Coming Undone

Part 1 of my dramatic story, with insights and drool

Photo by Silvestri Matteo on Unsplash

Thank you to all of you who have offered prayers and support to me through my recent medical drama. I am home now, and feeling so much better. Every day, I am gaining strength, and I am so grateful to be alive. Thanks be to God for the gift of healing!

As promised, I’m going to be sharing some thoughts on my experiences here. These are longer writings that take a bit of time and effort, and so they will be behind the paywall. This is the first part here today, but I have more that will be coming later this week. If you have ever wanted to support me and my work, this would be a great time to do that. I would be so grateful. Let’s stay fully connected here!

It’s almost like I knew it was coming. I really didn’t, but I can look back at some of the horrific things I experienced in the past two weeks and know that for every minute of it, I was truly in God’s loving hands.

For starters, as you know, I have been revisiting the Diary of Saint Faustina, reading it slowly, a few pages a day, for a couple of months now. This re-reading has highlighted for me not only the precious gift of Jesus’ personal love, but the necessity of abandoning ourselves to his will. Even if it hurts. I have been pondering the idea of suffering, fascinated by Faustina’s earnestness when she refers to suffering as “the greatest treasure on earth.” I must admit to finding that perspective a little challenging. Fascinating, but challenging.

Early in the week that I got sick, I felt OK. On Sunday of that week, I returned from a weekend trip to Louisiana where I spoke at a marriage conference, and I was doing a quick turnaround at home, un-packing and then re-packing for a trip to New York City for a multi-day work event starting the next day. I was “busy mama,” getting stuff done, and didn’t have time to pause and think about how I was feeling. I mean, maybe my stomach hurt a little bit, but who could even be sure? I arrived in New York and checked into my hotel on Monday evening. I ordered dinner, but didn’t finish it. I felt…maybe just a little bit gross? Whatever. I was fine. 

Tuesday was a long day filled with meetings, workshops, and presentations. Late in the afternoon, when I heard about the event’s evening entertainment of live music at the rooftop bar across the street, I declined. I was tired, but I also wanted to get some work done.

Specifically, I wanted to record podcasts. With my son’s upcoming wedding May 18, I knew I needed to be working a little more ahead than I have been. I had packed my recording equipment in my carry-on and prepped notes for several episodes.

First, though, I had a quick video call to Australia. I was meeting with a new potential partner for the Girlfriends podcast, a custom Bible cover manufacturer. Evenings on the east coast were mornings for them, and we had decided this timing would work. My daughter Gabby has been helping me with this side of business for the podcast, setting up these calls for me, and it has been a great way to meet small Catholic business owners and potential podcast partners. 

We had a great conversation, though I did need to pause at one point and mute my microphone because I was coughing? Or gagging? I wasn’t really sick, but what the heck was going on with me? Whatever. I was fine. 

After the call, I texted Dan. “Do I have to eat dinner?” Not something I typically wonder about. “Yes,” came his immediate reply. 

I ordered dinner and I started recording podcasts. I sat in that chair for three and a half hours and recorded four podcasts. I felt driven to get it done. When I stood up afterwards, though, a sharp pain in my right side made me sit back down quickly. I tried standing more slowly and found that I needed to remain hunched over a bit. I didn’t want dinner. I wondered if I was going to throw up? Whatever. I was…fine. I took a shower and went to bed.

At about 3AM, I awoke, drenched in sweat, with scorching pain on the lower right side of my abdomen. I threw off the covers and half expected to see flames coming from my side. It was a searing, scorching pain. I shivered in the air conditioning, feeling both hot and cold at the same time. This is a fever, I thought groggily, typing symptoms into my phone. Appendicitis. For the first time since first feeling the pain, I considered this. I might need to go to the hospital.

That would be ridiculous, of course, but just in case…I opened my laptop and checked that things for work were in order for the following day. I sent two emails. I uploaded the podcasts I had recorded to Google Drive. I paced the room slowly, taking deep breaths and just willing the pain to go away. I took ibuprofen, went back to bed, and fell into fitful sleep. 

Jesus, I trust in you.

The next morning, the pain was still there, but it felt a bit “beneath the surface” for now. I showered, dressed, checked out of my hotel room, and left my suitcase at the front desk. My flight home was scheduled for late in the afternoon.

