Justin and I went back to Dar es Salaam today for a check up on how my health is improving. Blood tests confirm it is improving...slowly. Every day since I've been out of the hospital has been a little bit better than the one before. I'm still quite weak and tired, but better.
Justin has helped me out the whole way, and our friends are helping us take care of Juma. So it's all good.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
the Sarah Illness Chronicles: days 4, 5, & 6
The blood transfusion on Friday afternoon had made me feel much better, but by the next morning, I was feeling rather terrible again. Not that I had gotten worse, but the euphoria from the transfusion was worn off, and I was still ill, and I woke up feeling rough. I sipped some tea and barely ate a piece of toast, not because I wanted to but because I needed some food in my stomach before I could take my pills. Justin is all too familiar with the need to force feed me when I'm sick.
Food did make me feel better, though. Enough that in the next picture I snapped of myself, I was actually sitting up.
When the doctor came to see me, though, she did not find me sitting up, chatting and laughing and asking to go home, as she hoped. Instead, I was stretched out on the bed, barely able to keep my eyes open, perfectly content to just have people talk about me and make decisions for me even though I was right there listening. The doctor decided that instead of releasing me, as she hoped, I should stay there at least two more days, possibly three. Partly, that was because it was the weekend, and there was no guarantee of a doctor and lab technician coming in until Monday.
So we hunkered down for a long, quiet weekend. We had forgotten to bring any books and movies with us from Pemba, so we were a little short on entertainment. We talked a lot and rested a lot, but it wasn't enough. Justin had grabbed a book from our friends in Zanzibar:
This kept us entertained for hours. It's a tongue-in-cheek book full of short, blog-style entries about things "white people" like (but they really mean young, liberal, educated whites who live in places like Portland, Seattle, SF, and NYC). There are entries like "multilingual children" and "the idea of soccer" and "reusable shopping bags." My personal favorite is "threatening to move to Canada," which I do all the time. Anyway, it was a gem to have in the hospital.
I continued to take all my pills
and my lab tests continued to show slow improvement. By Sunday morning I was feeling a bit better.
Our other form of entertainment/distraction was the Internet. Since I was so far away from anyone other than Justin, having the connection of email and Facebook was emotionally essential. We even had a video chat with Juma.
Monday, the main doctor came back from vacation, saw me, and wondered if I had considered going back to the US. Not really, no, I told her, plus I don't have insurance in the US ("I'm moving to Canada!"). Mostly, she didn't want me to go back to Pemba. "I've been to Pemba," she said. "And there's nothing there." We had already agreed that going back to Pemba right now is not smart, and explained to her our plan of staying with our American friends in Zanzibar until I'm better. She asked that I come back in about a week to re-run all the lab tests and see how things are going, so before checking out we set up an appointment for next Wednesday.
Justin packed everything up and escorted my sickly self to the airport, on a 20-minute flight over a beautiful ocean full of coral reefs, and back to our friend Alison's house. There, Juma had just gotten home from school and was still in his uniform.
Since we hadn't known if I'd be released until midday, Juma hadn't heard yet that we were coming home that day. He saw us out the screen door, and came rushing over to the entry way. When I got inside, I immediately knelt down to match his height, and he slammed his body into mine and gave me the fiercest hug I've ever had.
Food did make me feel better, though. Enough that in the next picture I snapped of myself, I was actually sitting up.
When the doctor came to see me, though, she did not find me sitting up, chatting and laughing and asking to go home, as she hoped. Instead, I was stretched out on the bed, barely able to keep my eyes open, perfectly content to just have people talk about me and make decisions for me even though I was right there listening. The doctor decided that instead of releasing me, as she hoped, I should stay there at least two more days, possibly three. Partly, that was because it was the weekend, and there was no guarantee of a doctor and lab technician coming in until Monday.
So we hunkered down for a long, quiet weekend. We had forgotten to bring any books and movies with us from Pemba, so we were a little short on entertainment. We talked a lot and rested a lot, but it wasn't enough. Justin had grabbed a book from our friends in Zanzibar:
This kept us entertained for hours. It's a tongue-in-cheek book full of short, blog-style entries about things "white people" like (but they really mean young, liberal, educated whites who live in places like Portland, Seattle, SF, and NYC). There are entries like "multilingual children" and "the idea of soccer" and "reusable shopping bags." My personal favorite is "threatening to move to Canada," which I do all the time. Anyway, it was a gem to have in the hospital.
