Surgery is finally happening, we think?
My birthday was pleasant. We had dinner at Bon Nene, the little Japanese-Italian cafe near our house. I had my favourite dish there, their delectable mentaiko spaghetti. As tempting as the rest of their menu is, I really can't get enough of that spaghetti. The pasta is always al dente, coated in a rich, buttery sauce that is never heavy. The mentaiko feels really luxurious as a texture and flavour. I am ridiculously partial to fish roe in all its forms.
In spite of the fact the dessert that day was Mont Blanc and I love chestnuts (really just about any nut) and delicate pastries, we had a chocolate cake waiting at home.
I think the amazing stress of the weeks leading up to my book launch and perhaps the rich food got to me. The next couple of days had me up at night with gallbladder pain attacks. The hydrocodone still works. It would have been bad without it. But I was physically tired all weekend.
On Monday, I finally saw the second surgeon my GP referred me to. It was a really awkward arrangement. On my GP's system, the surgeon was listed as attached to a different practice from the place I went to before. When I called to make an appointment, I realised this was exactly the same medical group I had problems booking a surgery with. It was odd enough that I contacted my GP again to make sure they got the referral right. The GP's office insisted that was what their system said. They did say if I still had trouble getting surgery arranged I should let them know and we'd try something else. Doctors do consult in multiple practices. Given a lack of options, I figured I would see the referral, try to explain my situation and maybe try to get referred to the hospital he was mainly attached with instead of the outside surgical centre.
To put it mildly, I wasn't particularly optimistic. But the doctor was nice. He explained how they would make four incisions, insert a little bag and pull out my gallbladder. From a sheerly technical perspective, he made it sound cool. When I explained that my mind was made up about having the removal done and what the roadblock was, he walked me to the surgery appointment desk I had been leaving futile messages with to call back, told them what happened and they immediately set me up for surgery on November 19th.
In hindsight, I'm probably still recovering from the shock. The appointment desk was genuinely baffled as to why they never got my messages. There were no apologies, though it seemed the manager who arranged my appointment date was sincere about trying to figure out why I slipped through the cracks. It turns out that the first surgeon I saw there had put in an order for surgery but the appointment desk never saw this request and thus never called me to set a date.
I'm glad they were able to squeeze me in, but still a little frustrated it took a second physical visit and doctor to get it right. Since then I've had two more nights of pain attacks. Again, the hydrocodone reduces things to a dull ache. Tonight must have been a worse pain than yesterday since one dose of painkillers made it only barely tolerable to sit up. It's how I find myself up at 3AM curling around a loaf of cat who is gently vibrating at the dining table, on top of the book I was going to read to distract myself. The cat is concerned about me. He's more important than the book. One can only kiss him on the head so much.
In spite of the fact the dessert that day was Mont Blanc and I love chestnuts (really just about any nut) and delicate pastries, we had a chocolate cake waiting at home.
I think the amazing stress of the weeks leading up to my book launch and perhaps the rich food got to me. The next couple of days had me up at night with gallbladder pain attacks. The hydrocodone still works. It would have been bad without it. But I was physically tired all weekend.
On Monday, I finally saw the second surgeon my GP referred me to. It was a really awkward arrangement. On my GP's system, the surgeon was listed as attached to a different practice from the place I went to before. When I called to make an appointment, I realised this was exactly the same medical group I had problems booking a surgery with. It was odd enough that I contacted my GP again to make sure they got the referral right. The GP's office insisted that was what their system said. They did say if I still had trouble getting surgery arranged I should let them know and we'd try something else. Doctors do consult in multiple practices. Given a lack of options, I figured I would see the referral, try to explain my situation and maybe try to get referred to the hospital he was mainly attached with instead of the outside surgical centre.
To put it mildly, I wasn't particularly optimistic. But the doctor was nice. He explained how they would make four incisions, insert a little bag and pull out my gallbladder. From a sheerly technical perspective, he made it sound cool. When I explained that my mind was made up about having the removal done and what the roadblock was, he walked me to the surgery appointment desk I had been leaving futile messages with to call back, told them what happened and they immediately set me up for surgery on November 19th.
In hindsight, I'm probably still recovering from the shock. The appointment desk was genuinely baffled as to why they never got my messages. There were no apologies, though it seemed the manager who arranged my appointment date was sincere about trying to figure out why I slipped through the cracks. It turns out that the first surgeon I saw there had put in an order for surgery but the appointment desk never saw this request and thus never called me to set a date.
I'm glad they were able to squeeze me in, but still a little frustrated it took a second physical visit and doctor to get it right. Since then I've had two more nights of pain attacks. Again, the hydrocodone reduces things to a dull ache. Tonight must have been a worse pain than yesterday since one dose of painkillers made it only barely tolerable to sit up. It's how I find myself up at 3AM curling around a loaf of cat who is gently vibrating at the dining table, on top of the book I was going to read to distract myself. The cat is concerned about me. He's more important than the book. One can only kiss him on the head so much.