Pop Goes My Lung: The Persistent Leak

X-Ray was taken when I first got to the ER.

The hilarity here is that I shot my boss an email that Sunday evening (yes, two days after my lung spontaneously combusted) saying I probably wouldn't be into work Monday but I'd be back Tuesday. In retrospect, I crack up at how naive I had been. In reality, I did not return to work for 6 Mondays following that email.

(the next part of the Pop Goes My Lung Saga continues below. Click here to catch up on part one and part two!

After the ER doctor inserted the chest tube, her little optimistic self assured me that my lung would re-inflate and heal itself and I'd be out of the hospital on Monday.

(This is the waterseal that my chest tube connected to, don't ask me exactly what it did... besides something to do with monitoring breathing and sucking out air)

Little did she know that not once in my life has any aspect gone the "easy" route. So naturally, when my lung refused to re-inflate and heal itself time and time again in those following days it really came as no surprise to me.

My life that week was a constant hypocritical, anxiety-inducing battle. One minute I'd be telling everyone I was getting out of the hospital the next day, and the next minute I was discussing surgery with my doctor. Having never spent any time whatsoever as a hospital patient, I was uneasy and restless, but quickly settled into some semblance of a routine.

Every morning involved an x-ray, every meal I would get the fresh fruit cup, every passing hour involved HGTV, every four hours was pain pills, every afternoon was sprinkled with visitors, and every evening my mom would pull out the recliner and sleep by my side.

Somehow in the grand scheme of things I was graced with a little bit of luck on my side, and my doctor who was assigned to me once I was settled into an inpatient room, had wifed up a thoracic surgeon. Which means he would hurry home every night and tell her thoracic surgery-loving-self about my lung's activities for the day. (At least that's how I imagine it in my head. Why wouldn't my organ be the thriving topic of their dinner conversation?!)

After six days of that roller coaster ride, it finally became evident to all parties involved that my lung was not going to heal on it's own using the traditional method. And surgery became inevitable. The moment that sealed the deal was when I began to squeak. Hinting that not only was my chest tube not doing what it was supposed to,but also that air was leaking out of it. If I laughed, sneezed, breathed in deep, my chest would squeal like a dying dog toy.

So while my doctor wrote up the transfer orders to send me to the hospital where his wife did her surgeries, Mom and I packed up six days worth of flowers, candy, balloons and other random goodies and I got to experience my very first (and hopefully last ever) ambulance ride.

The laughs and smiles ended shortly after the paramedics wheeled me into my new hospital room. I went from having a new, spacious room to myself to sharing a tiny, cramped, outdated hospital room with what seemed to be a crazy, crack addict. After a few hours of her constant requests for drugs and more drugs, I had a breakdown and asked every nurse, doctor or cleaning person I saw to please, please, PLEASE get me out of there.

[The story continues on with Part 4 here]

Pop Goes My Lung: The ER

Growing up I remember my grandma always telling me to wear clean undies, I never knew when I'd get in a car accident... or something like that. No one ever told me to wear matching socks because I never knew when I'd land in the ER though.

(A continuation of the Pop Goes My Lung story)

I was about 5 minutes out from my parents house when I answered my doctor's phone call. For some reason it didn't really sink in that I had been functioning all day with a hole in my lung, and it still didn't. I calmly pulled up into their driveway and waved at mom as I got out of the car. I chuckled and said "well, I need to go to the ER, I figured you would want to take me?"

It was about that point she started crying, and I started to get cold sweats and light-headed. Once I recovered from nearly fainting, she hurried me into her Trailblazer and off we went. Nearly passing out once more at the reception desk of the ER left quite the impression, and I was promptly put in a wheelchair and taken back and graced with a hospital gown and a whole slew of wires for an EKG.

 That whole night was a blur. Test after test, three attempts to insert an IV, my brother, dad and LT all coming to the ER, and finally... after many hours but yet so suddenly, it was time for surgery. A few pumps of loopy medicine later I had a new adornment, a chest tube and a water seal. A steady hum came as the machine gently sucked the air out of the cavity surrounding my lung, allowing it room to reinflate on it's own.

