"I don't have time to be sick. There's just too much going on right now." How many times do we say that? How many times do we ignore the warning signs - Slow! Yield! Warning! - until we hit the big red STOP! or else? We tend to pay attention to that one - most of us, anyway. So my stomach hurt. So what. According to the ads on TV, I should just take a dose of Pepto and I'd be right as rain by morning. I ignored it. Worked through it. Popped Tylenol and blamed it on stress or maybe bad chicken. I was fine. It was Memorial Day, and I was GOING to feel better!
Saturday I couldn't cough without crying. It occurred to me that it hurt this bad when my appendix was near the rupture point - but it was gone, and the pain was on my left. There's really nothing over there to hurt like this, right? I was trying to tough my way through another day when my mother called. It was bad news - my aunt Mildred had passed away during the night, after fighting breast cancer and lung cancer for several years. It didn't help that she was blind and that her husband had died the year before, or that she was living in some state run facility where apparently it was too much trouble to go help someone get to the dining room. Then Momma asked what was wrong with me. I explained the pain, briefly, and told her it was no big deal. In her typical no-bullshit way, she said, "You work for a hospital, damn it. Get your ass down there." So I caved in. Fine - I'll go to the clinic. They'll tell me it's a gas bubble and I can get on with getting better and enjoying my holiday.
At the clinic we listed the litany of symptoms: pain getting progressively worse for the past four days, decided that it couldn't be anything good and came here. Yes, I've had a low grade fever. Yes, it hurts when you do that. No, I haven't thrown up and my BM's seem normal. Can I please have a prescription and go home now? No? Why do I need a CAT scan? No, I don't want to go to the hospital across the interstate. I'll go to the ER at Vanderbilt - like Momma told me to.
So I'm in the ER. I get fast-tracked - this surprises me. It's just a belly ache - I know the doc at the clinic said it was diverticulitis, but really - it's no big deal. More listing of of symptoms. More poking and prodding. I hate their pain scale - on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst, how's your pain? I pick a seven - seems like a lucky number, and I'm not exactly screaming or doubled over, so it seems a good guess. Bloodwork - IV - and finally, morphine :) Off to the lovely CAT scan we go, then back to the room, where shortly thereafter, I have a definitive diagnosis - diverticulitis. Great - can I have my prescription and go home now? What do you mean you want to watch me overnight? I'll go home and be good. No chance, eh? Well, maybe if you watch me I'll do a trick.
The morphine and the lack of food took the fight out of me, though, so overnight stretched into Tuesday morning. All I remember is no food until Monday at lunch, and that vanilla pudding never tasted so good, and that I hate IV's and I hate poking and prodding and questions about bowel movements. I'm home now, apparently after dodging a surgical bullet. I'm tired. So I think I'll pay attention to this warning sign and go take a nap.
Saturday I couldn't cough without crying. It occurred to me that it hurt this bad when my appendix was near the rupture point - but it was gone, and the pain was on my left. There's really nothing over there to hurt like this, right? I was trying to tough my way through another day when my mother called. It was bad news - my aunt Mildred had passed away during the night, after fighting breast cancer and lung cancer for several years. It didn't help that she was blind and that her husband had died the year before, or that she was living in some state run facility where apparently it was too much trouble to go help someone get to the dining room. Then Momma asked what was wrong with me. I explained the pain, briefly, and told her it was no big deal. In her typical no-bullshit way, she said, "You work for a hospital, damn it. Get your ass down there." So I caved in. Fine - I'll go to the clinic. They'll tell me it's a gas bubble and I can get on with getting better and enjoying my holiday.
At the clinic we listed the litany of symptoms: pain getting progressively worse for the past four days, decided that it couldn't be anything good and came here. Yes, I've had a low grade fever. Yes, it hurts when you do that. No, I haven't thrown up and my BM's seem normal. Can I please have a prescription and go home now? No? Why do I need a CAT scan? No, I don't want to go to the hospital across the interstate. I'll go to the ER at Vanderbilt - like Momma told me to.
So I'm in the ER. I get fast-tracked - this surprises me. It's just a belly ache - I know the doc at the clinic said it was diverticulitis, but really - it's no big deal. More listing of of symptoms. More poking and prodding. I hate their pain scale - on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst, how's your pain? I pick a seven - seems like a lucky number, and I'm not exactly screaming or doubled over, so it seems a good guess. Bloodwork - IV - and finally, morphine :) Off to the lovely CAT scan we go, then back to the room, where shortly thereafter, I have a definitive diagnosis - diverticulitis. Great - can I have my prescription and go home now? What do you mean you want to watch me overnight? I'll go home and be good. No chance, eh? Well, maybe if you watch me I'll do a trick.
The morphine and the lack of food took the fight out of me, though, so overnight stretched into Tuesday morning. All I remember is no food until Monday at lunch, and that vanilla pudding never tasted so good, and that I hate IV's and I hate poking and prodding and questions about bowel movements. I'm home now, apparently after dodging a surgical bullet. I'm tired. So I think I'll pay attention to this warning sign and go take a nap.
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