AWWWWW, Sundays! A day for relaxing, enjoying and doing whatever you heart desires. Or maybe we can all take a trip to the emergency room. That’s fun, too, right? Maybe if your idea of fun is tearing all your skin off and dance in a fountain of alcohol.
I have been having stomach troubles for about a month. They were never too bad, just a little nausea (EVERYDAY), just a little pain in the center that would radiate down my left arm (EVERYDAY), and maybe a little bad mood (EVERYDAY). For awhile I thought this was a wicked case of PMS, but when my friend left and I was still left with the problems, I wondered if maybe one of my insides would explode. EH, it was never too bad. I was still able to do my normal activities with maybe a little more ‘tude than many surrounding me could have done without. Then came the weekend. I didn’t want to move and when I did I wanted to throw myself off the nearest building. The pain had gained reinforcements and was ganging up on me. Funny, by 1pm Saturday, I was able to move without wishing for death and managed to get dressed and go to a birthday party. I dare not eat any of that crawfish, because I knew my stomach would either send it back or hold me captive in the bathroom.
Sunday came with the same intense pain as Saturday, so I had a little conversation with myself:
“Self, maybe we should go see someone?”
“Don’t be a wuss! Suck it up and just go about your business.”
“But what if one of my insides explode and I am bleeding to death?”
“Geesh! Drama much! Look you promised those kids Kung Fu Panda and dammit, be a grown up, and fulfill your promises.”
“Man, you are one cold hearted bitch!”
“I do whats I gots to do.”
I got up and started getting ready and then I realized I was walking hunched over. I was in so much pain, I couldn’t stand up straight without screaming in agony. I informed the husband to find an urgent care center open and get ready. I didn’t want to go to the ER. The ER is a place that I distaste with all my being. I hate the wait, I hate the smell, I hate the bloody people, I hate the rude check in person and most of all I hate having my children crawling all over the floor. Don’t worry they were boiled before their little heads touched their pillows, last night. I must give praise to the marketing department of one of our smaller hospitals. They called their ER an urgent care center. We drove around the parking lot looking for a separate building, but oh no, it was the ER we were suppose to be at. Curses!! They get me, again. Seeing as I was in pain and had just wished for a stapler to shut my daughter’s mouth which had been running non-stop since we left the house, I decided I had no choice.
Here is where the fun starts:
After a not so long wait, I am called in. I am asked questions that I will be asked several times in the next 8 hours. Oh yeah, baby. EIGHT FREAKING HELLISH FUCKING HOURS!!! Can these medical type people get together and have some meeting to stop asking me the same FREAKING questions every 5 FREAKING minutes. I am shuttled into a small room with an annoying hum, later I would learn that the hum would become my friend. You would think that if you describe to someone intense pain they would slow down to wait for you to catch up. Oh no, those ER nurses are hardcore and I would find out just how hard during my time there.
After the poking, prodding and demands for blood, I am given a GI cocktail. Okay, first you can’t call something a cocktail, if it doesn’t bring you joy or make you forget whatever crap you are going through. This thing was something mixed in some mad scientist’s lab who probably still lived with his mother, never got laid, and hated life, in general. It was suppose to numb my mouth, throat, the food gateway and the pain would go away. It worked for about 5 minutes. This pain was so strong that it laughed in the face of their little “cocktail” and screamed, “Is that all you got?” So they would show me all they got and my body and I would have our asses kicked.
This only lead to other enjoyable treatments, like a finger up my butt. When the doctor told me what she wanted to do, I think my eyeball shot out of my head into her’s. HUH? WHAT? YOU WANT TO PUT WHAT, WHERE? I knew I should have bolted, but I was still afraid one of my insides would burst. So after that pleasant meeting of butt and someone finger, NOT, I was told everything looks okay. Now, what? Is that it? Can I go and live my life to never mention this heinous crime against my butt, again? Oh, no, they had more in store for me.
“Well, you see,” the doctor said, ” I want to rule out a few more things.” HUH? WHAT? RULE OUT WHAT? YOU JUST HAD YOUR FINGER UP MY BUTT, SHOULDN’T THAT HAVE TOLD YOU EVERYTHING? Oh, no. That just told them that I am a good patient and will do what they say. The psychos. Nurse Ratched enters and jams a IV in my arm. “You bruise, easily, eh?” she asked. I agreed, because could Lord don’t piss this bitch off. In my head, I was screaming, “No, only when people jam sharp objects into my arm!” Then I wait.
