Staring at the Sterile Walls in Room 912

It has been year-and-seven-months since I have not had any occurrences of chronic pancreatitis, and I am finally convinced that my 13-year-long battle with this excruciating illness is finally over. Pancreatitis is the inflammation of the pancreas, an organ that aids in the digestion of food. Since individuals with pancreatitis are not able to digest food, the treatment is to abstain from any food or drink until that person’s amylase and lipase levels return to normal. That is determined through a daily blood test. It is an extremely painful condition and pain is controlled through powerful narcotics administered intravenously. According to the medical journals, pancreatitis usually strikes men in their late 30s. I, however, had my first episode when I was only five-years-old.

I remember waking up at 3 a.m. screaming from severe abdominal pain. My parents called an ambulance, which transported my mom and me to the old Children’s Hospital in Oakland. My dad followed in his car. I had never been in an ambulance before, and I kept looking around at all the intimidating machines as the paramedics put heart monitors on my chest and took my blood pressure. My mom tried to comfort me, but I was terrified. We pulled into the hospital emergency entrance for ambulances and since my condition was so severe, we were immediately taken to a trauma room. By now my pain had escalated dramatically, and I was inconsolable.

The ER nurse asked my mom questions that I didn’t understand at the time. Questions that meant nothing to me, such as: “What medications does he take?” or “Has he had anything that caused this much pain ever in the past?” All my parent’s answers were negative. An I.V. was inserted in my arm to give me fluids and morphine, a potent pain medication. Multiple blood tests and x-rays were also ordered. Eight hours later two doctors entered our room and announced the illness that would haunt me and taunt doctors for the next 13 years: “pancreatitis.”

My initial hospitalization with pancreatitis was an extremely difficult one since none of us knew what to expect. Numerous tests were conducted to determine the cause of my pancreatitis, all with negative results. Day after day,

week after week, doctor after doctor, and no hopeful news came as a result of those tests. My mom spent every waking hour with me at the hospital and when my dad went home for the night to get his work done, she slept on an uncomfortable pull-out recliner. She stayed by my side constantly, even with the frequent interruptions from nurses in the middle of the night and the buzzing and beeping sounds from strange machines. About 10 days later, a doctor informed us that my blood enzyme levels were decreasing which was a positive sign. A few days later I was introduced to solid foods and was pain free – permanently – or so we thought.

After my first hospitalization, every five or six weeks, I would go into Children’s Hospital for pancreatitis. Some episodes were more severe than others, yet all very painful. Every morning, the nurses would come into my room and turn on the bright overhead lights to take a blood test. Each day brought new doctors, new theories and new tests. However, no new causes were found as to why I kept getting pancreatitis. The highlight of my day was going into the playroom on the ninth floor.

During this time, I attended Washington Elementary School of the Bethel Park School District. Being in elementary school and missing class was not very serious, and I easily made up tests and homework. The real stress, however, came later during my high school years.

Around fourth grade, my parents and I moved to Marshall Township so I could attend the highly respected North Allegheny School District. Also during this time, the old Children’s Hospital in Oakland was closed and a new hospital was built in Lawrenceville. My mom would frequently joke with me by saying, “Now, I don’t ever want to see what the new hospital is like inside.” Fourth through eighth grade presented absolutely no problems for me. We thought we had the pancreatitis problem beat. Unfortunately, we soon found out how very wrong we were.

During my freshman and sophomore years at North Allegheny Intermediate High School, I had a few hospitalizations. Yes, pancreatitis again, and still no valid cause. They just treated the symptoms, and I was eventually discharged.

My junior year at North Allegheny High School brought its own stresses and worries. People kept telling me how important the 11th grade is; this is the year

SAT tests are administered and colleges look at grades. All sorts of questions ran through my mind, such as: “Am I going to miss any days of school this year?” or “How will I ever make up my challenging coursework?” Day after day, these constant thoughts filled my mind. I wondered when I went to bed at night if I would wake up in the middle of the night in severe pain.

Unfortunately, on January 7th, 2010, my questions were answered when my pain returned. But it wasn’t too severe and I told my parents I would tough it out; I had several tests to take that day. During fifth period, however, the pain increased so much that I could hardly make it down to the school nurse’s office. She called my mom, and we immediately headed to the emergency room at Children’s Hospital. That 15-mile drive down Interstate 279 seemed like an eternity. Every bump and pothole that she inadvertently hit felt like a stabbing knife piercing through my stomach. As we accelerated over the Bloomfield Bridge, I saw the vibrant, colossal building that was the new Children’s Hospital. I was so relieved when we pulled into the emergency room. When the triage nurses saw me doubled over in pain, they moved me to the top of the priority list.

