My Great Diabetes Adventure | Street Jazz

Friday, July 9, 2010

My Great Diabetes Adventure

Posted By on Fri, Jul 9, 2010 at 9:58 AM

I wrote this story several years ago, after a harrowing adventure in the ICU. While I don't recommend the experience to anyone else, I am a firm subscriber to the belief that it is a poor experience one can't get an article out of

My Great Diabetes Adventure
Written by Richard S. Drake


As I explained to the EMTs, all my problems would be resolved, if they would just stop

the ambulance so I could get out and urinate somewhere - anywhere. Well, it made sense at the

time.


They, however, disagreed, and so I found myself on a hot July night in Springdale, lost,

confused, and virtually insane, in the Intensive care Unit.


The situation I found myself in had seemed to develop with bewildering rapidity. For the

previous month I had been on on a rigorous diet, eating relatively little little but drinking a lot of

water and fruit juices. I was feeling like a new man as the weight came off. Unfortunately, I was

setting myself up for a major fall - a sudden onset of Diabetic Ketoacidosis, or a Diabetic coma,

as it is most commonly known.


I thought I was suffering from a virus; I was urinating a lot. Suffering from exhaustion,

and even throwing up a few times. And I was thirsty, really, really, thirsty. I'd had all these

symptoms in the past, usually connected with the flu or some other virus. This would all pass, I

told myself.


Isn't is funny how you can be pretty intelligent some times, and grotesquely stupid at

others?


But then I began to dissociate from the world at large. I've been involved with public

access television in Fayetteville since 1991, and we were having our annual summer celebration

of the First Amendment, Freedom Fest, the weekend of July 4. Being board president, it was

incumbent on me to attend. But when the day came, though I knew the day long event was going

on, I couldn't see how it had any relation to me.


That weekend I also began fixating on a television program my wife and I had watched in

Germany 30 years before. Well, I had been there, but my wife hadn't been. In fact, now that I

think back on it, I was remembering a show I had never actually seen.


Between severe headaches and sleeping a lot, I was also concerned with making sure we

had plenty of ice cubes in the freezer. I began stumbling into walls, and got lost in a panic in the

bathroom one night, when I couldn't find the light switch.


I couldn't eat, literally. Tracy made me a meal of peas and chicken, and bade me eat it,

but I couldn't swallow the chicken at all. I stumbled back to bed.


At this point she realized it was more than a flu virus I had. She called my best friend and

told him what was going on with me. His mother had suffered from Diabetes, so he recognized

the symptoms right away; he advised her to call an ambulance immediately, and he would meet

us at the hospital.


I walked out of the bedroom to find the EMTs waiting for me. If it was up to a vote, I

would have voted against going to the hospital, but it didn't seem to be a democracy at my house

that night.


After the ambulance ride (which can seem like an eternity, especially when you have to

pee) we found ourselves in Springdale. Checking my blood sugar, it was discovered that my

blood sugar count was 1358. Assuming that a normal range might be between 90 and 140, I had

certainly almost come close to setting some sort of record. I was insane, drunk on sugar.


The Discharge Summary from the hospital states that I was "disoriented, confused, and at

times agitated," but that hardly begins to cover it. I was terrified, and at times violent. It took six

people, including my wife, to restrain me - and that was just to fit me with a catheter.


The only clear memory I have of that night, other than the first few minutes after arrival,

was my terror, and my pleading with them to stop, or to sedate me first. "For the love of God," I

screamed, "please sedate me!" I called out for my wife and even my sister (a nurse who lives in

South Carolina) to help me. I've never been so scared in my life. It's been almost two months

since that night, but every day I recall it, and the terror fills me anew, though it seems to be

lessening with time.


I don't think they expected me to survive.


But by noon (I had been admitted after midnight), thanks to Insulin my blood glucose

level had dropped to a much safer 141. I made what the Discharge Summary referred to as a

"dramatic recovery" from my confused and agitated state of the previous night.


But before I achieved a state where I could be described as even mildly lucid, I had to

survive the night. Part of that meant I had to survive mentally.


I was partially blind, disoriented, and in terrible pain. I had no idea where the hell I was.


In order to cope with the confusion, my mind conjured up four different scenarios to help

explain my new world to myself. Some people say I read too much, but I think that's what may

have kept my mind together in those long hours, restrained to a bed in ICU.


I began to fantasize that I was in a French hospital, around the time of the first world war.


In my mind, the nurses all had French accents, and were discussing my condition with

someone - my wife? - while I writhed in terrible pain. I remember the nurses were incredibly

kind. In my mind, I saw dim white walls, and a window overlooking a French city. How I knew it

was French I'll never know, but there you have it.


