Party Like It's 1999 (Part Deux)

In honor of the 10th anniversary of my worse hospital visit, I'm sharing with everyone a paper I wrote freshman year of college detailing my experience back then. Part 1 is posted below. Enjoy and mazal tov on this special occasion.

It all started when I got sick the week before. My parents didn’t know what to do so they called my doctor. There was no answer. He was a great doctor, the person who successfully diagnosed me with Crohn’s disease. Before that one doctor called my mom paranoid, while another said it was a simple bug. But finally we had found a doctor who not only believed us but actually went out and did something about it. He was in his sixties, a superb doctor who looked like Clint Eastwood with a humble and sympathetic demeanor. But when we needed him more than ever he ditched us to go on vacation with his wife. The summer is a time of camp, vacations, and other fun activities that make it too hard to pick up the phone. But this doctor was the worst of all; He didn’t even need to pick up the phone to call, we did all that. He just needed to answer the other line and offer some assistance, but instead we just got an answering machine.

Being in the hospital with no doctor was no comfort. The hospital knew my case but without a superior to watch over me, they just played around. I’m not an easy patient as I’m allergic to penicillin, cipro, clindamycin, and vancomycin. The hospital didn’t seem to care, though. They pumped me with so many concoctions of antibiotics, they didn’t even know which ones I was allergic to anymore. So all alone with no one constantly watching over me I began to get even sicker. At first it was just the fever, but with the antibiotics I got a purple rash all over my body, then red boils on top of the rash, until I began to look like Barney with the chicken pox. I dropped to less than eighty pounds, couldn’t walk, and was fed intravenously. But worst of all was the loneliness. They had a doctor come in to see me and he asked if I ever contemplated suicide. “Of course not,” I answered, astonished that the question was even asked. After that scenario, it became brutally clear that the hospital couldn’t handle my health as well as my general well being. It wasn’t only the doctor’s fault, though, in general I felt very lonely. Most of my friends were in camp or away for the summer and so I relied on infrequent calls, occasional letters, and a few scattered visits. It was a lonely experience. People I depended on for care and friendship left me alone with a broken heart and liver.

With no friends to talk to or doctor to complain to, I began to depend on my family. They were the only ones who never left me for a moment. My dad even stayed by me for three weeks, sleeping in a chair less comfortable than my bed, eating the food that I couldn’t touch (and wouldn’t have even if I could), and fighting to get me healthier everyday. His karma must’ve done it, because a week into Beth Israel and I was transported to Columbia Presbyterian. There, I found my savior. He was always there, and continues to be to this day. He would not only answer the phone but even dial it just to see how I was doing. He saved my life, my liver, and my sanity. He got me off the antibiotics, out of bed, and even made me eat that gooey, slimy hospital food. A tall man, with grey hair and shiny white streaks, this amazing doctor discovered that I had sclerosing cholangitis in my liver, which was an offshoot of the Crohn’s. Born in Venezuela, he studied medicine in Israel, and is one of the most famous and respected gastroenterologists in the country. His portrait in my mind seems to shine over me like an angel, with his empathy and smile dominating his old-fashioned style. On a packed day, sitting in his waiting room up to an hour you can get called into his office and feel like the only patient he saw all day. He, my parents, and some friends became my true supporters.

That summer was a time of transition for everyone. For me, it was a complete transformation. I became aware of the limits of my health, was told for the first time I’d need a liver transplant, and saw first hand that doctors don’t always know what they’re doing. At the same time, I became extremely dependent and connected with my family, even at a time when you’re supposed to rebel at everything they tell you. I found out who my true friends were, I found a great hospital, and an amazing doctor who I still see to this day. It wasn’t the summer I planned, it was the summer I lived. Lying in a hospital bed, not seeing the sun for weeks, it was the most meaningful summer I’ve ever had.