Last week, I spent much of my time in room #242 at the Waycross Hospital.
Sunday or Monday I had a high fever and knew somet hing was wrong. When Bonnie got home from work and I was in bed about to freeze, she said we were going to the emergency room.
Normally, I am stubborn and hardheaded, but not this time. When we got there, my temperature was 103°. They (hospital personel) told me that I was going to be admitted.
I didn’t know, and the doctor didn’t know, what I had. He did know that it was not good.
My health history has included three or four pacemakers, seizures, appendectomy, two hernia surgeries, wrist surgery with a steel plate and several screws, and whatever I had this time may have topped them all.
The doctor put me on a liquid diet, which consisted of chicken broth (I think a chicken dipped its toe in some water), apple juice, Jello and some kind of frozen lemon stuff.
I am more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, but I understood what I needed to do. It still didn’t make it any easier to hold anything on my stomach.
The nurses took really good care of me. I gave them plenty of samples to work with.
My daughter, Kristen, made me promise her I was not going to die. She said she needed me and I couldn’t break a promise to her.
Finally, after four days, I was able to get scrambled eggs and bacon, but they still didn’t know what had put me in the hospital.
A day or so after I got out of the hospital, I received a call from Atlanta with a lady asking me several questions about what I had eaten the week or two before.
She said I had Sepsis, Colitis, and an unknown bacteria in my system. It appears that it was good I did go to the hospital after all, or they may have come to pick me up some other way, such as an ambulance or a body bag.
• Wayne Morgan is freelance wildlife photographer and author.