OH! MY! GOD! The waiting was horrible. There is no TV, there is no music, there was nothing sharp on which to impale myself. I had my phone and they weren’t taking that away from me, no matter how many signs they had up. Lucky for me I had fallen behind on my Parents reading and had 2 issues in the car. Quiz me on anything in the May or June issue. Go ahead, I bet I know the answer.
Next I go for my ultrasound. Now, these don’t sound so bad, do they? I mean the last ultrasound I had I was squinting to try to find the baby the doctor was pointing out. Later, we would laugh at the video and proclaim I was giving birth to an alien. Don’t worry, Sam, those pictures didn’t do you justice, AT ALL. This ultrasound wasn’t as nice. It was mostly me holding my breath and the tech measuring my innards whiling pressing down really hard. Here is a little tip to all those Med students: when I patient tells you they have an intense pain in their stomach, DON’T FREAKING PUSHED DOWN ON IT. Guess what the ultrasound said. NOTHING!!! There was no baby, no exploding innards, no mouse trying to scratch it’s way out, no alien trying to bust through, only a whole lot of NOTHING!!!! Can I go, now? Obviously, I am doing this for attention and the pain is all in my head. Oh no, we have one more procedure for you and it is the best of them all. CAT SCAN!!!
Nurse Ratched brings in 2 tall drinks. I think, finally, something for me to put in my stomach, besides the pop tart I had at 6am. Oh no, she ain’t that nice. I was told to drink this liquid, the color of piss, and then in an hour drink the other one. And because she is nice, she mixed them with Crystal Light and she assured me that they weren’t so bad. I don’t know what circle in hell where she gets her tall, cold ones, but this stuff tasted like lemon-flavored death. I don’t vomit easily, but I thought for sure this stuff was going to make a repeat showing. I forced the first glass down and prayed for God to just explode my internal organs and get it over with. This was pure torture. Just about the time the taste left my mouth it was time to drink the next one. I braced myself and tried. I was on my knees begging for mercy. Then I said screwed it and threw the rest down the drain. If they can’t get their pictures, I don’t care. I wanted out and I wanted out, 4 hours ago.
The only thing I can say about the CAT scan is that I thought I was in some weird Star Trek episode where I was an alien withholding information and they were going to retract it anyway they could. Basically, you ride the ride, hold your breathe (making sure it is in English, because me no speaka the Spanish) and the CAT scan tells the doctor all she needs to know. And do you know what the doctor found out? Well, I have diarrhea. She asked it kinda accusatory, like I was with holding this one piece of important information that would have solved everything hours ago. Except….the freaking lemon-flavored death water is what gave me the freaking diarrhea. I had been shuffling my bare ass to anyone and everyone in the ER room to the toilet every 5 minutes since I drank the last one. But wait, there is more. I am about to start my period. Oh hallelujah, thank god, I just spent my kids’ tuition to find out that little gem. At this point, I am thinking this doctor doesn’t know anything and I was just here to fill up her day. Finally, I am told I could leave. I heard that and was dressed in about 5 seconds. I was tripped up because of the UV still in my arm. Nurse Ratched would come in to remove it just as gently as she had put it in. I am sure, everyone likes have a bent needle in their arm for about 30 seconds while she gets some gauze to cover my gaping wound.
As I left, I wonder what the hell happened? I went in for a tummy ache and was violated beyond any knowledge I had. Then it hit me. HOLY SHIT, the bill we are going to get. Well, guess what folks we met our deductible for the year. Let me stop and do my little screw you insurance company dance. We have no idea what is wrong with me and surprisingly my pain is much, much less than it has been in the last 3 weeks. I guess all that stuff shocked my body and reminded it to fly the straight and narrow from now on.
I think I am going back to my “If I ain’t dead policy or need something removed (mostly this is in regards to babies)” policy keep me as far away from a hospital as humanly possible. Laying on the ground dying in a pool of my own vomit and blood sounds more enjoyable than what I experienced, yesterday.
I would like to address my sweet friend who told me and the people who happen to be on Twitter, yesterday, that this was my way of getting a day off. You know the spa day I had been asking for? Well, I will ask her the same question I pose to Nurse Racthed, what CRAZY ASS SPA IN HELL DO YOU GO TO? And please, don’t ever, ever give me that number for as long as we both live.
Read Full Post »