I continued to take all my pills
and my lab tests continued to show slow improvement. By Sunday morning I was feeling a bit better.
Our other form of entertainment/distraction was the Internet. Since I was so far away from anyone other than Justin, having the connection of email and Facebook was emotionally essential. We even had a video chat with Juma.
Monday, the main doctor came back from vacation, saw me, and wondered if I had considered going back to the US. Not really, no, I told her, plus I don't have insurance in the US ("I'm moving to Canada!"). Mostly, she didn't want me to go back to Pemba. "I've been to Pemba," she said. "And there's nothing there." We had already agreed that going back to Pemba right now is not smart, and explained to her our plan of staying with our American friends in Zanzibar until I'm better. She asked that I come back in about a week to re-run all the lab tests and see how things are going, so before checking out we set up an appointment for next Wednesday.
Justin packed everything up and escorted my sickly self to the airport, on a 20-minute flight over a beautiful ocean full of coral reefs, and back to our friend Alison's house. There, Juma had just gotten home from school and was still in his uniform.
Since we hadn't known if I'd be released until midday, Juma hadn't heard yet that we were coming home that day. He saw us out the screen door, and came rushing over to the entry way. When I got inside, I immediately knelt down to match his height, and he slammed his body into mine and gave me the fiercest hug I've ever had.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
the Sarah Illness Chronicles: day 3
By Friday morning, I was still feeling awful, but at least stabilized, having been on an IV all night.
I also managed to eat some food. Not just any food, either, but our staple on previous trips to Dar es Salaam: Subway sandwiches.
I rarely even eat at Subway in the US, but after living off of Zanzibari food--great, but repetitive--for a few months, an American style sandwich is always most welcome. And it was just our luck, and Justin's resourcefulness, that found a new store that had opened up not two days before, right around the corner from the clinic. He also found a supermarket (which simply do not exist in Pemba, and barely exist in Zanzibar) and bought some supplies: toothpaste, snacks, chocolate. German chocolate!
I spend the day lying in bed, getting poked and prodded by needles for lab tests and a new IV for the upcoming blood transfusion. Every time I walked (the only place I ever went was the bathroom, 10 feet away) I felt cold and shaky, and lay back in bed begging for a blanket. I also got put on a bunch of different medications. The red one is iron for the anemia; the four small yellowish ones are for malaria; the big white one is for a bacterial infection; and the big yellow one for the intestinal amoeba.
But the big event that day was the blood transfusion. As soon as the doctors started talking about the possibility of needing one, Justin and I discussed our blood types and realized he could donate to me: he's O- and I'm A+ (what else would I be?). But there are other tests to run, so Justin also had to get poked and prodded by needles in order to confirm that he could donate. He disappeared from my room for a while and came back with a gauze bandage around his elbow, just like people you see after blood drives in the US.
I snapped a picture of myself before the transfusion.
And after. Notice the difference in color in my lips.
I felt a lot better the evening after the transfusion. I had been in some serious need for blood. Just call me a vampire. I was feeling well enough that on one trip out of bed, I stopped at the scale to weight myself. I had been 53 kilograms the night before--less than I have weighed since I don't know when. Definitely since adulthood. Now, after all the fluid replacement and transfusion, I was up to 57. That's almost nine pounds difference. I will never again be so happy to gain nine pounds!
I also managed to eat some food. Not just any food, either, but our staple on previous trips to Dar es Salaam: Subway sandwiches.
I rarely even eat at Subway in the US, but after living off of Zanzibari food--great, but repetitive--for a few months, an American style sandwich is always most welcome. And it was just our luck, and Justin's resourcefulness, that found a new store that had opened up not two days before, right around the corner from the clinic. He also found a supermarket (which simply do not exist in Pemba, and barely exist in Zanzibar) and bought some supplies: toothpaste, snacks, chocolate. German chocolate!
