope this helps others realize their dreams don’t have to be put out of sight due to health issues or other life challenges. It just may take a little longer or require a different path, but you don’t have to give up on the journey. Be kind to yourself, accept your limitations, and utilize your abilities. You may very well surprise yourself! Just “Keep on keepin’ on!” It really will be alright.