Emergency surgery during a pandemic — meet the real heroes

The pain came out of nowhere. 

One minute, I was "the tickle monster" excitedly chasing my two kids around our apartment, where we've been quarantining for weeks. And the next, I was curled over screaming in agonizing pain. 

"Mami, what's wrong?" my 4-year-old FDR asked, rushing to my side. He placed his small hand on my back, his little brown eyes filled with worry. "I don't know, baby, I don't know," I replied looking up at him in between moans. "Your tummy hurts," he said matter-of-factly. 

"Hurts" was understatement. The throbbing on the lower right-hand side of my abdomen was steady and unbearable.

"It has to be my appendix," I thought, my hands shaking as I googled my symptoms and WebMD informed me I was about to die. "Oh yes, it's my appendix. It must be. It feels like it's ready to burst. I need to go to the emergency room." 

Now, at any other time, what would've made the most sense would've been to grab my babies, put them in their car seats and rush myself to the nearest hospital right away. But right now nothing makes sense. We're living in times that are remarkably unique: the time of the devastating coronavirus pandemic, which has already claimed so many lives. 

So despite the excruciating pain,  the emergency room is the last place in the world I want to go right now, I thought, still curled over crying, my hands pressed on my pelvis trying to push back against the pain.

I just have to power through this. It'll pass. It didn't. 

I know, I'll just fill the tub with warm water and get in. That should help. It didn't. 

I'll take two extra strength Tylenols. That should help. It didn't. 

Breathing exercises? Nope. 

Nothing was working. I was desperate and alone. My husband, Matt, an essential worker who's the lead coffee roaster and barista at Pipeline Coffee Co. in Wantagh and Rockville Centre, was not home. What if I pass out?

I called Matt and gave him the 4-11. "Come home now," I said through tears. "I have to go to the hospital." 

"Babe, are you crazy? You can't. You're gonna get corona. Are you sure it's not just bad gas?" he said. "Yes, I'm sure. Just come now!" 

Next, I called my bestie and co-worker, Tory. The only person I knew would break quarantine to come to my rescue.

She lives in Huntington and was at my place in Massapequa in record time and both of us, masks and gloves on, hurried to the closest hospital. Tory, of course, was at the wheel. 

"It's OK. You're gonna to be OK," she said. "Just breathe." Her GPS let us know some sort of relief lied just eight minutes away: St. Joseph Hospital in Bethpage. 

'Wait, Wait! Don't Go Inside' 

At St. Joseph's, Tory dropped me off at the emergency room entrance while she went to park the car. I tried rushing inside but was stopped by a man, who I assume was a security guard. 

"Wait, wait. Don't go inside," he yelled. "Do you have a cough? Do you have a fever? Shortness of breath?" he asked, checking for coronavirus symptoms. 

"None of that. My stomach hurts. Right here," I told him, both of my hands on the right side of my belly. 

"Oh, OK, in that case go there," he pointed at a door plastered with a sign that read: "Non-COVID emergency room entrance." 

I went in and was greeted by nurses in PPE gear. I told them what was wrong."Oh, sorry. Gastrointestinal. Go through the other door." 

"Oh no!, the COVID entrance," I thought, not hesitating to run next door, anyway. The admitting nurse there went through the same questions, "cough? fever? shortness of breath?" And after all my "no's", walked me in to be treated. Tory was told to go home. She couldn't accompany me inside. It was too dangerous. 

I was scared. Although, I was unsure why, I knew I was in the COVID-19 unit. Signs everywhere let me know so. But I was in so much pain, I didn't care. I just wanted to be helped. 

I saw a frail older man laying in his hospital bed coughing. The blue and white curtain of his room pulled open. His face, one big frown. "Go in there," the nurse said, pointing to the room next to the man's. My pain was not letting up. 

The staff quickly transferred me to another room where within minutes I was seen by Dr. Maurice Selby. "We're going to help you, OK?," he said. And then asked, "Why didn't you come in sooner?" 

"I was afraid to because of corona," I said. He nodded and sighed, ordered a CT scan and an ultrasound and told the nurse to give me an IV and morphine.

The morphine was like a sweet, magic bullet of pain relief. I felt some tension on my shoulders and then just like it came, the pain disappeared. 

Hours later, with my test results in, Dr. Selby came back to my room. "It's not appendicitis," he announced. "It's a large ovarian cyst, the size of a tennis ball. It's most likely causing ovarian torsion which is why you're feeling so much pain." 

Torsion is a condition that happens when an ovary twists around the ligaments holding it in place. The twisting can cut off blood flow to the ovary and fallopian tube and can cause severe pain and other symptoms because the ovary is not receiving enough blood, he explained. 

