Duelist
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Post by Duelist on Jun 2, 2018 3:22:11 GMT
The worst flight I'd been on was with Air Asia X. Nothing too bad, I was just tall enough for the seats to be too small for me and as annoying as it was for me, the woman in front had my knees in her back for three hours.
That said, the only reason I'd avoid flying with them is that I hate Gold Coast airport.
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guest@proboards.com
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Post by Deleted on Jun 2, 2018 3:39:20 GMT
Forgot to mention. I fucking love takeoff. Every time. Absolutely wonderful sensation.
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Post by DragonKingReborn on Jun 2, 2018 6:17:37 GMT
Forgot to mention. I fucking love takeoff. Every time. Absolutely wonderful sensation. Fucking psychopath.
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ღ Twelfth Level Geek
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Post by Jeremiah12LGeek on Jun 2, 2018 11:29:27 GMT
Okay, I guess I can drag it out. Be aware: IT IS A NOVEL. Open at your own risk. Woke up on Friday morning, scheduled to leave that night. I'd had some chest pain, but I chalked it up to the either the bar the night before (which allowed smoking) or sleeping on a fold-out that had a steel bar at about lung level, making it a bit uncomfortable to sleep on. The words "a bit uncomfortable" would later be permanently stricken from my vocabulary.
At 10 a.m. or so, I was hit with the violent, painful coughing fit. In retrospect, I believe my lung partially collapsed during that fit. I'd had an X-ray years before, where I was warned that I had abnormally large lungs, that would be prone to collapse. Of course, at the time, I was young, and therefore both immortal and invulnerable, so I ignored that concern.
I took some hydromorphone that I was kindly given by someone who could see how much pain I was in. It helped, although not too much.
The powerful cough suppressant that I took at least helped prevent a recurrence of the violent fits, but a mild persistent dry cough was still a problem.
We decided to fly me out as scheduled, because I forgot to buy health insurance (first time I've been to the U.S. without it.) At the airport, I was extremely nervous about what the air pressure might do to my lungs, but the pain wasn't too bad, and the cough was under control. We had upgraded me to a seat alone at the front of the plane, to give me room to stretch if I needed it.
I was very uncomfortable as we took off, and the moment our altitude began climbing, things went from bad, to worse, to worst. Besides an incredible amount of pain, I was incapable of breathing, except for ansurdly tiny, shallow breaths that were doing basically nothing.
I tried to tell the steward that I couldn't breathe, and he understood right away, despite my lack of English.
He hooked me up to an oxygen tank, while another attendant began asking for a doctor on board. With luck, there was one (who sat wih me the whole flight, she was wonderful.)
By the time we reached altitude and things had progressed to "medical emergency," we were closest to Savannah airport. So the announcement went out, and I did what I had been doing the whole flight - stare blankly in front of me with an oxygen mask on my face, wondering how on Earth I was still conscious.
The doctor was a godsend. She kept track of my oxygen and pulse, but mostly reassured me over the next 45 minutes, until the plane descended into Savannah, Georgia.
When we finally landed, two EMTs were already there, and I could actually breathe again. At 35 000 feet, it was like someone had tied a belt around my lungs and cinched them completely.
The EMTs rushed aboard, and were confused as to why they had been called for a medical emergency, since they said I clearly wasn't having a heart attack. It was a little hard to explain to them how important breathing was, while I was still having some trouble doing it.
They handed me off to 2 different EMTs with an ambulance, who believed that my lung had probably collapsed. They treated me, and asked me a lot of questions about everything (I would eventually realize that I would be answering the same questions every time someone new saw me, and I did.) Mostly, they took great care of me while getting me to a hospital.
With sirens and everything, I was escorted by 2 police cars to Savannah Memorial Hospital, where they rushed me to the EKG machine (it turns out that the EKG machine is the most important thing in the hospital, if you live in a country where you can sue your doctor!)
They set me up in an emergency room, took an X-ray, and confirmed what the second set of EMTs had suspected, that my lung had collapsed.
I spent a lot of time in that room, getting very nervous, since I had been told that the treatment for a collapsed lung involved a seriously large needle going into my chest all the way to the deflated lung.
Eventually, a team seemed to coalesce around me, prepared to do the procedure, and they gave me a sedative and some anesthetic. I passed out, and woke up an hour later, groggy, and feeling no pain. That was because I hadn't had a procedure done! I didn't know what happened until about another hour later, when I was told by one of my nurses that a couple of people with gunshot wounds had been brought in, scrambling the emergency room, and they had to cancel my procedure. Of course, I couldn't understand how anyone could possibly be considered more important than me!
Over the course of the next 45 minutes, they got everyone together to do the procedure again. Unfortunately, they weren't able to give me any more sedative, so I was only going to be given anesthetic. And, it turned out that having had anesthetic in the last 3 hours, they could only give me 1/3 of what was recommended. That wasn't what I wanted to hear after being told that having a chest tube put in is one of the most painful procedures that a hospital performs.
They went forward with the chest tube, which hurt going in. However, it was manageable. Once it was in, and they started the suction, that was when the real pain started. I couldn't describe it if I tried, so I won't try. I was told they would give me morphine after the procedure. And they did. An hour later.
At that point, they said that they would be hooking me up to a morphine machine in a few minutes. And they did. 2 hours later. I spent most of those 2 hours begging for help to reposition myself so that I would be lying on my side, or for painkillers. I wasn't given either.
