Back in the Hospital (I could not think of a catchy title)

I started feeling crummy last week, with a pain in my side and no appetite.  I slowly got worse until finally the pain was so bad it was making me sick.  When Nicole, my home health aide, arrived on Thursday, she took one look at me and said “I am taking you to the ER.”

When we got there she peeled up and parked all crooked, as though I were a trauma victim bleeding to death.  We hadn’t brought my wheelchair because we figured there would be one at the ER.  But there wasn’t.  So my sweet Nicole, who takes such good care of me, had a Terms-of-Endearment-Shirley-Maclaine melt down, yelling “What kind of hospital doesn’t have wheelchairs?!?!”

Well they dug one up, registered me, realized I was a minor VIP (past director in the system and daughter and son-in-law both still working for the hospital) and the testing began.  They diagnosed exactly what I knew it was.

An inflamed gall bladder.  Cholecystitis.  Mundane, middle aged, ordinary.  Embarrassingly banal.  Minor surgery, admitted in the morning, home by evening.

Unless you have MS, lymphedema and a partially paralyzed diaphragm.  Then it is a medical emergency, a crisis that requires consults with a cast of thousands:  anesthesiologists, surgeons, pulmonologists and, I swear, passers-by on the street.  The consensus: the surgery to remove the gall bladder is simply too risky.  I was facing days in the ICU, prolonged intubation and a possible tracheotomy (an opening cut into my throat into which a tube would be inserted).  Not to mention a slow and horrifying death.

So now the plan is to do a less invasive procedure that will hopefully quiet down the gall bladder, prevent it from getting gangrenous and buy some time to figure out some more options.

In the meantime, a mass has been found on my liver.  Because all the other stuff was not enough.  So I had an MRI for that yesterday.  I had to leave the hospital because they had to use a special machine.  When the EMT’s arrived to transport me, the first guy took one look at me and, at the top of his voice, announced “No way is she going fit on our stretcher”.  I could feel my face get hot, I was so mortified.  The nurse and aide gasped.  Even his partner looked uncomfortable.  Trying to maintain some shred of dignity I told them I never had a problem “fitting” on a gurney before. How about I just try it?  He ignored me, went into the hall to call his dispatch and loudly asked how long it would take to get a bariatric stretcher.  Four hours.  I would not make my appointment.  But I knew I didn’t need it, that I would be ok on a regular gurney.  Finally he reluctantly agreed to let me try, all the while muttering dire warnings about hideous discomfort to my fat, fat, fat body.  And guess what?  I fit, as I knew I would, with room to spare, and was completely comfortable.

This guy is now my candidate for The Asshole Hall of Fame.

On the plus side, when I got to the MRI center, the tech was my old friend Nicky, who has been doing my MRI’s since I first got sick in 2005.  He is the most incredibly kind man.  After one MRI a few years ago, when I was in tears from so much pain, he actually got down on his knees, put on my socks and sneakers and tied them for me.    I had forgotten he told me he moonlighted at this place.  His sweet demeanor and constant concern for my comfort was a real gift.

Then when I got back to the hospital, the staff had a surprise for me.  They had been so upset over how the EMT had treated me, they moved me to a private room and presented it with a big “TA DA!!” like a Christmas present.  They are the best.  So, so kind.  It makes a huge difference.

My friends on Facebook have also overwhelmed me with their love and caring.  Message after message of support, encouragement, prayers and reassurance are like lifelines.  I am so lucky.

So now I am just hanging out, day four in the hospital, waiting for the results of the MRI to diagnose what is going on with my liver.  Tomorrow I should have the minor procedure.  My pain level is pretty high, so I am existing from shot to shot.  One doctor was just in and asked how I was doing.  I said my pain level was up there and the medicine just wasn’t helping as much anymore.  He didn’t respond, but asked a few more questions and then said, ok, glad you are doing well see you tomorrow.  Um, what about my pain? I ask.  Oh…well, make sure you ask for your medicine when it is due.  Smile.  Bye.

Sigh.

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Pride and Portliness

This is probably going to sound incredibly self indulgent.

Because of muscle spasms I get that can knock me off my feet, wake me up at night and sometimes make it impossible to get out of bed in the morning, I go for a massage about once a week or so.

ACK! I can hear you all now, ‘cry me a river’, ‘you poor thing’, ‘well aren’t you special’, all dripping with sarcasm. But it isn’t like it sounds.

First of all, I go to a chain spa with discounted prices. I am a member, so that reduces the price even more. It is not a fancy place, just a simple set up. I have only been going since I started my new job in July. And, finally, there is never a minute that I don’t fully appreciate how lucky I am to have both the time and the money to do this.

Believe it or not, I don’t even enjoy it that much. It takes time, I have to get naked, it is usually a different therapist each time and everyone is has a different technique. I mean it feels ok, but it is all about relieving the pain for me.

I went tonight and it is a therapist I have never met before. A really sweet young girl. She tells me she read my chart and asks if there is anything special I need. I tell her no, I just can’t have any pressure on my lower back at all. She says, “OK. Do you need a towel for your chest?”

Excuse me??????????

No one has ever asked me this question before, so I am confused and don’t know how to answer. Because I am a mental case, I want to get the answer right. God forbid the massage therapist thinks I am stupid. I think about my chest. It’s under me when I am lying face down and it is under the sheet when I am lying on my back, so when would I use the towel? I’m running the possibilities through my head like a Rolodex. I am tempted to check my chest for moisture that perhaps she can see but I can’t feel. However, I am reluctant to feel myself up in front of a stranger.

I briefly consider bluffing my way out of it, but decide to just fess up. “My chest…?”

She replies, “Yes, because, you know…”

Um, no, actually I don’t. But I am starting to sweat, because I didn’t know there was going to be a test .

She continues, “….some women are more comfortable when there is a towel around their chest when they are lying down.”

Behind the Jeopardy theme music playing in my head, a light bulb is starting to go off. “Yikes!” I say to her, “Don’t tell me it’s written somewhere I have big boobs!” and I gave a nervous laugh like, they wouldn’t, would they?!?!

“Oh no!” she chuckles, as if that is the most preposterous thing in the world, and I start to breathe a sigh of relief.

“It just says ‘top heavy’.”

Oh. My. God.

I can feel my face get hot and I want the floor to swallow me and my apparently freakishly enormous bosom. But that doesn’t happen. The floor stays solid. I don’t disappear into oblivion as I want to do. And now I have to take my clothes off and unleash the Breasts That Swallowed Pittsburgh.

Once I am lying on the table with my face in the little cradle, the tears start. Fortunately, they drip right through the opening unnoticed. I am so embarrassed I just want to go home and curl up under the covers. Better yet, under the bed. Even better still, under the floor boards.

Shit, just dig a hole and bury me.






Two things occur to me:

1) I apparently am way too prideful and need continual lessons in humility.

2) Maybe hanging onto this memory I will finally lose weight.