I had a follow-up visit with the clinic’s nurse practitioner the week after I began treatment for pneumonia. All was going well and continued to go well. In early February, I had an X-ray and another visit with her. All was good.
But about two weeks later, on a Friday, I started experiencing the same symptoms I had with pneumonia. I called the nurse practitioner on Monday morning, and she advised me to get another X-ray. I scheduled it for that day in the late afternoon.
When I arrived at the facility, the receptionist informed me that the machine was not working. I suggested rebooting it, which, it turned out, was already underway. Since it was uncertain whether the machine would be ready before closing time, the receptionist gave me the address of a nearby facility that was open later.
I left and was in the process of ordering a ride when the receptionist hurried out and let me know that the machine had been restored. I returned and had the examination.
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A few minutes after I got home, the nurse practitioner called. She asked, “Can you get to the emergency room right away?” She explained that I had a pneumothorax. I had never heard the word before. I asked whether this was life-threatening; she made it clear that the matter was very serious. I responded, “I have to live. I have a cat.”
I asked, and she confirmed that the clinic had staff on duty at the hospital. I felt that I would be among friends.
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I gave Eve food and water for a day, packed a small bag, and had a friend drive me to the hospital.
The surgical team was ready for me. There was a surgeon in charge, and another surgeon who would perform the subject procedure to master it. There were also several young people, whom I believe were interns, observing.
The surgeon introduced himself and his colleague. My recollection is that I had another X-ray with a portable machine wheeled into the room. The next step was to take an ultrasound video. The surgeon showed me the result: only one lung was functioning.
After that, the surgeon and I talked. He was an immigrant from one of the countries I have long focused on.
He asked me about myself, and I mentioned that, among other pursuits, I am an advocate for international liberty. He mentioned his philosophical views, which, remarkably, match mine. We had a brief, intriguing discussion, but then had to get on to the matter of saving my life.
The surgeon explained that there was a rupture in one lung. The cause was uncertain; a pneumothorax can be spontaneous. They would have to open my chest to release the air trapped in my chest cavity; the air pressure could compress both lungs. I asked whether they would have to cut my chest open. Fortunately, they would just have to make a small incision.
He cautioned that there might be some pain. I responded that I am tolerant of pain and that, regardless, I had to live — I have a cat. He was sympathetic — his family has three cats. At this point, the fact that I had this surgeon seemed miraculous. What rapport!
The surgeon guided his colleague. I liked her, too; she was kind and gentle. She administered local anesthesia, made a small incision, and inserted a tube into my chest. There was virtually no pain. The tube remained in place during my stay; the lung would repair itself.
We were done. I thanked both surgeons and was wheeled to my room. I called two loved ones and let them know that I was fine.
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I ended up having to stay that night and the next. I arranged for my friend to give Eve another day of food and water.
Everyone at the hospital was kind and compassionate. I especially liked the two nurses I had during the night shifts. They were both immigrants and both sweet. The hospital had a system for nominating personnel for special recognition, and I listed both.
On the second day, the nurses had me walk around the halls to help my recovery and establish that I could walk on my own. I was very weak but was already getting stronger.
I was so happy to get home and be with Eve. She misses me every time I go out, so I am sure she was relieved to have me back.
The next day, I returned to my normal life and soon regained all my strength.
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When I had a follow-up X-ray, I told the story to both the receptionist and the technician. I explained that they had helped save my life. The technician had quickly fixed the machine, and the receptionist had summoned me back to the facility. If the X-ray had been delayed, I do not know whether it would have been reviewed that afternoon. Regardless, any delay would have added to the risk I was unknowingly facing.
A representative from the health organization affiliated with the clinic, hospital, and radiology center was present. I told her the story as well so that the technician and receptionist could be recognized for their good work.
And when I had a follow-up visit with the nurse practitioner, I thanked her, too, for helping save my life.
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As I had previously experienced, a threat to life makes us focus on what we value most and how we are most needed.
Survival also makes us appreciate life even more.
We savor what is good, taking nothing for granted.We embrace the beauty of nature, every creature wonderful, every flower a gift.
We find a child’s happiness precious, a cat’s purring soothing.
And we see the best in the special people in our lives.
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Recovering from serious medical problems also makes us appreciate the kindness and compassion of people in healthcare.
And we feel more sympathy for people who suffer in any way; our hearts grow.