Finally, they transferred me upstairs, where they did actually give me a morphine machine. After another couple of hours with a morphine drip, the pain slowly receded back into the realm of "describable."
From there, oddly, the experience turns into a pleasant one (ignoring the tubes attached to every part of my body preventing normal bodily functions like getting up to go to the bathroom.)
For the next 2 days, I get to know the rotation of nurses and techs quite well, since they are checking on me every hour or two. They are all lovely people. Since I'm no longer constantly groaning in pain, I make an effort to be friendly. This doesn't come naturally to me, but they don't seem to mind, and quickly learn to tolerate my various bad jokes.
The device that delivers my morphine (aka "my best friend") also handles my IV, and is a cranky bastard. It starts beeping loudly and annoyingly at the drop of a hat. So much so, that sometimes, I don't even have to press the call button to deal with it, because the nearest nurse will charge in to stop the annoying noise upon hearing it. I remember suggesting that the angry machine was probably its own solution - simply hook the morphine drip back into the machine, and its mood will improve tremendously! Of course, if anyone tried to take my morphine away for real, I'd have to fight them to the death. In my current condition, I'd lose. I was probably lucky none of them took me seriously.
I am informed the next morning, after a CT scan, that I should receive surgery, that would involved remoiving the "bullays" in my lungs, and using staples to close them. In addition, some lining would be removed to create scar tissue that would help prevent a recurrence. (Later in the story, there is much hemming and hawwing on the Canadian side, before they decide to do exactly that surgery.)
At this point, I'll throw out again that I don't have insurance for this trip to the U.S., the only time I've ever traveled there without it. Of course, this surgery will cost frightening amounts, so my father talks to a Thorassic surgeon that he knows, and we put him in contact with my American Doctor, and they all agree stick a bag with a Heimlich Valve on my chest tube, and let my father drive me back to Canada. It's 19 hours, and we have to complete it in two days. Rather, my father has to complete it in two days. I have to sit there and not die.
It takes a while for them to become completely comfotable letting me go, and they monitor me for another two days, but eventually I'm given clearance, and my cross-country bag-lung adventure begins. It's not too exciting. It mainly involves finding comfortable positions to sleep in at the hotel the first night.
Upon arrival in Ottawa, I go back to the joys of "the waiting game" and "bureaucracy." But not before the hospital does triage for Ebola. FOR FUCKING EBOLA. I shake my head, let them go through their "Ebola intake," then send me back to wait even longer for the "real intake," while they read a piece of paper to determine whether I contracted Ebola in Florida. After the "real intake" I discover that I am not covered by Canadian Health Insurance, either. Luckily, there are people involved in the system who have common sense, and have found ways around bereaucratic snafus that allow eligibile people to be covered, even after they arrive at the hospital. Still won't know for sure until later, but I am gradually convinced to stop worrying about this, and focus on the issue at hand - I NEEDS A LUNG.
The hospital has implemented a new porter system, and it would appear that as a consequence they have no porters. So, I end up waiting in Emergency, in a bright room on a stretcher for 6 hours, unable to sleep. Eventually, I'm moved up to the room I was to sleep in (just in time for breakfast.)
In the room are three other patients: a former nurse who makes no peep, the loudest snourer I've ever encountered, and someone who feels the need to share all the details of the dream he just had with the doctor at 6:30 in the morning while I'm trying to sleep.
I'm on a "no food or water" diet in preperation for the surgery (this happened in Goergia, as well.) I'm getting weak from the lack of food and water, and the pain meds (which help) are making me very loopy. By the time I get to the surgery itself, I'm barely able to move under my own power.
Then the surgery finally happens. I get a lot of reassurances. It is longer and more complicated than they expected. Even so, within hours of coming out of it, I am doing much better, but the pain spikes back up for those hours, and it takes a long time to get hooked up with a pain pump, so it's a rough time for me until the pain pump has been able to do its work.
FInally, the pain is under control, and for a while, everything is pure improvement. I can breathe better, I'm more alert, I can speak clearly, and I feel better than I have since before the lung collapsed a week before.
Then I spend two weeks being put on, and off, suction. It turns out the recovery time for surgery isn't an exact science. For several hours each time the suction is turned back on, things are pretty rough, as I feel a lot of pain in my chest. It generally settles down just in time for them to decide to take me off suction, and start the cycle again.
The nurses are all fantastic, which helps ease the experience of being stuck in a hospital bed for 3 weeks.
Eventually, they conclude that they're going to have to take me off suction, even if it means letting my lung collapse somewhat again, and simply hope that it reinflates after it has had some time to heal. During that time, I get to walk around with a Numostat (not that I know what one is, or how to spell it.) It's basically a little device that connects to the tube coming out of my lung, and stops me from dying. I hope.
Also, I'm not supposed to do strenous things, like try and connect to the internet, or deal with Ontario bureaucracy (two things which I am, unfortunately, required to do, under the circumstances.)
It would appear that Ontario has decided that I am alive, and am an Ontario resident, and will therefore allow me to receive Ontario Health coverage, after all. The suckers.
The tubes are removed, I am declared (more or less) alive and possessing the correct number of lungs, and released. Walking around without tubes actually feels a little weird, at first, but it doesn't take long before I feel much better.
I believe that is an edited copy, but I didn't take the time to confirm it, so it may still have spelling/grammar stuff (not that anyone cares about that, right?)
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