For a few days as we traveled in an area without medical services I had been treating an infection I had presumptively with the antibiotics I carry, but by the time we got to Arusha for what was supposed to be a few days of relaxation to celebrate Matt’s birthday, my fever was going up, not down. Once it topped 102.5 (high fever is dangerous in pregnancy), we decided we needed to do something, so we went to the clinic in Arusha, where I was treated by none other than a Dr. Exorbitant (his real name). Completely self-important, he suited his name to a tee, ordering every test in the book – “just so people will know I thought to check that” – including a pregnancy urine test and an ultrasound. He didn’t believe that I was 15 weeks pregnant, despite my assurances to him I had been going to antenatal care in Dar es Salaam. The upshot is that Matt got to see the baby on an ultrasound. By the time we got back to our hotel I felt like death warmed over and crawled into bed to wait for the medicine to kick in.
But that night the useless antibiotic I had been prescribed had failed to bring any relief, and my fever shot up again. Quivering with chills, I was ordered into a tepid bath Matt had prepared, which felt like ice water torture. Care from Nurse Matt and a little acetominophen brought down my temperature. Our room and the place we were staying were lovely, and leagues above the other places we had stayed in Kilwa and Mtwara, so neither of us wanted to leave. But the fever came back in the morning, and we knew we had to fly back to Dar es Salaam, having spent only 24 hours in what is undoubtedly the most beautiful part of Tanzania. Dar’s infamously horrible traffic showed no mercy, even for a pregnant woman with a high fever, and it took an hour to traverse the 6 miles to the clinic. By this time I was pallid and shaking uncontrollably with chills, so the nurses whisked me back to an examining table and piled blankets atop me. Fever 104, pulse 120. After the lab work I was sent in for an ultrasound, and the looks on the nurses’ and doctor’s faces were somber. Before she put the wand on my belly she told us that I had septicaemia, a systemic blood infection, as a complication of a kidney infection. If I hadn’t come in for treatment the infection would have killed me in a matter of days, and my fever already posed a serious risk to the baby. To our relief, the baby appeared fine.
I, however, was not fine, and they told me I needed an IV drip for dehydration and a course of IV antibiotics, so we should plan on staying the night. After getting the IV (preceded by some urgent texts to my sister and her doctor-boyfriend in America to make sure the drugs were safe in pregnancy), I bedded down for the night on a hard examining table (that's me in the picture below), and Matt curled up on the counter next to the sink with a couple of sheets and a pillow. Friends came bearing dinner for Matt and get-well wishes for me, which helped lift the mood. My fever spiked to 104 again 6 hours after the IV, and I grew terrified the drugs wouldn’t work. The fever was not responding to acetominophen so I got a shot of something called Diclo-Denk in the butt, which worked beautifully. The next day was Matt’s birthday, and I woke up feeling much better and hoping I could go home so that we could go out for dinner or something. To my despair, the fever returned again, almost as high as the night before.
I got IV after IV, but the fevers kept coming in waves. Matt got progressively hungrier, sleep-deprived, and more strung out worrying about me, the lack of hygienic practices in the clinic, watching my IV for air bubbles in the line (and there often were), making sure that the medicines they were giving me were appropriate, and helping explore options for possible medical evacuation with the US Embassy. I must have started to get better because when friends showed up with pizza and groceries, I ate almost the whole pizza. I was still getting chills and fever, though, and so we begged for another antibiotic injection and settled in for another night. The nurse on duty that night, named Severa, was wonderful to both of us. She dramatically sang Happy Birthday to Matt, we introduced her to Pringles and M&M’s (Matt’s birthday treats), and she unobtrusively kept a close and watchful eye on my IV the whole night. (That's the two of them goofing off as she sings in the picture below). The recurrent fevers seemed to be getting steadily lower.
The next day my vein had given up the ghost and collapsed, so the fluids from the IV were causing my hand to swell up like a zombie. I was hoping to be discharged and so I asked for the IV to be removed. No fever, and a positive fetal heartbeat, so I was discharged that afternoon with oral antibiotics. Though I still got another couple of fevers over the next two days, they were much lower, and a hospital bed just can’t hold a candle to a real bed next to one’s husband. We managed to postpone our pre-paid safari by a day to give me time to recover. To make a long story short, I’m now fine, and we’ve postponed Matt’s birthday to August. And I’ve sworn off getting sick anymore in developing countries.
No comments:
Post a Comment