So averse is the human body to the specter of physical pain, it will rewrite its own history to erase any memory of the experience. Any woman who’s labored through childbirth (more than one time) is a testament to this assertion.
My body and I are no strangers to pain. But having survived (and forgotten) the pain of two childbirths and some emergency surgeries over the years, I was surprised one recent evening -- as I was sautéing spinach -- when it struck again.
I tried to ignore the ache in my abdomen but it distracted me to the point of ruining the spinach. I went upstairs to change into something more comfortable -- clearly too-tight jeans were the cause of my discomfort. With the headline, “She’s Really Let Herself Go” flashing through my mind, I stepped into my elastic-waist pajamas and returned to the kitchen.
But my sartorial deflection didn’t help: by the time I excused myself from the dinner table and headed for the living room, the pain was intermittently intense and then vanishing. Nineteen years after my younger child’s birth I was using Lamaze breathing to control the pain -- and it still didn’t work.
I writhed on the couch futilely trying to find a comfortable position, then my husband walked in.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing at all!” I told him. Grabbing an L.L. Bean catalogue, I added casually: “I’m in the middle of this article and I’m dying to finish.” If he noticed I was holding it upside down, he didn’t say a word.
I’m fairly stubborn and it’s not Keith’s style to badger me with questions he knows I won’t answer. His eyes narrowed Clint Eastwood-like, which I found truly adorable even in the midst of my spasms. We smiled at each other; he shook his head and returned to the kitchen. I pressed my face into the couch cushion and screamed.
A few hours later I determined my clothing was not the culprit. It could only be one thing: Very Bad Gas.
I imagined an emergency room scenario:
“What seems to be the trouble, young lady?” asks the handsome, straight-from-“ER”-doctor in his crisp white short-sleeved doctor-y shirt. His name is sewn in perfect cursive above his breast pocket.
“The pain is terrible,” I moan. “There must be an animal inside my abdomen trying to chew its way out.” The smiling nurse administers liquid beads of painkillers that bubble and drip into the IV. George Clooney smiles sympathetically and pats my head like I’m an old Collie.
He folds his arms and cocks his head. “When was the last time you had a BM?”
I find the line of questioning embarrassing: it wasn’t exactly the way I’d envisioned my first conversation with George Clooney. But in the interest of not dying I answer accurately: “Oh, I don’t know… Three days ago?”
George Clooney’s expression darkens as he morphs into Charlton Heston-as-Moses. He majestically points toward the exit, his voice booming loudly for everyone to hear. “Go forth from here. There is room not for trifling in this Place of Medicine. Findeth thou a potty and never return to my emergency room!”
I shuddered with the memory of an actual visit to the emergency room I’d made seven years before, for similar symptoms, that ended with two life-threatening abdominal surgeries and a month-long hospital stay. It couldn’t possibly be happening again. Nope, I decided. The emergency room was out of the question.
I tried to meditate. Closing my eyes I inhaled deeply, imagining myself on the summit of my favorite Adirondack mountain on a clear summer day. I could hear leaves shimmying in the breeze and smelled fragrant pine…
The pain seemed to be easing. I continued the bucolic reverie a while longer just to make sure, then opened my eyes and remained motionless for a few minutes, waiting. Yes, it had stopped -- gone as quickly and mysteriously as it had appeared a few hours before.
“Are you sure we don’t need to go to the ER?” my husband asked me one more time as we climbed the stairs to our bedroom.
“Of course not! I’m all better,” I told him, shakily but truthfully.
The pain disappeared most of the night. I managed to get some sleep before it started again early the following morning. And it had become much worse, now accompanied by nausea and vomiting. Not wanting to worry him any more than I already had, I didn’t mention it to Keith, who went to work after breakfast. I drove myself to the emergency room with a metal bowl on my lap.
Shivering in a sterile cubicle after a mere nine-hour wait, I received the diagnosis: a lower intestinal obstruction. After delivering the news, a young female doctor (perhaps age 15) who said the word “like” -- like, a lot -- was poised to thread a naso-gastric (NG) tube up my nose, down my throat and into my stomach.
Keith had joined me in the ER soon after my arrival and stayed close, stroking my hair. He looked queasy and asked if I needed him to stay for the upcoming procedure. I shook my head and he bolted from the room.
Dr. Hannah Montana: “’Kay, first off?” she asked me. I nodded, wincing at the sound of her squeaky voice. “I need you to totally relax?” she said, dangling the clear plastic snake a few inches from my face. I am not a fan of up-talking: was she telling me or asking me? I was in mortal pain yet I still managed to be linguistically critical. She continued, “Can you, like, take a few deep breaths and calm down for me?”
I stared at her, simply unable to speak.
“Try and touch your chin to your chest for me.” she sang. “That’ll open up the passage so the tube goes down easily?” I didn’t move. She put her teeny hand on my arm, leaned in close and added conspiratorially, “In medical school? We had to pair up and insert NG tubes into each other’s noses. I was awesome at it. Everyone wanted to be my partner. Okay?”
Well, okay. Pain seized me and I finally gave in, lowering my chin to my chest. A male nurse standing on my other side handed me a Styrofoam cup with a bendy straw poking out. “Take small sips of water and keep swallowing as you feel the tube going down,” he told me.
“Wait, wait,” I stalled, pushing all the hands away from my face. “Is this torture really necessary? Why can’t you guys just load me with more painkillers until I’m better? It’s working, right?” Dr. Montana answered: “Frequent infusions of Dilauded notwithstanding, the NG tube will, like, reduce the pressure on your intestines and stop the pain and vomiting.” I was glad she didn’t miss that day of school.
“Grey Goose or Belvedere?” I asked the nurse as I took the cup. “Because I’m more of a Grey Goose girl.” He smiled but didn’t answer. Dr. Montana, fingers perilously close to my nose, chimed in. “I know, right? Totally!”
I closed my eyes and sipped while she lubricated the tip of the tube and began threading it into my nostril. I managed to “calm down,” having no interest in prolonging or repeating the moment. With each swallow I could feel the end of the tube snaking its way through my nose and down my throat. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but was profoundly uncomfortable.
Once inserted the tube felt like a little piece of hard candy that needs an extra push down. I swallowed madly but it didn’t move. The nurse had secured the extruding end to my nose with (thoughtfully, flesh-colored) tape, attaching it to a clear container on the wall behind me. He turned the knob above and the suction began with a whoosh. I could see the tube come to life from the corner of my eye and feel it from the depths of my stomach.
Dr. Montana asked me to, like, “rate” my pain on a scale of one to 10. I’d gotten used to answering this question, an apparent emergency room favorite, and had been accurately responding in the range of 11-to-25. I suddenly realized the pain had all but subsided. It was already becoming a shadowy dream.
“Um. Like, two?” I told her.
“Cool!” she answered.
“Totally,” I said.
If the tube worked so well, I wondered, couldn’t they just leave it in indefinitely? Then again, I decided as I saw my husband’s expression upon returning to the room, maybe not.
But just seeing his face made me happy, and I forgot all about the pain. Again.
