I had fun at Darkover, but didn't get enough sleep. Big surprise, eh?
[note that dates are probably wrong. I have no sense of date/time at my best,
and I haven't been my best in a while]
On Monday, I was pretty low
energy, but figured a few nights' sleep would put me right. When I woke up on Tuesday, I felt
thoroughly wretched. Stomach ached something fierce, no appetite, no energy. Finally had
fizzygeek haul me off to see the doctor. My regular MD was out that day, so I saw
one of the other people in the practice. He poked and prodded and came up with no clear cause.
His best guess was just constipation, so he ordered abdominal X rays and suggested taking a
laxative. We hied directly off to the imagery center and got the X rays, hoping he'd call back
later with more information.
No call that day, still felt horrible the next day, so
fizzygeek called the office again,
and got an appointment with my regular doctor. He said the X rays didn't show anything out of
the ordinary, and did the usual poking and prodding. He also came a cropper, but his best
guess was appendicitis (even though there was no fever or nausea), and told us to go to the
emergency room.
The emergency room protocol had changed a bit, you fill out a slip and come answer
questions when they call you. So I sat down while the clerk took down information.
She wanted to know why I was there. I told her my doctor had sent me, suspecting
appendicitis. This confused her, as I didn't have any fever or nausea, but they admitted
me anyway. Eventually the persom came by to draw some blood, and
fizzygeek
made sure to point out that I was needle-phobic. She poked and prodded both arms and hands,
and decided to call in the professionals. I really appreciate when people do this for
me instead of just hoping they'll manage okay. A little while later, another woman came in, and
said she was quite equal to the task. As she had the same first name as
fizzygeek's
mom (who is a top-notch phlebotomist), we took this as a good sign. Sure enough, she did a
combo blood draw and IV insertion that didn't ache when it was in! I was so impressed and relieved.
They gave me a dose of Demerol for the pain, and some other medicine to counteract the nausea
that Demerol can cause. I had my usual reaction to Demerol, which is like losing the vertical hold
in my eyes. The world just flips by vertically. But it did take the edge off the pain.
The doctor wanted a helical CT scan, explaining that it and the blood work would yield a definitive
diagnosis. So I drank the oral contrast dye (sort of like metallic-flavoured ginger ale), doing my best
to follow the directions ("drink an inch every 10 minutes") without the benefit of a clock. There was
quite a wait for the CT machine (the ER was swamped by then, and I later found out that 28 of the 30
people there at that point got CT scans). I got hooked to the other dye injector (125cc of dye in about
15 seconds, yeesh) and the machine did its bit, then they wheeled me back to ER.
They needed the exam room, so I got parked in the corridor while they waited for the radiologists
to slog through the backlog and send a report. After a while, the pain got to bothering me, so they
gave me a dose of Torodol. This didn't have the immediate effects of Demerol, but over the next
hour or so, the pain dwindled down to a dull ache, and it didn't make me feel loopy. The corridors
were filling up with excess ER patients, and the people there had their hands full, so I just tried to
stay out of the way and not be a nuisance. One woman flew off the handle and stormed off with
her daughter when they couldn't get an ER room RIGHT THEN. Poor form.
Eventually the doctor came by and announced I was her diagnostic nightmare. The CT clearly showed
an inflamed pancreas, but the pancreatic enzymes were all normal. But some of the liver enzymes
were awry. White count was up, but no fever. Nothing made any sense. They decided they didn't
want to send me home that way, so admitted me to the hospital. As the hospital was also full, this
basically meant that I stayed on a gurney in the hallway. By then the pain meds had come into full
force and there was basically zero pain. Powerful stuff. I eventually got a couple of little containers
of apple juice to sip, as my mouth was getting dry. Poor
fizzygeek was slowly dying of
boredom. After a while, they brought me some ice chips to sip. I asked why I was down to ice chips
when I'd been having juice earlier, and the nurse explained that my timing had been good, the orders
had arrived right afterward.
After a while, it was time for more blood work. I was dreading another stick by a person of unknown
skill, but I could tell that behind her youthful looks (deceiving, she has a husband and 2 kids) and
teasing ("This is my third blood draw ever!"), she was on the ball. Did such a good job I didn't even
have to pause in whatever monologue I was engaged in at the moment. Should have caught her name.
They were going to culture the blood and see if they could find any evidence of microbes to perhaps
explain the high white count.
Eventually
fizzygeek reluctantly admitted she simply had to go get some rest (she'd had a
couple of rough weeks). I assured her I would be fine, but asked her to let the nursing station know my
IV was about to run dry (they were fresh out of the fancy IV pumps, so it was a simple gravity drip).
About an hour later, it did run dry. As I didn't want to get air in my lines, I used the valve to pinch it off.
