Hospitals & Homestead

I attempted to go to work yesterday. I had stuff I needed to get done before my vacation, and I felt guilty knowing that someone else was going to have to meet my deadline. But my boss arrived at work, and within minutes, asked me why I had come in.... and told me to take the rest of the day off to see a doctor and then rest.

So, I went to my previously scheduled therapy session with Vera, though she cut it short and told me to use the time and see a doctor. Before I left, though, she told me that I was making very good progress, especially since I told her about my conversation with Luke and his moving out soon. I asked her how long the "healing process" typically takes, and she told me that we would discuss it next week.

I don't like going to the doctor. I like to think there are other ways to cure what ails you.

Live in rooms full of light
Avoid heavy food
Be moderate in the drinking of wine
Take massage, baths, exercise, and gymnastics
Fight insomnia with gentle rocking or the sound of running water
Change surroundings and take long journeys
Strictly avoid frightening ideas
Indulge in cheerful conversation and amusements
Listen to music.
~A. Cornelius Celsus

I decided I didn't want to pay the $100 co-pay at the ER, so I opted to visit my friendly Urgent Care doctor, whom I'd seen several time before, usually just to get an antbiotic due to severe head colds. I waited almost two hours in a room full of sniffling sick people. I made small talk with a girl, who was probably around my age, who ended up getting diagnosed with Strep Throat. She was probably contageous. Fantastic.

When I was finally admitted into the clinic, the nurse had me step on the scale. For the several years or so, I've been a consistent 122lbs. I cringed when the nurse announced that I was 112lbs. I was upset about this-- a few of my work pants had been looser than normal, and my mentor has commented on how thin I've become since the breakup-- but to actually hear my weight and realize that I've lost 10lbs in a month (and I'm not a woman who can afford to lose any more weight)... I realized how stressed my body had become.

The doctor examined me. He had me lay on my back and put pressure on my stomach, abs, and kidneys.... in which his touching a few spots made me cry out in pain. He was concerned about this, and decided I needing some tests. Tests that I couldn't get done at the clinic. Great. He filled out a referral and sent me to the ER.

I was frustrated with myself, by this point. I should have just gone straight to the ER. I made a quick stop at my apartment to grab some reading material and eat a sandwhich (since my previous stay at the ER had lasted almost 9 hours), then headed down the road to the hospital.

I didn't have to wait very long in the ER's waiting room, since the doc had written "STAT" on my referral. I felt bad, though, when my name was called before this one man, who was doubled over in pain. Granted, I was hurting, too, but I could walk on my own.

The nurse made me put on one of those hospital gowns. You know-- the kind with the open back. I hate them. I always feel mortified when I have to walk down the hall, past other people and male doctors. Yes, I'm sure they've all seen their fair share of human flesh, considering their chosen professions, but it still makes me uncomfortable. Moving on.

Enter Dr. McDreamy. Seriously.

Like the clinic doctor, McDreamy had me lay on my back, while he felt around to determine the pain's specific location. He noted that he was concerned about my gallbladder, mentioning that I might have some sort of infection. Then he made small talk, in which I may have mentioned that I had just gotten out of a 6-year relationship... and he may have mentioned that it was Luke's loss. Then, McDreamy asked if I lived in the area. It was a very lovely conversation, until he ruined it by announcing that I needed some tests and then he was going to get me something to ease the pain.

The part I always dread: having my blood drawn. My veins are unusually small, and often times my blood has to be taken from my hand. After about 20 minutes of waiting in the claustrophobic room by myself, two paramedics came in.

The man asked me, "So, how do you take your needles?"

I looked at him, reading his nametag that stated, "Paramedic Intern."

Oh hell no. I understand that they all have to learn somehow, but my veins have been tortured in the past by legit doctors, and there was no way in hell I was letting an intern prod around my arm. The last time I was at Celebration Hospital, one nurse stabbed me incorrectly, and made my entire right arm numb for a good 30 minutes. She then apologized and said she was from housekeeping. This did not amuse me.

Anyway. The other 'real' nurse took my blood and hooked me up to a banana bag of magical drugs. She warned me that she was giving me 4mg of morphine, as well as some other nausea suppressants. And thus, the fun began. Morphine apparently makes me very chatty, and slightly dizzy.

Someone wheeled me around the hospital to get an ultrasound. I had a wonderful chat with the ultrasound technician. I told her more than she probably wanted to know about my personal life. But, I figured if she's going to get up close and personal with that rediculously cold gel, then she can get to know me a little better.

