Okay folks, now that I have been able to find a few moments of free time, I would like to share the story of my recent surgery. Some of you may have heard this, but I'm sure it's still funny the second (or fifth) time that you hear it. Besides, if you don't want to hear the tale again, then change the web address at the top of the screen.
Three weeks ago, I was having a relatively normal Tuesday evening in front of the TV. I had a late dinner of frozen pizza (with extra garlic -- this is important). I actually thought as I was eating, "This is quite possibly the best frozen pizza I've ever had". About 30 minutes after I finished eating, I began to feel this horrible pain in the middle of my abdomen (go abouts 2 inches below your breast bone if you want a more detailed location). Mind you, I've had this feeling before, but I always thought it was indigestion as it normally went away within an hour (usually a nice belch was needed). Not so this time. The pain was horrible and I began to pace my house trying to burp. I will also (with great shame) admit to asking Arne to burp me (shut up, we do it to infants). After a bit of time, I finally burped; unfortunately, it was immediately followed by vomit. (Remember the garlic I mentioned? Yeah, not so good on repeat. Take that with you for future reference). Anyway, a short time later, I felt more begin to rise (sorry for being gross). I made it to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and proceeded to projectile vomit while standing over the bowl. It was so surprising that all I could do was stand up straight and say out loud, "Well fuck me!" Mind you, Arne was upstairs sleeping during this great display. Had my head begun to spin like Regan's in The Exorcist, I would have had no witness. (I also would have said, "Your mother sucks cocks in Hell!" Some of you get that reference).
Since the contents of my stomach were now removed, I decided to make an attempt at sleeping. Which I managed to do for about 20 minutes. Then I was back up and pacing. Finally, around 2:30 in the morning, I gave in and decided that it was best to make my way to a hospital.
So, 3:00 A.M. on a Wednesday and the emergency room was empty. Awesome, I'll get right in! No. Instead I have to hang out in the waiting room for about 15 minutes while all of the TVs are tuned to Fox News. Seriously, I can't stand Glenn Beck on a good day, why should I be expected to tolerate him on 6 televisions in the middle of the night? I should have known that was a bad sign.
Finally, some teenage girl retrieves me and takes me to the triage room, where she precedes to question why my blood pressure is so high (and it was). Apparently the fact that I'm in pain, it's 3 in the morning and this is my first ER trip isn't a good answer. So she finishes her assessment (that I'm in pain is, apparently, not obvious) and leads me to an exam room in the back. Mind you, she is casually sauntering and appears to be lost in a dream, while I am on the verge of screaming, "Give me drugs!!!!"
After being in the exam room for another 10 minutes or so, the ER doctor (intern/15 year old) exams me. Shortly after she leaves, a nurse appears with a beautiful syringe of morphine, which it turns out, I actually very much enjoy. A short time later and I've had an ultrasound. Afterwards, the 15 year old tells me that I have Pancreitis and begins to ask how much I drink. Apparently, this is quite a common occurrence when you have overindulged. I admitted to drinking a few beverages a week (it is never consistent and is usually lower. Of course, I was also thinking, "Don't mention the bottle of wine you drank on Monday night. I mean c'mon, it's only three glasses). She looks so skeptical. (Shut up!) Everyone who enters the room from this point on asks how much I drink. (Apparently trying to get me to admit something).
By 5:00, I've had a more thorough ultrasound and it has been determined that I have gall stones. Suddenly, all the questions related to the over consumption of alcohol stop. You know I wanted to start waving my middle fingers around and telling everyone to suck it!
Sometime after 6, I'm taken for a CT Scan. I'm warned as the contrast material is added to my IV, that once it "hits your bladder, you may feel like you're urinating, but you're not". Well, that's just poor timing, because at this point, I actually have to pee. Shortly thereafter, I felt the warm feeling go through my lower area and once pass, was thankful to know that my body didn't take it as a sign to embarrass me further. On my way back to the ER, I actually made the fella stop my bed in the middle of the hall so that I could find a restroom. Upon returning to the bed, he was nowhere to be found. So then I hung out in the hall as folks passed by. I had to resist the urge to erupt into laughter at the absurdity of the situation, for fear that I would have found myself on the psych floor.
