Gaby
I wrote this while I was still in the hospital — I ended up here after a ridiculous chain of events and my own carelessness.
I fell ill on February 12. The symptoms hit suddenly: a severe chill, a 102°F (39°C) fever, and an unbearable headache on the right side of my head.
Like many people, for the first three days I just ran a fever, waiting for a runny nose and a sore throat, assuming those initial days of fever were normal. The TV kept warning about rising flu cases and saying schools might close any day because of the epidemic. It was flu season—what else could it be? That was my first mistake: I didn’t trust my instincts. The fever kept spiking six times a day, but there was no runny nose, no sore throat, and no other typical symptoms. Still, an inner voice kept saying, “This isn’t the usual flu; something is wrong…” I even tried to mention it to my husband. But we were so sure it was the flu and thought we knew how to handle it that we didn’t consider anything else. What else was there to think about when our house wasn’t finished and we weren’t registered at any clinic? No ambulance doctor would come to an unfinished building and climb nine flights of stairs! So I lay there with a fever, waiting for something I couldn’t name.
On the third day I started feeling pain on my right side — I thought it was my liver from all the fever reducers and painkillers, but my liver turned out to be fine — and I began vomiting any medication I took. Common sense won out and my husband took me to my mom’s house.
Our child is already so grown-up and independent: for the first three days I was home alone with Sasha. I ran a fever, wasn’t eating, and stayed in bed — she brought me drinks and pills, cooked for herself, and played quietly in her room (we thought it was the flu and told her not to come near me). She would quietly lie down for her afternoon nap. I could only occasionally hear her in her room, praying before the icon of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary, saying, “Holy Mother of God, help my mom…” I remember that now and tears well up in my eyes.
At my mom’s, the first thing we did — since there were more clear-headed people around — was call a doctor. And the doctor didn’t even come to see me! They called me on the phone, saying they had too many calls, that it was the flu and I was treating it correctly, and that at worst I should call an ambulance. Of course we called an ambulance when the next day my temperature hit 103.5°F (39.7°C), the right side of my head was pounding, and my right arm went numb. You can imagine my horror — without waiting for a runny nose or sore throat, I knew something was wrong with my head. But the paramedics patted me on the shoulder and said it was the flu, just a severe case. They told me, “If you want, go to the hospital, but we doubt there will be any beds—there’s an epidemic…” And the most dangerous part, which nearly killed me, was when they said, “Prepare yourself; you’ll have a fever for 6–7 days!”
On the seventh day, practically unconscious (I couldn’t move, couldn’t open my eyes, and could only hear intermittently), I ended up in intensive care with suspected meningitis and malaria (but definitely not the flu!). And it was there, in intensive care (thank you for your promptness!), that they diagnosed me with acute purulent inflammation of the right KIDNEY after they drew blood to test for malaria and performed a spinal tap to check for meningitis! I would never have guessed — although many signs pointed to the right side — but the KIDNEY? I had never had kidney problems and, to my shame, I didn’t even know exactly where they were.
I miraculously avoided surgery on my right kidney. At the hospital where they had taken me for suspected meningitis and malaria, a urology professor was ready to operate, but there weren’t enough beds in his department to admit me after surgery. They had already started an IV before the operation, called my husband, and got his consent. I broke down in tears, apologized to everyone, and said my goodbyes — I wasn’t afraid of the surgery or death, but I couldn’t imagine how, after eight days without eating and with an unrelenting fever of 102°F (39°C), I would survive general anesthesia. How could I?
Fortunately, maybe my prayers were answered. My parents remembered a professor they knew who worked in the urology department of the October Hospital. After ten days in the October Hospital, they pulled me through with IVs of two strong antibiotics — no surgery.
People, listen to your inner voice — it’s rarely wrong. Don’t be afraid to go to the hospital for an exam; there’s nothing worse than the unknown and lost time…