"So, now what?" I asked. "Well ...," he replied. "I discharge you. There's nothing really I can do for you here right now. It's better if you go home. Everyone in this unit is COVID-positive. The longer you stay here, the more at risk you are for infection." 

"I understand, doctor. But what if my pain comes back?" I asked. "If that happens, you have to come back to the emergency room. But before you go, I'll call a specialist. He's the hospital's OBGYN, Dr. Aaron David. I'll ask him if he can see you." 

Dr. David agreed to see me at his North Massapequa practice the next morning but first wanted to make sure I was COVID-negative, and requested I was tested for coronavirus before being discharged. 

The nurse swabbed a thin long q-tip-looking stick in my nose (it hurt!), handed me discharge papers and sent me on my way, but first warned, "If your friend's not here to pick you up yet, stay in your room. Don't hang out in the hallway. Remember everyone here is very sick. It's not safe for you." 

'COVID or No COVID, you're going to the OR today'

At home, I couldn't sleep. It was 5 a.m. and I was wide awake. I was uncomfortable. I was tossing and turning. The pain, creeping back in.

I mindlessly scrolled on my phone, reading story after story about the virus, liking my friend's workout challenges on Instagram and crying on and off because I wished my mom could fly from Miami to New York to be with me.

Both of my parents, my mom, a diabetic, and my father in remission from cancer, are immunocompromised, so I knew it was impossible. I didn't sleep at all. 

Tory picked me up at noon the next day and soon we were at Dr. David's office. She couldn't join me inside so she waited for me in the car. That morning, I had gotten a call from a nurse at Dr. David's office saying she had called the hospital to get my test results.

"All clear. COVID-negative. Come in," she said. 

At his office, the chairs in the waiting room were marked "Don't sit here," "Don't sit here," "OK to sit here," to comply with recommended social distancing guidelines. I didn't sit though. Sitting hurt way too much. 

He quickly called me in, reviewed St. Joseph's discharge papers, felt my abdomen with his hands and ordered his own in-office ultrasound of what, for the first time, I heard referred to as my "tumor." 

Two young students in white lab coats, masks and gloves, followed him around, observing his every move. "You don't mind that I'm teaching them while you're in your moment of misery, right?" he asked. I didn't. 

"Not at all, doctor. As long as you help me, it's OK," I said. "Oh yeah, I'll help ya," he said. "We're getting this thing out of you today." 

And just like that, less than 20 minutes later, he cleared his appointments for the day and we were both rushing to NYU Winthrop Hospital in Mineola. I was having surgery in about "two hours tops," he said. 

At Winthrop, I was again stopped at the door and asked about coronavirus symptoms. I showed them a paper Dr. David had given me saying I'd be having surgery there. They let me in and checked me in quickly. 

Minutes later, I was taken to my room. This time in a non-COVID-19 unit.

I gave the staff my wrinkled discharge papers from St. Joseph. I'd been carrying them around with me everywhere.

A nurse looked over them disapprovingly. "They sent me home because they didn't want me to get corona," I said with a groan. "OK, I'll go grab you something for the pain. You'll be in the OR soon," he replied, disappearing out the door. 

That's when it hit me. I couldn't hold back the tears. I've never had surgery before. Both my kids were delivered naturally. I had an IV in each arm and I was alone. Tory wasn't allowed to accompany me here, either. Too risky. My husband, home with the kids. My parents, states away. 

It was just me and God.

I closed my eyes. And I prayed.

Remove my fear. Replace it with faith.

I thought of all those all alone in their hospital beds sick with COVID-19, not knowing if they'll get to say one last "I love you," or see their favorite faces — if only via FaceTime — one last time, and prayed for them too. And lastly, asked for peace for our health care workers bravely on the front lines. I had seen the worry, the stress, on their faces, and felt the urgency and restlessness, floating in the air all around us.

A nurse came into my room and once again, swabbed the inside of my nose, to retest me for COVID. They had St. Joseph's results but, "just want to be sure," she said. 

"Will this delay things?" I asked. "It might," she replied. 

Dr. David's take? "COVID or no COVID, you're going to the OR today."  

'I'm sorry, I don't know who that is' 

I noticed a gray dolphin painted on the ceiling. The word "Brave," a secret message hidden in his skin. I took it as a sign from God. 

I looked around the room and noticed other animals drawn on the walls. 

"Are you ready to go?" Arnold, my nurse, asked poking his head in the room. "Yeah, I am. Are all the rooms painted like this? I really like it. It's so cute." 

"Ha-ha, yeah all the rooms in the pediatric department are," he laughed. "That's what this is, normally." 

And then, it was time. I was rolled out of the room and taken to the room where I'd be having surgery. On my way there, I looked at the faces of other patients and again, I prayed.