Unlike my first emergency room visit when I was five, I knew the protocol: vitals are taken, blood is drawn and tests are ordered. A nurse inserted an I.V. line in my arm to administer fluids and Dilaudid, which now replaced morphine as Children’s Hospital “go to” drug. However, every single test returned with normal results; even the standard amylase and lipase blood tests, which measures pancreatitis. According to the doctors, this was not a case of pancreatitis. But my severe stomach pain would not subside. After about 10 hours, the ER resident came into our room and suggested an overnight stay for observation. Well, that overnight observation turned into a 62-day hospital stay.

Each week a different attending gastroenterologist and their team of residents rounded. And each brought their own opinion and ideas as to what was causing my excruciating pain. One physician insisted that the pain might be an abdominal migraine or an ulcer, while another doctor even suggested that my pain might be psychological. However, all tests and procedures came back normal. We kept hoping that they would find something, so it could be fixed.

The GI doctor during my third week of hospitalization suggested a procedure utilizing an endoscope be done to directly look into my stomach and intestines. This procedure would give a clear picture as to what was going on in my stomach. Consequently, we were warned that it might bring on a case of pancreatitis. But since no one had any answers, after careful deliberation, we decided to go through with the procedure. Big mistake! It not only brought on another case of pancreatitis, but the endoscope showed absolutely nothing abnormal. I was in worse shape than when I arrived four weeks prior. In fact, it seemed like we were going backwards, instead of moving ahead. Now they were not only treating me for pancreatitis and its pain, but also for the pain I had beforehand. Constant dosages of strong narcotics were administered around the clock through my I.V. And, since I didn’t have much to eat or drink during these past few weeks, a feeding tube was inserted in my nose. Another painful procedure, and we were no closer to getting what caused my initial pain resolved.

All this changed, however, when a doctor named Kristin Whitfield came into room 912 during my fifth week of being at Children’s. When I first saw her, I thought to myself – “no way could she be a doctor; she looks about 22-years-old.” But this angel in resident had an excellent bedside manner and explained everything to me in terms that I could understand; something that most of the other doctors didn’t do. She promised me that she would find a reason for my initial pain and ordered another ultrasound to check my gallbladder. She kept insisting that she felt it was my gallbladder acting up; even though the initial tests were negative. She also told me that there is a recent study that pancreatitis can be prevented by removing a person’s gallbladder. Why didn’t the “more seasoned” GI doctors know about this study?

Dr. Whitfield quickly ordered another ultrasound to check my gallbladder, and I remember the day she came back into my room with a big smile on her face, and the news we all had been waiting to hear. My gallbladder was severely inflamed and, according to Dr. Whitfield, that was probably the reason for my pain. She immediately scheduled a cholecystectomy for me, which is the removal of the gallbladder. Needless to say, I was extremely nervous before my surgery as I never had any type before and didn’t know what to expect. But Dr. Whitfield visited me several times prior to the surgery and assured me that I had nothing to worry about. In the end, she was right.

After the operation, I felt a different kind of pain, which was post operative, relating to the surgery itself and not to my stomach. About a week later, I was finally discharged as all my pain had magically disappeared. I have been pain free ever since and that operation marked the end of my struggle with pancreatitis.

After I was discharged, the North Allegheny School District approved me for homebound education, but I insisted on returning to school. Initially I thought I would have to repeat my junior year, but my teachers were very understanding and worked with me to catch me up on missed tests and assignments. I finished my junior year with a 3.4 QPA.

In my opinion, I am now a more emphatic person as a result of what happened to me. I also now realize that although it was terrible being in the hospital for as long as I have been, there is always someone worse off. I realize this when I volunteer every Tuesday at Children’s Hospital and see young children with a bald head from the ravages of chemotherapy. Or talk with other patients who have been in the hospital since Christmas. I still get a peculiar feeling when walking through the hospital, especially the smell which is unique and brings back powerful memories. Occasionally I will even walk by room 912 and just looking into that room gives me an uneasy feeling. As a result of my ordeal, I want to pursue a career at Children’s Hospital and one day return the favor to a patient of mine as Dr. Whitfield did with me.