I spend the day lying in bed, getting poked and prodded by needles for lab tests and a new IV for the upcoming blood transfusion. Every time I walked (the only place I ever went was the bathroom, 10 feet away) I felt cold and shaky, and lay back in bed begging for a blanket. I also got put on a bunch of different medications. The red one is iron for the anemia; the four small yellowish ones are for malaria; the big white one is for a bacterial infection; and the big yellow one for the intestinal amoeba.
But the big event that day was the blood transfusion. As soon as the doctors started talking about the possibility of needing one, Justin and I discussed our blood types and realized he could donate to me: he's O- and I'm A+ (what else would I be?). But there are other tests to run, so Justin also had to get poked and prodded by needles in order to confirm that he could donate. He disappeared from my room for a while and came back with a gauze bandage around his elbow, just like people you see after blood drives in the US.
I snapped a picture of myself before the transfusion.
And after. Notice the difference in color in my lips.
I felt a lot better the evening after the transfusion. I had been in some serious need for blood. Just call me a vampire. I was feeling well enough that on one trip out of bed, I stopped at the scale to weight myself. I had been 53 kilograms the night before--less than I have weighed since I don't know when. Definitely since adulthood. Now, after all the fluid replacement and transfusion, I was up to 57. That's almost nine pounds difference. I will never again be so happy to gain nine pounds!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
the Sarah Illness Chronicles: day 2
Day 1 was last Wednesday. I woke up on Thursday, feeling better than the day before, having kept fluids down all night. But I was still pretty bad off, and talked to my friend Alison again. We decided flying to Zanzibar so she could take a good look at me wouldn't be a bad idea. Better safe than sorry, right?
Justin, always concerned for my health, had already spoken with a travel agent and reserved us three tickets on the earliest flight off the island. As I lay tired and breathless on the couch, sipping some thin, millet porridge--the first food I was able to keep down in 24 hours--Justin did a 15-minute packing job, grabbing the bare minimum: three days-worth of clothes, Juma's school books, our laptops. We left most toiletries--shampoo, toothbrushes, contact solution--behind, knowing I kept a spare set at our other apartment in Stone Town, Zanzibar. That turned out to be a dumb decision, because we never even made it to our apartment.
The airport is a short taxi ride from our place, and our oldest Pemban friend (also named Juma, and he happens to be first cousins with our oldest Zanzibari friend, Juma) picked us up. Every time I had to walk--to and from the taxi, to and from the airplane--I was completely exhausted. As we made our way to the six-seater prop plane, I felt dizzy and paused on the tarmac, head down, hands on my slightly bent knees. I suddenly noticed how very yellow my toes looked. It was as if the three-month tan on my toes was gone and replaced by yellow dye.
Our Juma, excited as ever to be on an airplane, kept chattering away and asking me to look at this and that sight out the window, but I asked him to please just let me rest, look straight forward, and concentrate on not being sick. After commenting that my eyes looked yellow, he obliged. Sweet thing that he is, this whole time he has been eager to help me out by running errands, taking my temperature, and relaying messages to Justin in the other room. Once on the first day, he gave me the under-the-tongue thermometer with a "here comes the airplane!" in a parent-feeding-baby voice. We both laughed heartily at that one.
Alison picked us up at the Zanzibar airport after the 30-minute flight. She started to ask me how I was feeling, but broke off and simply said, "I can see how you are feeling." In a word, awful. And that was better than the day before!
First thing, Alison brought me to her house and I collapsed on her bed. She gave me a little doctor's exam, and we decided to head to the main public hospital, Mnazi Mmoja, where I would see a skilled doctor recommended by other skilled doctors on the island. (It really pays to have connections here.)
The doctor there took another malaria test by microscope--still negative--but decided to give me an injection of a malaria drug anyway. My anemia came out so much higher (better) than the day before that we thought it must be an error. There was no way that looking like this
I had only mild anemia. I got an IV to fight the dehydration, and the doctor wanted to admit me to the hospital. Alison and I had already agreed that if he wanted me to stay the night, I would be better off staying the night in a clinic in Dar es Salaam on the mainland than here in Zanzibar. They just have better and more lab equipment, better trained doctors, and better overall services.