The staff was still swamped. I watched the shifts turn over and the night crew arrive. At one point,
an orderly wandered by looking for someone. I hadn't seen her, but asked him to let them know that
my IV had run dry. Quite a while later, when things had slightly calmed down, the head nurse dropped
by and apologised for not getting to me yet. She got a new IV hooked up, brought me my bedtime meds
(with some bonus apple juice to wash it down). At one point, I had screaming babies in full stereo, but
managed to get several quick naps anyway (I suspect the painkillers helped).
Quite some time later, she came by and said I could wash off if I liked. That sounded like a nice
thing to do, so she disconnected me from the tubing, and set me up in a little-used bathroom in
another wing with warm wipes and toiletries. I also got one of the nice jumbo wrap-around gowns,
which is much nicer than the ones that gap in the back. That sure was a pleasant change. When I wandered
back to the ER, they had stripped the gurney I had been in (for what? 11 hours?), and she said
they'd found me a room. Said room turned out to be a storage closet off the main corridor but
it was still a little darker and quieter. They've finally rounded up one of the computerized IV pumps
and get it hooked up. But it's extremely finicky, and keeps beeping over this or that parameter
it doesn't like. The nurse is getting frustrated, and I suggest that they gave her the bitchiest pump
in the entire hospital. She agrees. I also got a third dose of painkillers, yet a third kind (dilantin?).
This stuff felt rather like demerol, but with lesser visual effects and it made me feel warm all over.
I managed to get a few half-decent spells of sleep, except when they were taking histories next door (just a
curtain away). Some people get loud when they're nervous or in pain. After several hours of this,
I felt like I could start taking histories. I tried to get more sleep, but the bed was angled, and I
don't easily sleep on my back. I eventually snagged a nurse and she flattened the gurney, and I
got a little fitful sleep. They said they'd probably be able to get me a real bed soon. I asked if the
culture had shown anything, and they explained that it would be 72 hours before there would be
any results.
Sure enough, they had finally cleared out an ER exam room and put a bed in it for me. So I got
a little sleep under better conditions. Then it was time for the next day's blood work. Happily,
I recognized the fellow who came in in the half-light. One of the phlebotomists had told me
about him last time I was in, he was generally regarded as the best there is. He seemed
pleased I recognized him and knew his name, and did a superlative job. Maybe needle sticks
were not a big deal, maybe I could finally be shut of this wretched phobia one day.
A couple of hours later, they found a semi-real room for me. It was in an odd little "short stay"
corridor on the first floor, but I had walls on three sides, a curtain at the front, one of those
fancy beds that adjusts itself to equalize pressure, a TV, all that stuff.
fizzygeek
came to visit, and brought along a bunch of light reading, as well as my electric razor (the hospital
had supplied a blade razor, but I've never used one, and decided this was not the time to
learn). At some point, another doctor (Dr. Gill) had dropped by, explained that he was as
perplexed as everyone else, but had a theory that perhaps something from the bile duct was
turning to gunk or sand in the gall bladder and clogging up the opening it shared with the
pancreatic duct into the intestine. So he wanted to run an MRI to get a closer look. I had
never had an MRI before, but was familiar with the concept and not worried about it (hey,
the upshot of a phobia is that anything that doesn't involve it improves by comparison).
So no food, no drink because it would complicate the MRI. Hours go by, and a whole bunch
of nothing happens. I start to get uncomfortable again, so they give me a little dose of
dilantin, which took the edge off enough that I wasn't flopping around trying to get
comfortable all the time. Eventually poor
fizzygeek has to run off to work. I reassure
her that I'll be fine. At one point, a patient advocate wanders by to see if I have any issues. I
don't want to be a complainer, but I'm curious as to the long unexplained MRI delay. She says
she'll loop by radiology and see what the holdup is. 20 seconds after she leaves, an orderly
arrives to take me to the MRI. She comes back a few seconds later and I thank her for the
instantaneous service. She looks sheepish and admits she had nothing to do with it. I thanked
her anyway.
I figured they'd have me change gowns for the MRI, as the one I'm wearing has metal snaps.
They explain that it's not a problem, don't worry about it. My gold crown also is out of the
strong field area and will be fine. It takes the guy quite some time trying to jockey me onto
the table in the correct alignment. After I scoot down about a dozen times, my legs are sticking
off the end almost to my knees. Finally another tech shows up and explains how to arrange
patients of my length and proportions. Finally everything is in place, the strap the locating
sensor to my chest, slide me into the giant donut, and put headphones on me. The headphones
bring me two things. One is LOUD DISTORTED Christmas music, courtesy of some radio station
that spends more time broadcasting EVEN MORE LOUD AND DISTORTED ADS than music. The
other is the instructions, which are pretty repetitive. Unlike the cool recorded voice prompts
from the CT machine (built by the same company), the operator tells you what to do. And he
sounds annoyed. "Take your breath. Release it. Take another breath. Hold." Then the
machine operates for a few seconds, and, in a truly annoyed tone, he announces, "Okay, BREATHE."
