blood | Literature and Libation

Under Pressure

January 22, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

We’ll get back to good ol’ Literature and Libation classics as soon as my blood pressure normalizes.

I like to think I’m a healthy guy. I may not be a triathlete with bullet-deflecting-abs, but I run three to four times a week and lift weights when my body cooperates. I drink, but within reason, when reasonable. I eat well. Lots of veggies and fruit and not lots of cheese and oil-soaked sausage patties.

In direct correlation, my blood pressure is normally pretty great. 120ish over 70ish, depending on stress levels and how scary my attending doctor is. I’ve got good energy in that range. Energy that I can work with and mold and bend to my focused, writerly will. My normal blood pressure equates roughly to me feeling normal.

Enter the post-operative low-blood pressure monster. He is a cunning predator, waiting for the least opportune times to sneak in and put you on your ass. Low blood pressure is the worst kind of duplicitous; he’ll convince you that you feel great while sitting down, then hit you across the back of your head a hammer made of orthostatic hypotension, giving you a head-rush like you’ve never experienced.

And never wanted to.

As I was recovering from my recent procedure, I passed out for the first time in my life. OK, that’s lie. I’ve passed out before, but almost always as side effect from falling out of a tree, colliding with a soccer player, or generally doing something stupid that resulted in a surface harder than my skull winning our impromptu headbutting contest.

But I’ve never passed out in the middle of feeling otherwise great. It’s incredibly unsettling, akin to the feeling you have right after you discover you’ve been Jedi mind tricked and those were in fact the Droids you were looking for.

The actual sensation can only be described as “mortifyingly unpleasant.” You’re embarrassed that you suddenly forget how be conscious, but also get the joy of feeling like 100,000 tiny spiders are crawling across your brain, interrupting synapses, spinning webs of confusion and nausea.

It’s not something I’d do for recreation, that’s for sure.

I opted for an epidural instead of general anesthesia because hell, why not? I always wanted to have a baby. After the numbness in my legs had melted to a comfortable, dull buzz, I just had to wait until my vitals were back in acceptable ranges. My pressure had pretty much stabilized, I was feeling good, cracking jokes, getting the entire back-story of my nurse (she emigrated from the Philippines in 2002) because I’m the kind of person who is obnoxiously inquisitive even when barely conscious.

The doctors and nurses both cleared me to leave. I stood up from my special medical chair with no issues. Managed to get my tshirt and underwear on still feeling fine. Then I made an attempt at my jeans. I think I let my head hang a little too low, or moved a little too quickly. Before I could process what was happening, I collapsed into an Oliver-shaped pile on the floor. My nurse yelled for help, and the next thing I remember I’m on my back with an oxygen mask stuck to my face, talking to a doctor I’ve never seen who had apparently just emerged from a nearby operating room.

My systolic blood pressure had dropped into the 70s, which had in turn dropped me. It took hours for it to get back to where it was supposed to be, probably because it got lost in all the roadwork being done inside my bones.

For the past few days, I’ve been suffering from the scorched earth aftermath of a body incapable (or unwilling) to consistently maintain its blood pressure. The day after I got home, supposedly hydrated and closer to normal, I nearly passed out from the heat and activity of a shower. My wife saved me by giving me Oreos and telling me to close my eyes and breathe. Short walks to the bathroom and back feel like Baggins-esque odysseys to Mount (porcelain) Doom. I only feel lucid when sitting sedentarily or when sprawled across my bed like a decorative afghan.

But I can’t go through my life being an afghan.

It will take my body a few weeks to recreate the marrow and blood that was taken during the operation. Apparently, I’m in a fateful 10% of patients who have issues with blood pressure post-donation. I should blame myself for always wanting to be different. Until then, I’ll have to keep my activities low impact and low stress.

Guess that means a lot of writing. Recovery is hell.

I joked that I always wanted a baby when opting for the epidural. My wife and sister got me this balloon. My family knows me well.

How to Meet a Wizard

July 17, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Little known and oft ignored fact: there are thousands upon thousands of wizards living along side us. I know because I have apprenticed to a few, and am training to be a wizard myself.

