May Thurner

Last week, I kissed my mother and kids goodbye, and drove with Chris to the LifeLine Vascular and Interventional Center for surgery NO. 3 this year.  The receptionist greeted me by first name, and instead of the regular book of questions and the fine print that no one reads anyway, she handed me two sheets of paper; “The perks of coming back so soon,” she said, “we have all your paperwork up-to-date and on file.”

My nurse, Adele, started surgery prep with comforting words and  jokes. “Don’t worry,” she said, “Sean is going to hook you up with the MJ.” Chris and I glanced at each other, then looked at her quizzically. With a sly smile resting in her cheeks, she opened her bright eyes and motioned us, with her hands, to ‘get it’ already. The joke comes to me slowly, and as though it reached Chris and I the same time, we both laughed and blurted out: “The Michael Jackson.” Adele joined our laughing chorus, and for a quick moment I forgot the gravity of surgery.

Sean, the giver of medicine, is a flamboyant young man with great bedside manners and – thanks to Crest Whitening Strips – white teeth.

In preparation for the MJ, a.k.a the Propofol, he asked the same series of questions that once would have annoyed me, but because of his soothing tone, my body relaxed into the hospital bed. We were all wowed by his mysterious power and I heard my own voice softened, almost seductively, in response. Sean chuckled, Chris kissed me and Adele wheeled me into the operating room where a nurse greeted me with “Back so soon?” As soon as I opened my mouth to respond, Sean inserted the propofol into my IV and I slipped off into what he called the ‘twilight sleep’.

I woke from surgery with new diagnosis: May Thurner Syndrome.  

Like Ike Turner, May Thurner was beating the crap out of me for at least two years. At first, as with all abusive relationships, there was no need for concern. But overtime, a slight tingle turned into a jolt of electricity running through my legs; a small insignificant spot turned to a bulging dark bruise. I hid my dark bruises, wore a compression tight, limited my activities to cater to the pain they caused, and I tried to undermine its existence because of my battle with Endometriosis.  “It couldn’t be that serious,” I thought, but then the head flutter began. When I called a friend to tell her, I hesitated because my only description of what was happening seemed insane; It felt like tiny bugs were buzzing around in my head. I realized then, the thought of seeming sickly and crazy, could prevent me from seeking care.

The brain-flutters kept me up one night, and when night broke I drove to a free clinic at Point Washington United Methodist Church. In all my years of doctors visits, I was offered the best care at a free clinic. The concern in Dr. Vargo’s voice, the mention of rapid heart rate, blood clots, and lack of oxygen to the brain sent me into a silent panic and high speed. Over the course of the next several months, doctors played ping pong with me: Dr. Vargo recommended Dr. Tidwell.  Tidwell helped with one thing but not the other, he recommended Dr. Montgomery.

When I woke from surgery NO. 3, the second surgery with Montgomery, I woke up with grumbling something about my back. The recovery room nurse rubbed my arm and gave me medicine. “It’s going to be a tough recovery hon,” she said. “Your main iliac vein was being compressed by your main artery.  It was so small, Dr. Montgomery had to blow it up with a balloon and insert a Wallstent.”

It is my hope that one day, all this pain and doctors and surgeries will evaporate into the night. And that pain will be a distant memory, but until then, I have a life to live. I have people to love, sunset to watch, music to dance to, wildflowers to pick, words to weave,  moments to seize with this broken and beautiful body.

Stay Healthy. Seek Help.

Kadine