Repeat several dozen times. The machine itself was interesting. Given the healthy voltage
fields I could feel, I'm guessing this is not one of the superconducting magnet variety.
The sound was the distinctive raspy buzz of sawtooth waveforms at various rates. Toward
the end of the scan, when they were running a heavy duty cycle, I did start to feel somewhat
warm. No surprise, as I suspect the machine was dissipating a huge amount of energy in its
magnets. I remember thinking "this isn't as claustrophobic as I'd heard about, but
nosebeepbear still probably wouldn't enjoy it." I was later to find out that she'd
been having an MRI the same day. Then I went back to the wheelchair in the waiting room
and watched them get the next person set up. Eventually, someone came to get me, but
swapped patients with someone else halfway there, leaving me with someone who didn't know
where I was headed. Luckily, I knew which room I was in.
It turns out that the MRI wasn't the only reason I wasn't allowed any food. Apparently
eating can trigger pancreatic action, and they wanted to avoid that. Not feeling up to
much, I made an early night of it.
Sleeping is difficult, as the bed is optimized for patients lying on their backs,
and I'm no longer doped up enough to sleep that way. Finding a comfortable
position on my side takes a fair amount of effort, and the sheets aren't quite
wide enough (neither is the bed), and I'm bent in the middle, which is
especially annoying as my pancreas is still larger than usual. I finally find a
barely acceptable position and BEEP BEEP BEEP! It turns out that the tubing on
my IV gets kinked if I bend my arm, and the IV pump (they finally found one)
complains. If I don't satisfy it in FIVE SECONDS, it beeps continuously until
the nurse comes to reset it. I finally find another, more awkward position
where I can sort of sleep. I awake to a stern discussion. Someone has come
around to take the 6AM blood draws. But it's 3AM. The ward nurse doesn't like it.
The needle chick says she has a lot to do, normally starts at 3:30 anyway, and what's
the big deal. The warn nurse stomps off to call a supervisor, and needle chick strides in.
I figure, I'll be good, I'll just lie here, it's just a little stick, I'll get through this.
MISTAKE!
The needle feels like an ice knife being plunged right through my elbow joint.
It HURTS. I shriek and start hyperventilating unevenly. Needle chick totally loses
her composure and keeps stammering "over soon, over soon, calm down, over soon".
Reality has a nasty habit of punishing complacency quickly and cruelly, eh?
I have a brief thought that it would serve her right if the samples clotted (this often
happens when I get a bad stick), but realize that it would just mean I'd get stuck again.
I should have found out her name too. Dammit, there should be a minimum competency
requirement, at least for people sticking us needlephobes.
As there's zero chance of getting back to sleep anytime soon, I sit up
and chat with the night assistant for a while.
The next day, my
orkney drop by, and we have a lovely chat.
Dr. Gill shows up and explains that the MRI doesn't show much of anything out of the
ordinary, other than a slightly pinched opening, which is easily explained by the
adjacent inflamed pancreas. He's still sticking to the theory that the gall bladder is
producing particles (invisible to X rays, CT scans with and without dye, ultrasound, and MRI)
that are clogging the duct and causing the inflammation. He even found a word for that
form of pancreatitis (I truly wish I'd written it down). He suggests I consider getting my
gall bladder removed, in an effort to avoid any more recurrences. It was nice that
orkney
got to meet him, he's a good guy, very friendly and forthright, and willing to explain anything we
liked. I'm allowed a clear liquid diet, so I get jell-o, broth,
and fruit juice. The doctor said he'd step up the diet, and if I tolerated it, I would probably be out
on Sunday.
The night brought more of the same protracted battle to get any sort of decent sleep. I was sorely
tempted to ask for more painkillers just for their sleep inducing effects, but decided that was just
not a good idea for a lot of reasons.
Saturday morning, I was still on the clear liquid diet. The doctor dropped by later and said my blood work
had zipped back to normal already, and he'd try a full lunch and if that worked out, he'd recommend I
go home that day. Lunch was a chicken breast sandwich, roll, and bean soup. Seemed to go okay.
Finally got unhooked from that accursed IV, put on street clothes, and
fizzygeek drove me
home. Orders were pretty simple. Low fat, low residue diet. The low fat is obvious, but the low residue
confuses me. I don't know how long these are to last, either. There's also a referral for a surgeon to
get my gall bladder removed. When I got home, I had a really nice hot shower, and then mostly slept
the rest of the weekend. Sweet, sweet sleep.
I have a call in to the doctor, because I'm still curious as to the diet (why the low residue, and how long
should I follow it). I also want to know if they managed to culture anything. And I'd like to know the
lovely word he'd found for what he thought was going on. As always, I'm tempted to ask my friends
in the medical fields about some of this, but I'm aware doctors grow to resent the constant requests for
free advice, so I'm not going to add to their troubles.