Justin arranged another set of tickets for yet another flight. I snapped a picture on the plane.
Alison offered to have Juma stay with her and her family of five, which we agreed was the best option. Juma was delighted; he gets along with their six-year-old son, Franklin, like they've been best friends forever. Franklin had just visited us last week in Pemba, and the boys were together for 72 hours without a single fight.
Alison knows the people who run the clinic in Dar, and called ahead to have an on-call doctor meet us there, since we'd arrive after hours. When we arrived, the nurse ushered me into one of their two beds (this is normally only an out patient clinic) and I collapsed into it and wished for unconsciousness. Shortly, the doctor came. The first thing she said, in her thick German accent, was "You are pale!"
Here, for the first time, the providers took my vital signs, took a full medical history, ran a full battery of lab tests, and didn't automatically consider malaria as my one-and-only problem. They did, however, test for malaria using a newer type of test which looks for antibodies to malaria rather than the malaria parasites themselves, which turned out to be "weakly positive." My anemia was bad, and there was talk of a blood transfusion. My billirubin count was high, which accounted for the yellow color--I was jaundiced. Something was going on with my liver. There was talk of hepatitis A, but since I've been fully vaccinated, that was put aside.
They started me on three different types of treatments: for malaria, an intestinal amoeba, and an unidentified bacterial infection, all of which had shown up in my various lab tests. It's possible that all or some of those things had been unwelcome visitors in my body for as long as many weeks, but had been intermittent or asymptomatic.
I got hooked up to another IV, and slept. Too late to find a hotel, Justin camped out on the clinic owner's office bed.
Justin, always concerned for my health, had already spoken with a travel agent and reserved us three tickets on the earliest flight off the island. As I lay tired and breathless on the couch, sipping some thin, millet porridge--the first food I was able to keep down in 24 hours--Justin did a 15-minute packing job, grabbing the bare minimum: three days-worth of clothes, Juma's school books, our laptops. We left most toiletries--shampoo, toothbrushes, contact solution--behind, knowing I kept a spare set at our other apartment in Stone Town, Zanzibar. That turned out to be a dumb decision, because we never even made it to our apartment.
The airport is a short taxi ride from our place, and our oldest Pemban friend (also named Juma, and he happens to be first cousins with our oldest Zanzibari friend, Juma) picked us up. Every time I had to walk--to and from the taxi, to and from the airplane--I was completely exhausted. As we made our way to the six-seater prop plane, I felt dizzy and paused on the tarmac, head down, hands on my slightly bent knees. I suddenly noticed how very yellow my toes looked. It was as if the three-month tan on my toes was gone and replaced by yellow dye.
Our Juma, excited as ever to be on an airplane, kept chattering away and asking me to look at this and that sight out the window, but I asked him to please just let me rest, look straight forward, and concentrate on not being sick. After commenting that my eyes looked yellow, he obliged. Sweet thing that he is, this whole time he has been eager to help me out by running errands, taking my temperature, and relaying messages to Justin in the other room. Once on the first day, he gave me the under-the-tongue thermometer with a "here comes the airplane!" in a parent-feeding-baby voice. We both laughed heartily at that one.
Alison picked us up at the Zanzibar airport after the 30-minute flight. She started to ask me how I was feeling, but broke off and simply said, "I can see how you are feeling." In a word, awful. And that was better than the day before!
First thing, Alison brought me to her house and I collapsed on her bed. She gave me a little doctor's exam, and we decided to head to the main public hospital, Mnazi Mmoja, where I would see a skilled doctor recommended by other skilled doctors on the island. (It really pays to have connections here.)
The doctor there took another malaria test by microscope--still negative--but decided to give me an injection of a malaria drug anyway. My anemia came out so much higher (better) than the day before that we thought it must be an error. There was no way that looking like this
I had only mild anemia. I got an IV to fight the dehydration, and the doctor wanted to admit me to the hospital. Alison and I had already agreed that if he wanted me to stay the night, I would be better off staying the night in a clinic in Dar es Salaam on the mainland than here in Zanzibar. They just have better and more lab equipment, better trained doctors, and better overall services.
