Next time someone tells you that taking out a Quentin catheter from your jugular is going to be as easy as taking off a Band-aid, please run the other way.

I was so apprehensive about it that I was having nightmares of blood shooting out to drench the walls so I talked to not one, not two, but four people about the protocol & procedure in detail to make sure I knew what to expect & to alleviate my anxiety.

My neurologist, two senior plex technicians, and a senior nurse told me the following:

• You will be laid flat so your head is slightly lower than your feet.
• You will be asked to hold your breath and bear down while they remove it so that no air enters your jugular. The removal will take approximately 4 seconds.
• Pressure will be applied for 6-10 minutes to ensure the wound has closed.
• You will remain lying down for an hour to prevent reopening the site.
• After another two hours of observation you will be free to be discharged & go home.

This is what happened, instead.

I was wheeled down in a gurney, sitting up. The doctor seemed surprised that they had sent a Quentin patient & querulously wondered why they hadn’t just removed it upstairs. He was miffed, harried, & distracted. Not a reassuring sign.

I questioned him on the procedure & he said I would be sitting up, merely had to turn my head to the left, he’d yoink the cather out, apply pressure, & I could go on my merry vertical way.

This is when being unfailingly polite & trusting of doctors gets dangerous. I asked him a few more times if he didn’t really think I should be lying down but he ignored me, & started the procedure. He took out the catheter, applied mild two-minute pressure, walked away, & said I could be wheeled back to my room.

Meanwhile, I started passing out, my chest caved in, I couldn’t breathe, & was coughing so hard that I reopened the wound.

*Blur of oxygen mask, blood pressure dropping to 70/34, pulse erratic, struggling to breathe, eyes streaming, hands grasping at rails, helpme*

I got an air bubble in my lung & it was about an hour before I could breathe again without gasping and seven hours later that they stamped me stable.

I’ve learned two very important lessons from this.

One, talk to a doctor you trust implicitly about upcoming procedures & protocol to make sure you understand the process completely. If there is even a slight deviation in the process, kick the doctor where the sun don’t shine, refuse treatment, & RUN LIKE HELL the other way. Do not worry about hurting his feelings or not being nice. Understand that he could very well kill you by causing air to enter your lungs & go into shock (which is basically what happened), so you are completely within your rights to disembowel him first. Be your own advocate, because no one else is going to be.

Second, today was close. My doctor father nearly had a heart attack when he found out & the more I told him about it the more serious I realized it was & the more shaky I got at the close call. I’m still reeling. And I know that’s a bad sign. I am not at peace with my life or God. Had today been the day, I was not ready. I have a lot more thinking to do on this matter.

Tonight, I am just grateful to be alive & at home finally, Alhamdolillah. Tomorrow, a strongly worded complaint will go out in the mail about Dr Z. But most importantly, after the spiritual, emotional, & physical drama & catharsis of the last few days I just need to curl up and reflect. To think about why I gave into the whole doctor-patient power dynamic when I knew better. To learn how to say NO as emphatically as my four-year-old & 14-month-old nieces. To think about spiritual readiness.

The last Friday of Ramadan…a month I’ve spent most of in the hospital. Bless you for all your support & duas – they mean so much to me. May He grant you health, contentment, & a blessed state, ameen.

A Jumah mubarik to you all, & to all a good night.

—

It was We Who created man and We know what dark suggestions his soul makes to him: for We are nearer to him than (his) jugular vein.

Al-Qur’an, 50:16