I have read a lot of Earnest Hemingway, with A Farewell to Arms being my favorite of

his works. If he wasn't literally in the room with me, his words certainly were.


The next I knew, I was in a cold and sterile German hospital, the sort of place where Ian

Fleming would place James Bond, just prior to being tortured in some evil way. These are the

sort of scenes that never make it into the films, but they are there in the books, in all their sadistic

varieties - even as a teenager I wondered if Fleming wrote the novels just as an excuse to write

about torture.


I remember the nurses here as being not so pleasant, even though they were undoubtedly

the same nurses who had nursed me in the French hospital. "Sit back, Mr. Drake!" I recall

hearing (several times) as I struggled in the bed. It was probably at this point they figured it was

best to restrain me. I was probably a real pain in the ass at this point.


Though I didn't undergo any of the tortures 007 would have endured, it certainly felt as

though I were. I didn't like this place at all.


The next fantasy was my favorite; I was a bomber pilot over Germany in World war II. I

didn't actually drop any bombs, though (maybe even in my delusional state I didn't want to kill

any innocent people) - instead, I imagined I was communicating with German code breakers -

who were, in all actuality, Arkansas nurses. I'm not sure they realized the role they were playing

out in my fantasy.


Speaking a sort of half-remembered German mixed with English, I attempted to make

friends with these very friendly code breakers. I recall asking if any of them knew any jokes. One

repeated back to me Wimpy's famous line from the Popeye cartoons: "If you buy me a

hamburger today, I'll gladly pay you back on Tuesday."


The illogic of the situation never occurred to me; why would German code breakers be

amiably chatting over the radio with an Allied bomber pilot?


The last full fledged fantasy was the hardest on me emotionally. I went from the semi-

friendly skies over Nazi Germany to a bleak Russian hospital, the sort where dissidents often

found themselves for years.


Why was I here? Had I really been here for months, as I imagined? Did anyone know

where I was? "Where is my wife?" I asked.


"She was exhausted after you were checked into ICU, so she went home to get some

sleep." What? That didn't make any sense; why would she be gone for months? Had she

abandoned me? Was I in a secret location?


A feeling of terrible loneliness came over me. I had been deserted in a foreign country,

unable to see clearly, and doped to the gills. I was in a hell of a situation here. At one point a

voice asked me if I knew where I was.


"I am on the Russian space station Mir," I joked. Even in a deluded state, I could still

make bad jokes. Maybe there was some hope after all.


I also asked for some sort of radio or television, so I could hear some international news. I

specifically mentioned BBC news.


"Sorry," a male voice explained, "our station doesn't carry that. But Mr. Bean was just

on."


"I hate Mr. Bean,"I groused. I drifted off again.


Finally, after what seemed like years (but could hardly have been more than half a day, I

was lucid enough to understand where I was. I still had mild delusions over the next several days

- after a vivid dream, I told a nurses' aide that her grandfather was a famous science fiction

writer, even supplying her with his name.


"Okay," she humored me.


I also imagined I watched an entire documentary on television one night on Biblical direct

marketing, using the Old Testament as a guide for designing and building your house, even going

so far as to what direction the door should face. Is there such a thing? Do people really take

advice from ancient folk who didn't even have indoor plumbing?


My most bizarre delusion came after a few days, when I was convinced (for a few

minutes) that Wal-Mart was determined to kill me in the hospital, after I thought I had

recognized one of my doctors from a Wal-Mart commercial. I had, after all, written about them

and some of their critics in the Ozark Gazette. I literally had no doubt that it was pay back time.


But as John Cleese says in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, I got better.


There are small things that can make a huge difference to someone in Intensive Care.

Living through the experience, for one thing.

Your first spoonful of ice chips, and your first glass of water. Your first real meal.

Looking forward to Sloppy Joe night. Not being restrained to a bed any longer. Your wife

holding your hand. Your best friend sitting with you. The kindness of strangers who are already

overworked with other patients.


A television channel changer that doesn't stay on one channel for hours at a time.


I still don't know everything about my behavior when I entered the hospital that night. I

don't know how much I want to know; I remember the terror I felt, and I still get the shakes

sometimes over that.


But I also remember the defenses my mind put up, to helping me to survive a horrifying

ordeal. The experiences of a lifetime of reading and watching old movies helped erect a wall to

keep me sane, so that I could survive. I am convinced that this, as much as any medicine I was

given, helped get me through.


And I'm glad I never actually bombed anybody in my World war II phase. There's worse

things to take pride in.

Little Rock Free Press - October 2004

rsdrake@cox.net

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