By Teena Myers
The last Sunday in June, I drove home from church knowing something was wrong. My husband, Rory, was working the weekend shift, so I called my son, who took me to the nearest hospital. I remember vomiting, telling my son to call his father, and concern on the nurse’s face. Rory arrived shortly before they admitted me to the hospital with Acute Gallstone Pancreatitis, and delirium.
The next few days were blank. Rory told me he heard me screaming with pain as soon as he stepped off the elevator. The doctors kept changing the medication, trying to manage the pain. I became incoherent. One night, I removed the IV and tried to leave the hospital nude. Thankfully, Rory stopped me before I made it out of the room. I earned a nanny camera, so hospital staff could monitor me.
The following Saturday, my son and his wife came to the hospital to give Rory a break from sleeping on a couch made of rocks too short for his six-foot stature. Sunday morning, he went to church. At the end of the service, Rory and a minister prayed God would restore my mind. He was on the way to his car when his cell phone rang, “Dad, come to the hospital. Mom just snapped out of the delirium.”
The doctor attempted to remove my gallbladder, but everything they touched with their instruments bled. They had no choice but to abort the surgery until the inflammation of my pancreas subsided. Over the next ten days, they treated everything that was treatable and sent me home with the disturbing truth ringing in my ears. A gallstone had caused the problem. They could not remove the gallbladder until my pancreas healed, and I could still have another gallbladder attack.
A week later, Rory brought me back to the emergency room in severe pain. This time they admitted me with a diagnosis of Necrotizing Pancreatitis. A gallstone had blocked the pancreas from releasing enzymes into the small intestine, which caused the corrosive action of the enzymes to destroy normal pancreatic cells. Over the next eight days, they treated what they could and performed two endoscopic procedures to remove the dead tissue on my pancreas.
The doctor sent me home with pain medicine and the news that some people with my diagnoses never go home, and my pancreas will not regenerate. As the seriousness of my condition dawned on me, a flood of love and prayers encouraged us. The prayers of these mostly faceless friends sustained Rory and me.
While laying on my bed suffering with the never-ending pain, I often felt Rory’s hand on my arm and heard him praying for me. But the heavens remained silent as I returned to the hospital three times in August for outpatient endoscopies to remove more dead tissue. An emergency room doctor admitted me to the hospital in September, and again in October. My pancreas remained too inflamed for the doctor to remove my traitorous gallbladder that damaged my pancreas. I lost seventy pounds, 80% of my pancreas, and needed a wheelchair.
Then a ray of light shined. My pancreas doctor showed Rory and me an image taken on my first admission to the hospital. He pointed to a big black spot on the pancreas. Then he showed us an image from the Cat Scan he recently ordered and pointed to a spot so tiny Rory, and I could barely see it. “Make an appointment with your gallbladder doctor,” he said.
I was ecstatic. We went to the doctor expecting him to approve the surgery. As he talked, my joy deflated like air escaping from a pierced balloon. He did not think I was strong enough.
“Can I still have a gallbladder attack?”
“Yes,” he said.
“There is one thing that weighs heavily on my mind. If I have another gallbladder attack, I could end up back at square one, doing all of this again.”
He leaned back in his chair to ponder my comment. He knew the risk of delaying the surgery. Another gallbladder attack might destroy the rest of my pancreas. And I would live the rest of my life as a diabetic dependent on prescribed enzymes to digest food.
“I will schedule the surgery,” he said.
My doctor was right. I wasn’t healthy enough for the surgery. An operation that usually takes thirty minutes lasted three hours. The doctors involved in the surgery said it was messy and complicated.
The trauma to my body and months of liquid diets left me extremely weak. Rory had to bathe me. My hair fell out in handfuls. I could walk from my bed to a living room chair, but if I fell, I could not stand up.
With my husband’s encouragement, I regained strength by inches. “Start small,” he said. “Walk from the front door to the back door.” I did that for weeks, then added walking to another room until I could walk to every room in my house.
I returned to the gym. Too weak to lift weights, I walked the track. But my attendance was sporadic and progress slow. Then I saw a flyer about a group class and signed up thinking a professional trainer would know what I needed, and a group would keep me motivated.
Lisa, the fitness trainer and triathlete, had bad news. I was the only one who signed up. I wanted the comradery of a group striving toward a common goal. I settled for personal training. A decision I never regretted. Lisa proved to be a gift from God. Both of us were in our 60s, which gave me confidence she understood what I needed. Her warm and friendly personality made her a joy to spend time with. She gave me tips on diet and kept me motivated by inviting me to join her in Spin class or swim laps with her at the pool. As she challenged me to exercise more, I grew stronger and worked harder and harder until she nicknamed me Relentless.
The experience tested my endurance, but never shook my faith in God. He never promised to make life easy. He promised we will survive. I did more than survive. I became a triathlete, who placed second in my age group at my first sprint triathlon.
©Teena Myers 2023
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