I found a seat in the room for my first workshop of the day, but it was hard to focus on what they were saying there. The pain was more persistent now, and every once in a while it intensified, taking my breath away. I started texting Dan, describing how I was feeling, and he replied in seconds: “Get out of there and call me.”

Dan furiously Googled while I talked with him and came back with: Appendicitis. We decided I was feeling well enough to get home, and so that’s what I should do. Get home as soon as I could and go to my doctor. 

I booked a new flight, leaving in just 90 minutes, and called an Uber. There was a ton of traffic and construction, and it would take me about 40 minutes to get there. I continued texting Dan from the backseat, where things seemed to be sliding quickly downhill. 

The pain was still persistent, dull then sharp, aching then burning. Was I going to throw up? I thought of a friend who recently told me that Uber drivers get a $100 bonus if someone throws up in their car and wondered if the nice lady behind the wheel was going to get lucky.

I was texting with my girls now too. They asked what my pain felt like on a scale of 1-10 and I answered 7. They found this worrisome. Maybe go to urgent care instead of the airport, they suggested. 

I felt like I was crumbling in the back seat. I took deep breaths. We were almost at JFK now, and I wasn’t sure what to do when I got there. When I arrived, I thanked the Uber driver who was none the wiser, and took small, slow steps toward the door. “Go inside, find a police officer, and ask for help,” Dan texted me. 

I was doubled over in pain, and it was so hard to walk. I paused once in a while to lean on my suitcase and take deep breaths. I saw a help desk and headed toward it. “I’m in a lot of pain,” I told the sweet young woman behind the desk, “and I need help.”

“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” she asked, and I hesitated. I mean, I did want her to do that. I knew I needed immediate help, and yet some part of me resisted the idea of causing so much trouble. The pain was only 7 out of 10. Maybe I could wait and see how things went?

She didn’t wait for my answer. “I’m calling an ambulance,” she said.

The funny thing about calling for an ambulance is that after you call, there’s some awkward waiting around time. My new friend and I looked at each other, and soon after, a young police officer from inside the airport showed up. Ramon. My phone used to auto-correct my son Eamon’s name every time I typed it, turning it into “Ramon.” Ramon looked about Eamon’s age and he had dark, kind eyes.

“Not having a good day?” he asked gently, and I started to cry. 

Hot tears streaked my cheeks as I answered his questions about where it hurt and how much it hurt and how long it had hurt and where I was from and how I was trying to get home. It was only when he pulled up a chair for me that I realized I had been hunched over my suitcase the whole time, clutching its handle in my white-knuckled fingers. 

Jesus, I trust in you.

After about 20 minutes, the ambulance did arrive and two paramedics came inside with a stretcher, Will and Ed. Will asked some questions about how I was feeling, and I could see immediately that he was not impressed with me and my “pain.” “Do you wanna go to the hospital?” he asked. “It’s up to you.”

“Yes,” I answered weakly. I felt like I was crumbling again.

“Can you walk?” he asked, and again I answered “yes,” though I mostly felt like I wanted to lie down on the gritty airport tiles beneath my feet and never get up again.

“Great!” he said. He packed up his bag and the stretcher, and headed straight for the door. Ramon helped me to stand, Ed took my bags, and we made our way, slowly, one tiny step at a time, far behind him.

In the back of the ambulance, I felt a little bit like Hannibal Lecter as they strapped and buckled me into a tall seat with seatbelts on both sides. Ed sat back there with me and Will drove. Ed asked about my family and told me about his. He asked about the pain, and when I wasn’t able to answer right away because I needed to breathe through it a bit, he pressed his lips together and said, “My dear, I’m not a doctor, but I can tell you what you have. You have appendicitis.”

I don’t know how long the actual drive to the hospital was, but it felt like hours of sitting in traffic, noise, and construction. There was no air in there. I texted Dan an update and found it strangely hard to type. My phone screen was fuzzy. The pain came over me in waves now, and I was starting to feel very far away. I pictured myself outside my body, floating above the ambulance, looking down at the scene inside. I watched as pain scorched my side and my body heaved violently. Ed scrambled to get me a plastic tub and I hung my head over it, retching, vomiting, spitting, and drooling. 

Jesus, I trust in you.

