Dark foreboding. Do this or else...(Part Two)

The nurse inserts the IV catheter into my left wrist. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see a flash of blood squirt out the end of the catheter. "Praise be to God. She got the needle into my vein the first time." The nurse tries to draw out blood she needs for some lab work; however, she cannot get any blood to collect in her test tube. Thankfully, my nurse calls over another nurse, and with her help, she is able to collect the needed blood. (I again send up a praise to God. "Thank You LORD! Thank You for sending the needed knowledge to the second nurse on how to collect blood from my IV." I breathe a sigh of relief.)

The nurse hooks up a small bag of dextrose. She begins infusing the dextrose into my IV line. Next, she spikes the immunoglobulin bottle. She then enters the necessary information into the IV pump. The thick liquid slowly descends the plastic tubing and starts dripping into my wrist. I sit, trying to read the Bible on my iPad, but I know something bad is about to happen.

As the first few minutes of the infusion proceed, I notice my breathing is starting to increase. I think this is odd. I do not feel nervous. Furthermore, I am sitting reclined with my feet up. There should be no reason I should have an increase in my respiratory rate. About ten minutes into the infusion, I start feeling unwell. My arms start to shake. My breathing continues to quicken. The room spins. I am developing a bad headache. My neck becomes very sore and very stiff. The nurse increases the infusion rate. My symptoms immediately intensify.

I urgently tell the nurse I am not feeling well. She then leaves me and goes to a side office. A male nurse exits the office and comes to my side. He asks me about my symptoms. As I am talking with the man, I notice my speech is becoming sluggish. I am having more and more difficulty forming words with my mouth. The male nurse asks if I took Tylenol before the procedure. I said no. He meanders off to a medicine cabinet and retrieves two Tylenol tablets and a cup of water. The nurse returns and tells me to take the Tylenol. "It will help with the symptoms," he informs me. My hands are violently shaking now. I carefully take the medicine and sip a tiny amount of water. I am thankful when the pills and water slide down my throat. The man asks if I need to go to the emergency department (ED). Although my symptoms are intense, I have felt a lot worse many other times in my life. I decline the invitation to the ED.

The nurse insists he cannot discontinue the infusion. Strangely, he utters words to the female nurse which are very similar to what my neurologist said. "She needs the IVIG. It is essential for her treatment of her condition. She needs to get the entire infusion." The male nurse walks over to my IV pump and slows down the infusion speed. My health continues to deteriorate.

By the 15th minute of the infusion, I am violently shaking. Despite having a trach and using invasive ventilation, I am struggling to breathe. I am overcome with uncontrollable coughing fits. My tongue feels as though it cannot fit in my mouth. My thinking is extremely cloudy. The only thought running through my mind is, "Please stop the infusion!!!" As much as I want to scream this out loud, I cannot form the words in my mouth. The pain in my head is exploding. The overhead lights send excruciating pain throughout my head. My neck is extremely stiff, and pain radiates down my spine. I am tremendously nauseas. I feel as though my entire GI tract is trying to force its way up my esophagus. I am drenched in sweat. It feels as though I am sitting in the midst of a hot oven; however, my hands and feet are ice cold.

The male nurse asks me about my symptoms. I try and try to form words in my mouth, but between my swollen tongue and the disconnect between my brain and mouth, it takes about a minute for me to choke out "yes" or "no" responses. I wish I could just nod my head. However, the stiffness and pain in my neck make it impossible to move. The nurse asks again if I want to go to the ED. This time I say yes. I know the IVIG must be stopped immediately. I know my body cannot handle any more of this toxin leaking into my vein. The only way I believe this nurse will stop the infusion is if I go to the ED. Using all my strength, I slur out, "Yes! ER!" The nurse understands my wishes and reluctantly stops the infusion. I look at the clock. Eighteen minutes have elapsed since beginning the infusion. Eighteen precious minutes ago what a different life I was living.

(Link to Part Three click here)