Somehow I went from spending the day driving myself around, working, swinging by McDonalds for french fries upon leaving the doctors office.... to not being able to move enough to even feed myself. Bring on the pain meds. 

(Let's all take a moment to pause and appreciate the hilarity of LT feeding me like a baby)

Sadly, I wasn't out of the clear. We spent the rest of the evening waiting for the orders to be written up and me to get moved to floor 2. Room 2120 would become my temporary home for the next week. The story continues here!

Pop Goes My Lung.

I cracked ONE joke about needing a LifeAlert button and karma came and knocked me on my ass.

Friday, March 15th. 

I woke up at LT's house that morning, feeling far too nauseous for the few beers I had at dinner the night before. On top of the nausea I had this horrible stabbing-with-a-knife pain in my right shoulder blade.  I remember getting dressed, tossing back a few Advil and rolling my eyes at my weird ailments.

I drove the 45minutes from his house to mine, hopped in the shower hoping the hot water beating on my back would ease up the pain, took another Advil for good measure, and headed on into work.

I spent most of the day whining to Whit and LT about how bad my back was hurting. I realized I could only breath about half as deep as normal, but associated it with the back pain. Pulled muscle was my self-diagnosis.

When I started coughing around lunchtime, I decided to wave the white flag, and called up my doctors office hoping to get in to get some antibiotics for this weird cough/cold. I had a fun weekend ahead planned, LT's birthday, St Patrick's Day, I didn't want to be sick! The nurse told me there were no openings left that afternoon, she would pass my symptoms along to my doctor and see if he wanted to call in a prescription. A few minutes later they called back saying he wanted me to come in.

I left work and went to his office. He listened to my breathing, did the regular tests, listened to my symptoms, and said he was stumped. He predicted a pulled muscle, but ordered a chest x-ray just in case. He said to go ahead and head home and rest after the x-ray, that he would call me if they noticed anything.

I didn't even make it halfway home before Bob Marley started wailing on my phone (how ironic). "Well, I hope you don't have a hot date tonight... I just took a look at your x-ray... I need you to go to the ER. I already sent over your paperwork and informed them you would be on your way. Chelsea, your right lung is collapsed."



[ Pop Goes My Lung : This is Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7] 



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Just a boy with a vision.

This is my sunroom. It has a daybed. It has a lot of pillows. I like pillows. Pillows are comfortable and add interest.

This is my dog. He is cute and cuddly. He sleeps in the sunroom. The sunroom is also known as "Russell's Room.

Let me tell you a tale of these two characters....

Last night, after being tucked in and told "good night, sweet dreams, see you in the morning, love you", Russell the cuddly puppy had a creative vision.

Russell realized no pillows should have corners!

Russell tediously executed his vision while I slept soundly upstairs in my bed.

Imagine my excitement to see what a lovely job of redecorating he did upon my awakening this morning!



Russell did not get a treat this morning. Russell got a spanking. Russell does not have a future in interior design.

Why I need a LifeAlert

A few weeks ago I fell down my stairs.

Yes, my middle name should be grace.

I was three steps away from the bottom and somehow managed the most dramatic fall known to man, bruising my entire arm and landing in a "dead body outline" position on my dining room floor around the corner. I still have a black and blue arm.

Then twice this past month the doorknob in my bathroom has fallen off. This bathroom is in the middle of my home. Meaning there are no windows, no "escape routes". You guys, I was nearly locked in my bathroom twice.

While hilarious, do you realize no one would have ANY clue unless the just so happened to stop by. I'd just be chilling in my bathroom for hours on end. Or all paralyzed on my stairs.

And believe me, my dog is no ancestor of Lassie. There would be no 'rescuing Timmy from the well' happening with that pup.

I asked my mom to start texting me every twelve hours to ensure I'm not dead after a freak fall or locked in a bathroom. And to immediately come to my house if I don't reply. She laughed. And then proceeded to text me this morning to check that I had made it to work.

Or maybe I just need to invest in one of those LifeAlert necklaces. I wouldn't mind some hot firefighters in my life.