Justin arranged another set of tickets for yet another flight. I snapped a picture on the plane.
Alison offered to have Juma stay with her and her family of five, which we agreed was the best option. Juma was delighted; he gets along with their six-year-old son, Franklin, like they've been best friends forever. Franklin had just visited us last week in Pemba, and the boys were together for 72 hours without a single fight.
Alison knows the people who run the clinic in Dar, and called ahead to have an on-call doctor meet us there, since we'd arrive after hours. When we arrived, the nurse ushered me into one of their two beds (this is normally only an out patient clinic) and I collapsed into it and wished for unconsciousness. Shortly, the doctor came. The first thing she said, in her thick German accent, was "You are pale!"
Here, for the first time, the providers took my vital signs, took a full medical history, ran a full battery of lab tests, and didn't automatically consider malaria as my one-and-only problem. They did, however, test for malaria using a newer type of test which looks for antibodies to malaria rather than the malaria parasites themselves, which turned out to be "weakly positive." My anemia was bad, and there was talk of a blood transfusion. My billirubin count was high, which accounted for the yellow color--I was jaundiced. Something was going on with my liver. There was talk of hepatitis A, but since I've been fully vaccinated, that was put aside.
They started me on three different types of treatments: for malaria, an intestinal amoeba, and an unidentified bacterial infection, all of which had shown up in my various lab tests. It's possible that all or some of those things had been unwelcome visitors in my body for as long as many weeks, but had been intermittent or asymptomatic.
I got hooked up to another IV, and slept. Too late to find a hotel, Justin camped out on the clinic owner's office bed.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
the Sarah Illness Chronicles: day 1
I'm finally feeling chipper enough to blog! This whole time, I always had my cell phone nearby to snap pictures, even when I was feeling like sh--. Well, not during the worst, worst bits, but most of the time. I've got photos of just about everything, but I'll spare you the IVs and blood transfusion bag, and all that gross stuff, and try to give a more complete summary than what I have so far in my quick updates.
So...For weeks now, I've lost weight. I noticed one day several weeks ago when wearing a pair of khakis that I could quite easily just pull them off without even unbuttoning them. They'd never been tight before, but certainly not loose enough that I was at risk of getting pantsed. Not good. Justin, our family tailor, adjusted the button so they'd fit better. I told myself that I was just getting more walking and less junk food, and that was the reason for the weight loss. Also, I had a couple bad bouts of gastrointestinal disturbances since being here, but I took some medications as recommended by my doctor friend, Alison, and it cleared up. (Or so I thought?)
Also, I'd noticed I've had signs of anemia (essentially, not enough red blood cells)--shortness of breath, dizziness, weakness. I wasn't too concerned, because I am chronically anemic anyway, and this is easily remedied by taking over-the-counter iron pills. These are readily available in Pemba, and I even published a paper on this very subject earlier this year. So I should have know better than to skip any pills...but I did.
This brings us to this past Wednesday, when I started in with some more gastrointestinal issues. By late morning, I was feeling markedly lethargic, and spent the time just dying for our housekeeper to just finish up the laundry and go the heck home so I could go take a nap. She finally left, and I brought Juma into my bed with me so I could keep an eye on him while he watched a movie on his DVD player. Justin was at work still.
I started to feel feverish, and had Juma take my temperature with our nifty forehead thermometer. The electricity had been off for three days in our house because of a fallen electricity pole, so it wasn't helping that I didn't even have the fan blowing on me. Before Justin got home for lunch, the thermometer read 103 degrees Fahrenheit. And it felt like it, too.
Yikes. I managed to eat some lunch, knowing I'd need my strength. Justin convinced me to go get a malaria test at the clinic where he got his stitches a few weeks ago. It's a private clinic, so they have a few more resources than the public hospital, and Justin's friend works there, so we knew we'd get treated nicely, at least.