Afterwards, someone wheeled me back to the ER, into the "Patient Observation" room, which I'd been in before for the kidney. It's a room full of reclining chairs, blankets, a TV, and a nurse nazi. Nurse Nazi made me give yet another urine sample. No one wheeled me to the restroom, so I had a good time stumbling down the hall past more McDreamys, holding my banana bag in one hand and a cup of piss in the other. I'll take the stripping of my dignity for $500, Alex.

Not long after I stumbled back into the observation room, two more nurses came to get me for some xrays. At least one of the nurses was kind enough to hold my banana bag as we walked down the hall. Once we got into the xray room, she told me that I needed to remove my bra and slide my jeans down to my knees. Man, if I had a dollar for everytime I'd heard that phrase.....

Removing my bra was quite the challenge. For one, I could barely stand up at this point. And two, banana bag is attached to a wire, which is attached to the needle sticking out of my arm. My bra straps got tangled around the wire. I started laughing hysterically. The nurse had to unhook my IV, and in doing so, spilled some of the dripping liquid all over the floor. I tried not to laugh this time.

I had to stand up against the xray machine, pants at my knees (thank goodness for the hospital gown at this point). It felt like I was having a mug-shot taken. This was very akward, especially since the technician reading the xrays was a man. Fantastic.

The nurse returned me to the observation room. I sat in the reclining chair for about an hour, waiting to find out what was wrong with me. This is always the scary part. What if it was something serious that required surgery? I was pretty convinced it was either the onset of an ulcer, or simply my body's response to stress. But I knew I was doing the right thing by getting checked out, even if i did wait 48 hours to see someone.

As the minutes ticked by, a few more people were brought into the room. But each of them had a significant other with them, who was providing verbal support and a comforting presence. I tried not to dwell on it too much, but it was difficult. I continued texting various friends, to remind myself that I do have people who were worrying about me. But I couldn't help feeling alone and lonely. Hospitals scare me. Needles scare me. And those stupid hospital gowns scare me.

McDreamy delivered my results. He helped me out of the recliner and said, "Lets go someplace private to talk." Mmm, yes, ok, you don't have to tell me twice.

All my tests and xrays showed no immediate "red flags," as he called it. Nothing that required surgery. He said he couldn't give me a cause of the pain, only some presecriptions for pain killers and something for severe abdominal pain. He wanted me to come back for a follow-up in 2 days, but I told him I was going out of town. So, basically, I'm supposed to rest and take the meds every 4 hours (which means constant loopyland and no alcohol or driving a car). I wasn't truly satisfied with the diagnosis, so he tried to specify it for my own peace of mind, calling my pain an "intestinal infection."

It is easy to get a thousand prescriptions but hard to get one single remedy. ~Chinese Proverb

Jess came to pick me up from the ER around 815pm, which was very sweet. The morphine hadn't worn off all the way so I was hesitant to drive my car. She came inside to see my apartment, too. I think I may have over-thanked her, but that was probably the drugs talking.

Jolyon called me soon after that, since we had made plans last week to watch a movie that night after volleyball practice. He was at the hospital and wanted to come in and see me. I told him I was already at home, so he came over to drive me to Walgreens to fill my prescriptions. He helped me fold and put away my laundry, and he helped me pack for my vacation. I had taken both pills by this point, and was starting to feel very loopy. Kind of felt like I'd had a few beers... like I was spinning and floating at the same time. Very odd. Jolyon got a kick out of it, though. I'm not sure if he was laughing at me or with me...

"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares." ~Henri Nouwen

And as I write this, I'm enjoying the comfort and security of being back in my childhood bedroom in Massachusetts, even though it has no resemblance to my childhood bedroom, since my stepmom turned it into her office. I'm glad that I decided to keep my vacation plans to come home. This trip was originally planned with Luke-- we were going skiing and our families were going to meet for the first time and have dinner together. How quickly things change.

"When you finally go back to your old hometown, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood." ~Sam Ewing

It is good to get away from everything for a few days, though. I'm feeling very relaxed right now, which is definitely something I need. I'm seeing several long-time friends over the weekend, and hopefully going skiing at the local mountain... provided I'm feeling better.

It's always a little weird to come home to my parents' house and drive around in my hometown, noting new buildings and stores. It's bittersweet. I see the reasons why I moved to Florida: the climate, the cleanliness, the friendly southern attitude. But I also feel the memories of my childhood, which engulf me as soon as I step off the airplane. Safe memories. Memories of friendships from elementary school. First kisses. First jobs. Social hang-outs. After-school activities. Soccer teams. Family traditions. 21 years of memories from Massachusetts.

"Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. " ~ The Wonder Years