December
So by now, some of you are wondering what the Hell happened. Well, so am I. One day, I'm about to go in for eye surgery--a few weeks later, I'm getting out of the hospital with an infected liver. Well, without going into too much detail, some serious shit went down in those three weeks. The Ketorolac I was given post-surgery gave me some unfortunate and gross side effects, causing me to visit two different hospitals before I felt better. And even then, I wasn't feeling great.
But then Tuesday the 15th came along. I woke up feeling the best I'd felt in a long time. I went to my doctor's appointment, and everything was good. I picked up my prescription, and my pharmacist said that I looked much better than I did the last time they'd seen me. Medical stuff out of the way, I went on to grab something to eat and get some Christmas shopping done before work.
But I never made it to work. Hell, I didn't even get any Christmas shopping done. By the time I got off the train at Granville, I was in pain. Severe, incapacitating pain that seemed to be swallowing my abdomen. Despite the fact that it took all I had to get to street level, I thought that all I had to do was take a couple Tylenol and things would eventually be okay. A trip to London Drugs and a layover at the seating area near the Apple Store so I could take said pills and sit down for a bit proved this theory wrong, as my pain intensified and I found myself throwing up the Tylenol into the nearest garbage can. I slowly made it to the food court washroom, locked myself in a stall, and braced for vomiting. Once I felt alright, I made it out to the hall and collapsed. A security guard came to help me out and usher me into the family room. A cleaning lady offered me a garbage bag to continue vomiting in. Questions were asked. The paramedics were called. More questions were asked. I was taken to the waiting ambulance and then to St. Paul's.
As usual, the ER at St. Paul's was a warehouse of the crazy, drug-addled, and old. Also as usual, the docs were clueless as to what my trouble was. I needed a Gregory House or a Bones McCoy, but all they had were Dr. Nicks. After reading my recent history, they decided that morphine, a blood transfusion and a saline drip were the best way to go. At first, I agreed--but then, my abdomen started bloating up. Organs felt like they were being pushed out of my body, my body felt like it was going to explode. I was like Violet Beauregarde, but I wasn't purple or blue or addicted to chewing gum. While I waited for the oompa-loompas to roll me out, I complained of more pain and the bloating--but all I got was more morphine, which barely helped anything. And then, I tried to get to sleep.
In the middle of my second sleepless night in the ER, I was finally transferred to a real room. Sure, it was full of old people, but it was an actual room with a phone and a washroom and a nearby lounge. That night, I was finally able to get some sleep.
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The next week or so played out like this: Loud, angry old man who was more concerned with his money than his ladyfriend who'd ended up in the ER with her own illness. Blood tests and scans and ultrasounds. Precautions taken because they thought I had C. Diff. Fruitless searches for wi-fi. Visits from N, dad, and one of dad's friends. Junkie who whined about her methadone and morphine dosages and, despite her inability to walk, threatened to leave. Finding out said junkie got free TV. C. Diff precautions lifted. Estimate of being out Monday. Quiet old man who didn't understand that if the bathroom door was locked, someone was likely in there. Monday coming and going without discharge. Tons of Twitter and Facebook love. Diagnoses of ascites and spontaneous bacterial peritontis. Albumin and antibiotics. Drainage of all the fluid that they'd pumped into me just a few days earlier. Obligatory There Will Be Blood reference. Special diet where I was only allowed 2 grams of sodium and 1.5 iitres of fluid a day. Promises of discharge on Christmas Eve. Fears that Christmas Day would find me still in the hospital. Junkie leaving for a few hours on Christmas Eve. Showering, packing, and leaving on Christmas Eve. Being glad to be out after nine long days. Manday coming to visit Christmas Eve, only to be able to drive me home.
Relief.
But then Tuesday the 15th came along. I woke up feeling the best I'd felt in a long time. I went to my doctor's appointment, and everything was good. I picked up my prescription, and my pharmacist said that I looked much better than I did the last time they'd seen me. Medical stuff out of the way, I went on to grab something to eat and get some Christmas shopping done before work.
But I never made it to work. Hell, I didn't even get any Christmas shopping done. By the time I got off the train at Granville, I was in pain. Severe, incapacitating pain that seemed to be swallowing my abdomen. Despite the fact that it took all I had to get to street level, I thought that all I had to do was take a couple Tylenol and things would eventually be okay. A trip to London Drugs and a layover at the seating area near the Apple Store so I could take said pills and sit down for a bit proved this theory wrong, as my pain intensified and I found myself throwing up the Tylenol into the nearest garbage can. I slowly made it to the food court washroom, locked myself in a stall, and braced for vomiting. Once I felt alright, I made it out to the hall and collapsed. A security guard came to help me out and usher me into the family room. A cleaning lady offered me a garbage bag to continue vomiting in. Questions were asked. The paramedics were called. More questions were asked. I was taken to the waiting ambulance and then to St. Paul's.
As usual, the ER at St. Paul's was a warehouse of the crazy, drug-addled, and old. Also as usual, the docs were clueless as to what my trouble was. I needed a Gregory House or a Bones McCoy, but all they had were Dr. Nicks. After reading my recent history, they decided that morphine, a blood transfusion and a saline drip were the best way to go. At first, I agreed--but then, my abdomen started bloating up. Organs felt like they were being pushed out of my body, my body felt like it was going to explode. I was like Violet Beauregarde, but I wasn't purple or blue or addicted to chewing gum. While I waited for the oompa-loompas to roll me out, I complained of more pain and the bloating--but all I got was more morphine, which barely helped anything. And then, I tried to get to sleep.
In the middle of my second sleepless night in the ER, I was finally transferred to a real room. Sure, it was full of old people, but it was an actual room with a phone and a washroom and a nearby lounge. That night, I was finally able to get some sleep.
------------------------------
The next week or so played out like this: Loud, angry old man who was more concerned with his money than his ladyfriend who'd ended up in the ER with her own illness. Blood tests and scans and ultrasounds. Precautions taken because they thought I had C. Diff. Fruitless searches for wi-fi. Visits from N, dad, and one of dad's friends. Junkie who whined about her methadone and morphine dosages and, despite her inability to walk, threatened to leave. Finding out said junkie got free TV. C. Diff precautions lifted. Estimate of being out Monday. Quiet old man who didn't understand that if the bathroom door was locked, someone was likely in there. Monday coming and going without discharge. Tons of Twitter and Facebook love. Diagnoses of ascites and spontaneous bacterial peritontis. Albumin and antibiotics. Drainage of all the fluid that they'd pumped into me just a few days earlier. Obligatory There Will Be Blood reference. Special diet where I was only allowed 2 grams of sodium and 1.5 iitres of fluid a day. Promises of discharge on Christmas Eve. Fears that Christmas Day would find me still in the hospital. Junkie leaving for a few hours on Christmas Eve. Showering, packing, and leaving on Christmas Eve. Being glad to be out after nine long days. Manday coming to visit Christmas Eve, only to be able to drive me home.
Relief.