Due to the fetters or civility and modern society, many of these people are forced to ply trades far less fantastic than traditional wizards. Since they can’t focus their powers on the arcane, they instead focus on being very good at one, specialized thing.

I was preparing a delicious serving of Carolina style short ribs when I decided that human blood might be a good addition to the recipe. My blood. Lots of it. From my thumb, via knife, into the delicious chili sauce.

This plan didn’t turn out as well as I had hoped, and I ended up hemorrhaging enthusiastically for several hours. I should have listened to my wife and gone to the hospital then and there, but I had to look tough, because, y’know. I wrapped the wound in Wendy’s napkins and duct tape, hoping that my mechanic’s bandage would staunch the bleeding and prevent the need for medical intervention.

My prescription of beer and Advil didn’t work. Turns out alcohol and ibuprofen are blood thinners. Who knew?

Admitting that perhaps this cut was beyond my healing abilities as a level 17 cleric, I drove around on Monday morning looking for an open Urgent Care or Patient First. I avoid hospitals when I can. Wizards don’t live at hospitals, anyway.

The man who saw me wasn’t even trying to hide that he was a wizard. A Stitch-Wizard, to be exact. He was five-foot-one, 85 lbs, wearing a red, 1970s paisley tie that was tucked into the top of his pants. His wrinkled skin betrayed years of scrutinizing eldritch magical tomes, and his puffed grey mustache was a vain attempt to distract from his amazingly shaped wizard beard. He spoke with power and wisdom; his eyes were kind and showed me ancient, guarded knowledge.

He used his magical powers to get rid of my thumb pain and stop the lifeblood from flowing out of my body. It was awesome.

Be observant when you are out and about, for you may be interacting with wizards every day.

What manner of man are you that you can sew up skin without spells and staves?

Full Frontal Phlebotomy

April 26, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Sorry folks, no beer today.

Instead of putting fluids into my body, I’ve signed up to have them taken out.

I’m donating bone marrow on May 11th to treat my father’s leukemia. This means the Johns Hopkins Hospital Phlebotomy staff get to have their way with me, whenever they want. I’ve never really loved needles, but I’ve also never feared them. I can’t really be mad at the needles though, they’re just trying to do their job.

They’ve taken a lot of blood from my 5’7, 150lb frame. Twenty-two vials two months ago, sixteen vials yesterday, a pint and little bit today. If not for that “Hospital” word being on every sign on every wall, I’d think this place was run by not-so-subtle vampires.

The hospital staff seems astonished at how healthy I am. I find this a bit surprising, as I’m pretty inconsistent with taking care of my body. I hope they don’t notice the extreme level of hops and barley that I assume have permeated my blood. Or the overabundance of caffeine that, given my coffee intake, has probably mutated my red cells into hazelnut hybrids.

But what’s a little blood and marrow for my Dad? For all he’s defended me from, all he’s taught me, all he’s paid for, the least I can do is give him a few bags of my vital fluids. I just think back to all those times he helped me up off the soccer field when I was legitimately hurt, and all those times he told me to walk it off when I was being a wuss. All those times he taught me which bolts to loosen in what order, to prevent an exhaust manifold from falling onto my head. And all those times he showed me what respect, confidence, humility, and bravery were all about, through his careful words and actions.

He taught me how to be tough, how to be awesome, and most importantly how to overcome any obstacle in life, no matter how massive or threatening. It seems fitting that I’m using all of those skills he passed along to get through this donation process.

But don’t misunderstand. The donation may be stressful and painful, but I’m excited to do it. Giving him my marrow (that really isn’t doing anything else right now) is a tiny gift, compared to the gifts he has given me.

Oliver 1 : Dad 4,322,012.

Against hospital rules, I took some pictures. Oops:

Stage 1: Empty

I have no idea what each of these are for. I asked, but my needle-bearer could only tell me what additives were inside. The tests being done on them remain a total mystery.

Stage 2: Extraction

These pictures suck because I was being all clandestine, trying to snap them with my phone when people weren’t looking. This needle is piffling compared to the 16 gauge sucker I had rammed into my veins this morning.

Stage 3: Filled

That’s a lot of blood. I feel a bit woozy. I’m going to go lay down for a while.