The Beginning, Part 1: ER Visit & The Heinous NG Tube

Friday, February 3, 2012 - 2 AM: My phone rings. 

"Liz I wouldn't ask, but the pain. It's not going away. Can you drive me to the hospital?"

I can't remember the last time I was in the ER. Scratch that—I can. My college roommate had gotten food poisoning from some bad meatballs. This will be like that. They'll hook Paul up with some fluids, prescribe him some meds, and send him on his merry way. 

But this is not like that, and he's not fine, and we won't be sent home anytime soon. And before we know it—Paul is cloaked in a hospital gown that's too small, retching into a dish that's also comically miniature. 

When he stops puking, we make ourselves comfortable and look forward to what has just become an extended weekend. Word! We laugh and take grainy photos with our flip phones. And then some doctor spoils our fun with the words "emergency surgery," and we both realize things are about to get real. 

There's a mass obstructing Paul's bowels. Don't know what it is, but we need to remove it—stat.

Luckily, they recognize this type of procedure falls outside the realm of their expertise. So they shuttle us off in an ambulance to Buffalo General. 

Unluckily, that hand-off will become just one stop along a lengthy string of experts, tests, and treatments. 

But in that moment, as the ambulance makes its way downtown—we're still ignorant of how turbulent the ride will become. 

We, like most people our age, hadn't considered the real possibility that Paul's abdominal discomfort was something life-threatening. That was unthinkable. No—like every other illness or broken bone we'd ever had, this was fixable. They'd look at Paul's scans and inform us with amused smiles: "kids, go home. Pick up some Pepto. It's just gas." 

Look. Paul was 27. Aside from a few grays that were likely the product of my insistence on DIY wedding favors ("It'll be fun!") Paul was the picture of perfect health. He ate vegetables. He didn't smoke. He had nice biceps. 

So cancer? No way.

But still. Something was not....right. Weird symptoms started popping up in the fall of 2011. He had sporadic bouts of intense stomach pain. He lost weight. (which we originally attributed to our cutback on beer consumption. yeahhhh) He had sheet-drenching night sweats. And, perhaps, worst of all: when he lied down you could actually feel a slight protrusion in his gut. Just a tiny, maybe-I-feel-something kind of lump.

And that's how Paul found himself face-to-face with this horrorshow.

A nurse comes in bearing a sizable tube. "I need to get this into your stomach," she says. "THROUGH YOUR NOSE."

via GIPHY

Since that bumpy ambulance ride, Paul has been through some pretty ugly things. But this. Sweet Jesus, have mercy. THIS. WAS. HORRIFIC.

She tells Paul to relax, which is exactly like telling a toddler to sit silently through The Tree of Life. (Don't try convincing me it's poetry on film. I don't care.) Impossible. 

Paul is no wuss, but with her first attempt to jam that tube up his nostril he instinctively (and forcefully) pushes her away. 

She tries again, same thing. He tells her "I'm sorry, but there's no way this thing is happening. I can't do it." And I believe him. I imagine it's how some mothers feel during labor: nope, this thing is NOT gonna happen. Sorry, you'll have to figure out another way.

Of course, she does eventually work the tube down Paul's throat. Cue Liz breaking down. I'm really very helpful that way. At this point, Paul becomes...less Paul? We certainly aren't laughing about his hospital gown anymore. He's can't talk, he can't eat or drink, and he's in pain. The nurse leads us to another room, and I follow behind her, feeling not unlike a lost and frightened child.