I'm on day three of bed rest, or something similar, after spending Thursday in the hospital. I made it through the day at work Wednesday but knew something was wrong. I should've gone on to the emergency room but l suffer from that I can't really be sick problem, mortification that I'm going to go to Mama my husband the doctor and nothing is going to be really wrong with me. If there's not blood spurting or a fever spiking I don't believe I'm really hurting. Of course, by 3:00 AM I knew I'd made a mistake and at 8:30 I called my "primary" just to make sure I was doing it right. Wouldn't want to miss a detail and give my insurer the chance to stick me with the tab, the whole tab and nothing but the tab. I like my primary. He's accessible, straightforward and not judgmental. When they offered me a 1:00 appointment, I said I thought I needed to go to the emergency room and they offered me his nurse's voicemail. She returned my call quickly and confirmed my presumption so I showered and drove to the nearest ER, which is not much more than around the corner.
I'm thinkin' nine o'clock on Thursday morning must be a slow time in the ER 'cause it was bam bam bam and I was in a room in an ugly smock or two and face to face with an ER doc I had the displeasure of meeting last July with The Youngest in the course of my Mom duties, but that's his story to tell. So this guy asks my symptoms and pokes around my (kinda? is it or isn't it?) swollen abdomen just about sending me through the roof a time or two, looks at my smart phone and asks me, "So, were you up all night online trying to figure out what was wrong with you?" I nodded, maybe a little sheepishly, 'though not much as I'm an empowered medical consumer (say it over and over 'til you believe it). He said, "Well, what do you think you have?" Feeling like I was taking a shot in the dark (regardless of how certain I was at 3:00 AM and knowing this was, at this point in the game, my best case scenario, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't just gas), "Diverticulitis?" I was relieved when he agreed, but only for a second because his next words were, "Well, we'll do a CT scan." Oh, great.
I just didn't get up that morning thinking, "Gee, I'd like to look at all my insides and see what's going on in there," which is not what I said, although I do think I muttered something lame about what if we find whole villages of little people running around in there (???). I mean, some things are best left unviewed or at least as far as the moment goes, or as far as my temperament goes (I know, I'm wrong), but I sure wasn't going anywhere the way I was, so I said, "Alright. I'll do that. I'm not going to work today anyway." He laughed and threatened me that if I was lucky I might get to go home.
After I was fully IVed and sampled they served me a nice l'il radioactive milk shake, which wasn't as awful as I expected and put me in a pretty nice room to wait. At every stop along my way someone would ask me, "On a scale of 1 to 10, where's your pain?" I can never answer that question. I mean, how do I know if my 1 is the same as someone else's 1? And, what the hell is 10? I mean, if 10 is having a limb severed or an organ ruptured, how the hell would I know what this was, relative to that? It was bad enough that I came to the hospital. I tried to be a really good, compliant patient all day except when they'd ask that stupid unanswerable question. I fear my answers got more and more obnoxious as the drugs got better day wore on.
There was one other interesting thing. The nurse who processed me in when I arrived had the same first name as The Oldest. The nurse technician who came and got me and handled the CT scan itself had the same name as The Youngest and (I couldn't make this stuff up) the last nurse of the day, who processed me out, had the same first name as Middle Son. Now, my boys don't have unusual names, but still, hittin' all three took some doin'. The nurse who did the scan had the liveliest personality and did his well-memorized questionnaire/disclaimer as we wheeled our way to radiology, "Are you allergic to any drugs...?" When he got to the disclaimer he told me that they'd inject another radioactive solution into my IV just before the scan so they could see all my other internal organs (oh, great, that's really just what I wanted) and that immediately thereafter I would feel 1) hot all over, 2) a metallic taste in the back of my throat, and 3) like I was about to pee myself (that's how he put it). Okie dokie. He didn't warn me until I was parked in radiology and he presented me with another banana shake that the first one was for the lower digestive system and this one was for the top. Well, now, that's really great.
I know I must have looked both surprised and relieved when the doc, who was not named similarly to any of my children, came in and announced that I did, in fact, have diverticulitis and that I didn't appear to have anything else and that he was going to administer two IV antibiotics, one after the other and if I really wanted to and promised to be good, I could probably go home in a few hours, after all that was done. So, having taken care of the business end of the day, the next time a nurse asked me about my pain on a scale of 1-10 and I finished my stupid (by now, really boring) speech about my troubles answering that question, I asked back, "If I tell you it's an 8 will you give me some really good pain medication so I can sleep through the IV antibiotics," she smiled and said, "Yes." I don't remember much else except that the last nurse, who shared Middle Son's name, shot back a smart ass remark at a democratic presidential candidate on CNN hung high up and turned down low in a corner of the room, revealing himself to be a republican. Since he was in charge of my IV, I let him get away with it without angry retort. By this time, talking was nearly impossible anyway. He got me back for feeling so hostile a little later when, in the process of discharging me he gave me my prescriptions and informed me that I couldn't drink alcoholic beverages during or for two days after the course of one of my antibiotics. I guess he saw a look on my face, 'cause he said, "No, not at all. It acts like antibuse and you'll get really, really sick if you drink while you're taking it." Forget great. Fuck.
I've been trying to behave. It wasn't hard for a while because it took until today for it to stop hurting so much. By last night, when my 24 hours of nothing but liquids was up, I was looking at my release instructions, just tooling along thinking this isn't so bad, happy to be graduating from liquids to "soft foods", including shredded meat and well-cooked vegetables, bread with the crust removed (I swear) and soft cake (this, in addition to the pudding and jello and strained soups I'd been so enjoying). Okay, that's fine too, 'til I got to the next part which started, "After about a month...."!!! Nooo!
Between the weird diet and the no drinking, I'm wondering if it's possible to go to New Orleans next weekend to visit Middle Son and Dangerblond and see Left Behind, The Story of the New Orleans Public Schools at the film festival. It's not like it's something I can put off until the next weekend, 'cause it's only showing the one time. I'm gonna have to see how it goes, but I'm aiming at trying to make the trip. I'm being good and resting and taking care of myself this weekend. I'm taking everything right on time and beginning to feel better. I can almost imagine going to work Monday morning, if I can't quite imagine staying through the whole day (the folks at the KnockingShitDownCo did have to hit me on the radio a few times Thursday and Friday, so I'm hoping they didn't decide in my absence that they could easily do without me).
I've mostly slept and read with the television in the background. I got to see Oprah yesterday, something I've missed during the years I've been going to the office. I like to follow Oprah to stay a step ahead of trends, 'cause I'm pretty sure she decides what the women of America are going to be thinking, reading and buying six months from now (not that figuring that out as well as I do does me one bit of good in my current job), but that's a whole 'nother post. I got to stay up late to see Matchbox 20 on Jimmy Kimmel last night (wait, it was Friday, I would have gotten to see that anyway). They did two songs, including the new single, which I thought was pretty good, if a little Modest Mousey (maybe it's the other way around?). I can't help it. I really love Rob Thomas' rapid-fire lyrics and funky phrasing (alright, and the angst). This song almost stumbles towards the end but it also has a cool little mandolin riff (and I love mandolin riffs). Go ahead and make fun of me if you wish, but I'm pleased to see Thomas back with the band, at least for now, and that's also a subject for another post (or not).
Here, I've gone long again (oops, I've gone really, really long this time). Sincere apologies, but I had absolutely nothing else to do. For those of you who made it all the way to here (if anyone did), many thanks. Below is a little Matchbox 20. Peace. Out. Y'all.
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