When we arrived at the hospital, Ed got me a wheelchair and pushed me into a tiny entryway filled with throngs of people coming and going. There were others in wheelchairs and some in beds. There were people with clipboards shouting in all directions and sounds of alarms in the distance. Disinfectant and human body odor filled my nostrils. Ed caught the attention of a young black woman with her dark hair tied up in a bright red bandana who was sitting in front of a computer, and he wheeled me into her space. I heard him tell her my name, but I could not hear what else he said. The young woman did not look at me. “Does she have insurance?” she shouted over the chaos, and then, after several minutes of clicking on her keyboard, “I’m putting her in GYN,” she said.

I closed my eyes and thought about that. GYN? Did she think I was having a baby? I felt too weak to ask.

Ed was back now, his face close to mine, speaking very slowly and carefully. He was handing me my backpack and telling me where my suitcase was. “I have to go,” he said. “Keep an eye on your things. Not all people are bad, but some people definitely are…they will take them.” 

Thank you, Ed.

I don’t know who pushed my wheelchair next, but I was brought into an enormous room, wall to wall with beds. There were people in the beds, some sick, some bleeding, some in pain, all just slumped in various directions. Some were quietly crying or sleeping, but others were shouting and crying out in pain or anger. They looked like bits and broken pieces of humanity heaped together in massive piles on mattresses. I thought of the unique, precious, unrepeatable gift of every human life and could not make the thought match up with what I was seeing. It looked like a war zone. I could feel the heavy weight of suffering in that room. There was pain everywhere. Is this how God sees us? I wondered.

I was pushed past this room and into a smaller one, thankfully with a door. There were only women here. GYN. A nurse gestured toward an empty bed. “This one is yours,” she said. “Keep an eye on your belongings.”

Pain wracked my body when I stood up, and I leaned forward to avoid falling down. I climbed onto the bed and tried to lie down, but the searing pain would not let me. I don’t know who got me a new plastic tub to vomit into, but I was grateful for it. My entire body tensed as endless waves of burning pain made their way through my abdomen. I recalled labor pains with each of my children’s births, and thought about how I would typically have brief moments of rest between contractions. I recall being so exhausted and feeling almost “drugged” by birthing hormones that I sometimes even fell asleep during these small breaks.

There was no sleep now. There were no breaks. Only pain. Jesus, I trust in you.

After some time, a young woman was brought into the room and given the empty bed next to mine. I heard someone call her Sandy. “I need help,” she said as the nurse left the room. “Don’t leave me here!”

Sandy sat upright in the bed and pulled the sheets over her head, furiously dialing numbers on her phone. “Thank you for calling our patient care center,” a recording blared from the speaker, “Leave your message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

“I am a patient at the hospital,” Sandy spoke from under the sheets. “I have pain and bleeding and no one will take care of me. I need help. This is no way to treat your patients.”

I thought she might be crying, but when she came back out from under the sheets, Sandy’s face was stone. When the nurse returned, she demanded to see a doctor. The nurse said, “The pain you’re having is not normal. It’s from the abortion. You still have product in there, and we need to have you seen so we can figure out what’s best. You have to wait.”

“I can’t wait, I need to GOOOOO!” Sandy cried. “If I’m not at work at 3:00 I’m going to be fired. Then who’s gonna take care of my two kids? You?”

“This is not a prison,” the nurse told her coldly. “You can leave.”

Through blurry eyes, I looked at Sandy. She didn’t even look 20 years old. I have never wanted to mother someone so badly as I did there in that moment. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to smooth her hair and tell her it would be OK. I wanted to tell her that she’s loved, and precious. That was the word that came to mind when I saw her young face. Precious. 

But I couldn’t speak. I had no strength, only shivers and heaving, sweating and pain. Tears spilled from my eyes as I prayed. Jesus, for you. Jesus, for Sandy. Jesus, I trust in you.

I don’t know how much time went by, but Sandy was gone now. “She went to work,” one nurse said to another as she stripped the bed for the next person. Then she stood over me, and I felt outside myself again. I saw her look at my chart and heard her shout to her colleague in the next room. “We’ve gotta get this one moving!” Something about five hours, something about a CAT scan, something about morphine…

I think I heard my name. Wait, yes, I definitely heard my name. Someone was calling my name from somewhere far away. I opened my eyes and at first saw only darkness, but then my eyes adjusted, and I saw a small sliver of light. The light opened up a bit, and I could see more light coming through a very long, dark tunnel. I looked through the tunnel and at the very end of it I saw a man wearing scrubs, standing in the doorway. He was so small and far away.

“Danielle Bean,” the man said, “Your husband is here.”

(To Be Continued…)