Being face to face with our own mortality ... it's daunting. We're mortal every day but we rarely stop to think about it. We blissfully forget. But there, so close to so many people who are tiptoeing on that ultrathin line between life and death, you can't forget it. It's all you can think about. 

In the operating room, it was like a movie. So many bright lights, it was blinding. A table on the corner full of shiny sharp tools. About 10 people who I've never met, doctors, nurses, at least one anesthesiologist, donning masks, gloves, goggles and hairnets crowded around me. 

I started shaking. This was happening. This was real. I'm hearing them say words I don't understand the meaning of, probably discussing what tools they'll use to open me up. 

One doctor looks at another and asks, "Who are you?" They speak over my body and he says he's new. He's here from another state. He came to help. I try sitting up but I'm told to please lay down. I start crying again and then Dr. David arrives. 

"It's OK, dear," he said. "It's not my first rodeo. You're going to be just fine." 

"Hey, can someone grab her wedding ring and earrings and give her some 'juice' to help her relax," he said. And someone did. I felt a hot tear roll down my cheek and faded out. 

When I woke up hours later, the first thing I did was look down at my left hand. My wedding ring was back on. I touched my ears, my earrings were back on, too. "Oww...," I moaned in pain. "My throat hurts." 

"Yeah, because of the tubes. You were intubated so that happens. It's normal," said Nicholas, my new nurse. "Don't worry. I'll give you something." 

"Thank you," I said. "My lip is busted," I said. "Yeah, same reason." 

"Where's Dr. David?," I asked him. "Can I speak to Dr. David?" 

"I'm sorry. I don't know who that is." 

"What?" 

"Yeah, I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know who that is. We're all switched. We're in different departments. There's people here who've come from other states to help. It's all, you know, a little crazy." 

"What happened ... Did they remove the tumor?" I asked Nicholas. "Yes, and they removed the ovary, too." 

"What?" I said, groaning. "Yes, that's what it says in your chart. They removed it." 

"The whole thing?" 

He looked over the chart again before saying, "yeah." 

I knew it was a possibility. The doctor had said it could happen. If the torsion was severe enough and blood flow to the ovary had been restricted for long enough, then he'd have to. I had signed off on it. But I was hoping it wouldn't be the case. 

His brother-in-law had come back from Vietnam with only one testicle and he had nine children, Dr. David had reassured me. 

I already have two beautiful healthy children, so I shouldn't be sad but I was. In the scheme of everything happening in the world, this is not a legitimate reason to be sad, I thought, so stop. Everything is OK. I'm here. I'm alive. 

In the corner of the room, a nurse gathered her belongings, her shift almost over. "You know, if they reopen everything, though," she says, turning to her colleague. "We're just going to be right back here in this all over again." 

"Yes, I know," her colleague replied nodding. "I can't sleep. I only slept like four hours last night. That's like a nap. I took a warm shower. I watched some TV but I was nauseous. It's just that this is draining in every way. I could literally start crying right now but I won't because it's like I can't, you know?  I have to work. I have a job to get done." 

"Yeah, I know exactly what you mean...like we just can't think about it too much," her colleague replied. "Yeah. Alright, I hope you feel better. See you tomorrow." 

They wave to each other and Nicholas tells me I have to go home. 

"Tonight?" 

"Yes, it's just better if you go home," he says.

"Because of corona?" 

"Yes, because of corona. The doctor prescribed some pain medication for you but everything's closed. I checked but there aren't any pharmacies open, even the 24-hour ones are closed." 

"Because of corona?" 

"Yes, because of corona. I'll give you something before you go so you can sleep through the night." 

"Thank you so much, Nicholas. Would you mind if I took a picture with you before I go?" I asked him. "With me?" he laughed. "Should I take off my mask?" 

"Yes, I want people to see what a hero looks like." 

He laughed, again.

And then when Tory said she was on her way, Nicholas walked me down to the lobby. There, a news segment about protesters in other states clamoring about the reopening of the economy and pleading for less restrictive social distancing guidelines played on a small TV. One man angrily held up a poster that read, "I want to play golf." 

We both looked up at the television and shook our heads. 

"Some days there are whole families here infected with corona. Some relatives are in their rooms gasping for air and the others in the ER waiting to get admitted," he said. "It's sad." 

"Yeah...you know, I wish I could hug you," I said, my voice cracking. 

"But I know, I can't now so, I'll make sure to come back and give you a big strong hug when this is all over, OK?" 

Tory texts me, she's outside. Nicholas says, "You make sure you do that." 

Another laugh, a "remember to wear your mask and be safe," and a wave fading into the night as Tory's car drove away. 

Correction: This piece has been updated to include the correct location of NYU Winthrop Hospital, which is in Mineola.