Please make note of the time. It is now 7:00 A.M. I've been in hospital for 4 hours. Another 4 hours pass before I'm taken to an actual room, even though it was known for awhile that I was to be admitted. Thankfully Facebook was able to provide some amusement for me, as I could not rest. (Nothing says a good time, like documenting your humiliation). After finally making it to my room, I decided it was a good time to call my mother to let her know what's up. Yeah, that was a fun call. "Hi mom. Don't panic, but I'm in the hospital". (Yes, that's actually what I said -- such tact).
Anyway, I'm super excited to find out that I will have the blockage removed via a tube that is placed down my throat and that I shouldn't need surgery. I actually thought I would be out the next day. FOOL!
When I'm finally being prepped for the ERCP (don't ask what that stands for, because I don't know -- you are just as capable of looking it up as I am), the nurse asks what I do for work. I tell him the name of my company (it's health insurance -- go figure) and somehow he manages to hear that I work for a morgue. Shit! Could I possibly leave now.
Moved to the surgery room and more prep continues. Finally, a piece of rubber/plastic (?) is put in my mouth to prevent me from biting on the tube that will be inserted. It is at this moment, that I decide to take a chance: "You know, I could make a very inappropriate joke right now." (I could have, it was like I had a ball-gag stuck in my mouth. Look it up). Everyone laughed and I knew I would be in good hands. The Propofol (again, yum) took over and the next thing I knew, two nurses were standing over me, attempting to wake me. I looked up and said, "well, you're lovely" to the nurse that I saw. (More embarrassment). Shortly after being returned to my room, I found that I actually had approximately 25 (what?!?) gall stones and that my gallbladder would, in fact, need to be removed. Dammit!
Even though my surgery is not scheduled until Friday (it's only Wednesday, remember), I am not allowed any food or water, in an effort to let my pancreas return to normal function. Finally by the end of the evening, I've managed to talk the staff into letting me have ice chips to cool my parched throat. On the bright side, I'd least I might lose a little weight.
Thursday comes and brings with it horrendous rain showers. Or so I'm told. Since I wasn't by the window, I never actually saw the rain.
Friday arrives and I'm surprised to learn that I'm being taken to surgery in 5 minutes. (Here's a note to hospital staff -- patients often have people to call prior to a surgery, in case they die. Please remember that small courtesy). Anyway, in the surgical prep room, listening to another patient whose gallbladder is to be removed, being told that he will be released in a few hours. (Bastard! No fair! Why am I the freak who's in hospital for several days, when most folks have this happen and are released same day? Waaaaa!). Finally it hits me: it's Friday the 13th. Glad I'm not superstitious.
Anyway, the surgery goes down and I am relieved to know that I am not a jerk when coming out of the general anesthesia. I am, however, for reasons unknown to me, talking about Ramona and Beezus, a book I have not read, nor a movie I have seen. I have nothing to say to this, as it obviously speaks volumes on its own. Sigh.
After being returned to my room, I was finally provided a meal of soup and jell-o. I was so excited, I told the nurse that I would hug her, but it required too much effort to move from the food. By Friday evening, I was ready to go home. I was bored and was not getting the rest that one (allegedly) gets in a hospital.
Saturday arrives and I've decided that if necessary, I will throw a tantrum if that is what is needed to be discharged. Either that or I would find a way to open the window and head down the side of the building, even if the hospital gown would be blowing wildly and my naked rear would be on display. (Like strangers haven't seen my naked ass before. It's glorious, I promise . Well, I've never had any complaints).
A few hours later and I'm home in my bed. So happy. Sleep came so easily.
Of course, during this period of recovery, I found that percocet (or hydrocodone -- darn optional Rx substitution) does not make me sleepy. I have found that it tends to have the opposite effect on me. Morphine patches would have been divine. Just sayin.
So folks, that's my story. I'm happy that I could share my humiliation with you. Hopefully, I never have another story like this to share. Until later.