This is how I felt there:
They readily agreed to give me a malaria test, and failed to do anything else like take my history and vital signs, or consider any alternative diagnoses. I read a paper last year about how malaria is currently quite low in Zanzibar and Pemba, but doctors are still prescribing malaria drugs as if it was still infecting every other person. So I was quite skeptical when my malaria test came out negative, but the doctors still wanted to give me anti-malarial drugs. Not that the drugs would hurt me if I wasn't positive, but I wondered if it wasn't malaria, what was it? I didn't want to be sent home with drugs for a disease I didn't have, only to continue to be wasted by an unidentified problem. (This, by the way, will likely be one of the topics of my dissertation. Talk about participant observation!)
Anyway, the treat-the-malaria-and-see-what-happens-route won out, and I took some drugs that we brought from the US, and we know are very effective. We learned our lesson in 1999! Unfortunately, my stomach wasn't too happy about that, and they came right back up. The doctors decided to give me an anti-nausea shot in my bum, and I tried the malaria meds again after letting that kick in. Again, they came right back up.
I was obviously feeling terrible by this point, wondering what my real diagnosis was and how on earth I was going to get better if I couldn't take anything. I asked them to check if I had anemia, since I suspected I had, and I might as well check it while I was there. The test showed I was moderately anemic, borderline with severely. That gave me a pretty big shock, and it definitely showed on my face, because poor Juma just about started crying, worried about his mom getting better.
The doctors wanted to give me an IV to get some fluids in me, but I was worried that would only dilute my anemic blood further, so we just went home. (I could've had one, I wasn't that low, but neither me nor they knew that.)
Back at home, I collapsed on the couch directly under the AC unit, the only cool place in our house. Thankfully, the electricity had been restored while we were at the clinic. I lay there, wishing I was unconscious, until I couldn't hold it anymore, stopped by the bathroom for some more doubly fun times, and then collapsed in bed around eight pm.
Our friend and my co-researcher, Dr. Alison, heard about my woes and called to hear more and make recommendations. She said if I wasn't improving the next day, I was welcome to fly down to Zanzibar so she could keep an eye on me and refer me to the best Zanzibari doctors, or I could fly to Dar es Salaam, the main city on the mainland, for some even better care.
I stayed in bed for twelve hours, alternating between sleeping and thirstily sipping oral re-hydration therapy and water. I was able to keep the liquids down, and by morning felt better.
Which still wasn't even close to good.
So...For weeks now, I've lost weight. I noticed one day several weeks ago when wearing a pair of khakis that I could quite easily just pull them off without even unbuttoning them. They'd never been tight before, but certainly not loose enough that I was at risk of getting pantsed. Not good. Justin, our family tailor, adjusted the button so they'd fit better. I told myself that I was just getting more walking and less junk food, and that was the reason for the weight loss. Also, I had a couple bad bouts of gastrointestinal disturbances since being here, but I took some medications as recommended by my doctor friend, Alison, and it cleared up. (Or so I thought?)
Also, I'd noticed I've had signs of anemia (essentially, not enough red blood cells)--shortness of breath, dizziness, weakness. I wasn't too concerned, because I am chronically anemic anyway, and this is easily remedied by taking over-the-counter iron pills. These are readily available in Pemba, and I even published a paper on this very subject earlier this year. So I should have know better than to skip any pills...but I did.
This brings us to this past Wednesday, when I started in with some more gastrointestinal issues. By late morning, I was feeling markedly lethargic, and spent the time just dying for our housekeeper to just finish up the laundry and go the heck home so I could go take a nap. She finally left, and I brought Juma into my bed with me so I could keep an eye on him while he watched a movie on his DVD player. Justin was at work still.
I started to feel feverish, and had Juma take my temperature with our nifty forehead thermometer. The electricity had been off for three days in our house because of a fallen electricity pole, so it wasn't helping that I didn't even have the fan blowing on me. Before Justin got home for lunch, the thermometer read 103 degrees Fahrenheit. And it felt like it, too.
Yikes. I managed to eat some lunch, knowing I'd need my strength. Justin convinced me to go get a malaria test at the clinic where he got his stitches a few weeks ago. It's a private clinic, so they have a few more resources than the public hospital, and Justin's friend works there, so we knew we'd get treated nicely, at least.
This is how I felt there:
They readily agreed to give me a malaria test, and failed to do anything else like take my history and vital signs, or consider any alternative diagnoses. I read a paper last year about how malaria is currently quite low in Zanzibar and Pemba, but doctors are still prescribing malaria drugs as if it was still infecting every other person. So I was quite skeptical when my malaria test came out negative, but the doctors still wanted to give me anti-malarial drugs. Not that the drugs would hurt me if I wasn't positive, but I wondered if it wasn't malaria, what was it? I didn't want to be sent home with drugs for a disease I didn't have, only to continue to be wasted by an unidentified problem. (This, by the way, will likely be one of the topics of my dissertation. Talk about participant observation!)
Anyway, the treat-the-malaria-and-see-what-happens-route won out, and I took some drugs that we brought from the US, and we know are very effective. We learned our lesson in 1999! Unfortunately, my stomach wasn't too happy about that, and they came right back up. The doctors decided to give me an anti-nausea shot in my bum, and I tried the malaria meds again after letting that kick in. Again, they came right back up.
I was obviously feeling terrible by this point, wondering what my real diagnosis was and how on earth I was going to get better if I couldn't take anything. I asked them to check if I had anemia, since I suspected I had, and I might as well check it while I was there. The test showed I was moderately anemic, borderline with severely. That gave me a pretty big shock, and it definitely showed on my face, because poor Juma just about started crying, worried about his mom getting better.
The doctors wanted to give me an IV to get some fluids in me, but I was worried that would only dilute my anemic blood further, so we just went home. (I could've had one, I wasn't that low, but neither me nor they knew that.)
Back at home, I collapsed on the couch directly under the AC unit, the only cool place in our house. Thankfully, the electricity had been restored while we were at the clinic. I lay there, wishing I was unconscious, until I couldn't hold it anymore, stopped by the bathroom for some more doubly fun times, and then collapsed in bed around eight pm.
Our friend and my co-researcher, Dr. Alison, heard about my woes and called to hear more and make recommendations. She said if I wasn't improving the next day, I was welcome to fly down to Zanzibar so she could keep an eye on me and refer me to the best Zanzibari doctors, or I could fly to Dar es Salaam, the main city on the mainland, for some even better care.
I stayed in bed for twelve hours, alternating between sleeping and thirstily sipping oral re-hydration therapy and water. I was able to keep the liquids down, and by morning felt better.
Which still wasn't even close to good.
day 5
Just woke up from another night in the clinic. No new treatments or procedures, just continuing as is, and slowly killing all the nasty visitors inside my body. Hopefully will be discharged tomorrow.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
the Sarah Illness Chronicles: day 4
I spent another night in the clinic. My labs are all going in the right direction, and I am slowly improving. I needed a transfusion, and luckily, Justin is a universal donor. As Justin said, "Now we're blood brothers!" Hee hee.
Juma is having a lovely time playing on the beach back in Zanzibar. He went to school yesterday, wearing a cute little school uniform and everything. We are keeping in touch by phone.
In case you want to reach us, Justin's phone numbers are working here:
+255 773 176 744 and +255 755 874 206 Just remember we are 10 hours ahead of CA, 9 ahead of UT, 8 ahead of TX, and 7 ahead of NY on daylight savings time.
We are also checking email sarah dot beckham at gmail dot com and facebook once or twice a day.
Juma is having a lovely time playing on the beach back in Zanzibar. He went to school yesterday, wearing a cute little school uniform and everything. We are keeping in touch by phone.
In case you want to reach us, Justin's phone numbers are working here:
+255 773 176 744 and +255 755 874 206 Just remember we are 10 hours ahead of CA, 9 ahead of UT, 8 ahead of TX, and 7 ahead of NY on daylight savings time.
We are also checking email sarah dot beckham at gmail dot com and facebook once or twice a day.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
deja vu
Quick update: I (Sarah) am sick. I have multiple infections, but am getting properly treated for them all in a clinic in Dar Es Salaam. Justin is here with me, and Juma is staying with our good friends, the McDows, in Zanzibar.
I'm steadily improving, and trust this clinic I am in.
I'm steadily improving, and trust this clinic I am in.
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