It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… O.K. who are we kidding? I have to say these past four days have been absolutely the worst.
Me and Ashlee Simpson: Collapsing in random places since December 15, 2005.
Bright Eyes has a song, “Scale, a Mirror, and These Indifferent Clocks”, and it contains the line “Now I know what disease these doctors can’t treat.” Guess what dear hannihaus readers? I think I have that disease – living in my intestines – giving me a lovely colic tinge – and acne – and diarrhea – and gut-wrenching abdominal pain.
I’ve just come off a wonderful stint at the local hospital and let me tell you, it’s been just great. I really enjoyed the nausea-inducing drugs/chemicals that a) made my organs glow in the dark, b) caused a massive maelstrom of diarrhea, and c) made my blood pressure plummet to an ungodly 70/35. Yeah there’s nothing like a stay at the good old hospital to really make you feel like you need medical attention… but I digress.
How It all Went Down … And Came Up Again
So yeah, Thursday afternoon I started getting sharp, persistent pains in my stomach. As I hadn’t had beans, broccoli or split pea soup in a good long while, I knew this wasn’t a case of merely needing to play the trouser trumpet. The green wind was not blowing my friends, but I tell you what, something was sure rotten in the state of Denmark.
And here’s what I did about it:
6:00pm – Head to hospital. Upon entrance notice an awful lot of bad weave in the waiting room. As such, become temporarily confused. Ask Angel why we’re at the race track, because the last time you saw that much horse hair, you were at the Dogwood Downs.
7:00pm – Get checked out by triage nurse who tells you, you’re next in line to see a doc, it shouldn’t take much time at all.
8:00pm – Cradle stomach and whimper as you a) realize you haven’t eaten in 8 hours and are now adding starvation to your list of concerns and b) watch no less than six other people get summoned back to the magical, mystical treatment room ahead of you. Think to yourself “Next in line my ass.” Realize, now that you’re thinking about it, your ass is getting sore too, being that those hospital chairs are pretty rough on the duffer.
9:00pm – Watch in fascination as the hos come and go. There’s more ass in the ER than you’ve ever seen in a rap video. One of the hoochie mamas smells like McDonald’s and you are jealous. Consider gnawing off your own flesh, but settle for sipping the watery hot chocolate that Angelface has so graciously fished from the vending machine.
9:45pm – Having seen the waiting room fill and clear three times now, abandon all hope of being treated for mystery malady. Tell Angel you want to go home. And you want a cheeseburger.
10:00pm – Finally get a hospital bed. And then, in thirty seconds, get a diagnosis from an old, male doctor who has spent about two seconds with you and has not run any tests. “My dear,” he says, “I think this is what we call a good old fashioned case of ‘getting your period.’” WTF?! Having just finished telling the doctor you’re sure it’s not cramps (because you know what cramps feel like, having been born female unlike some doctors who happen to be “treating” you), you have a sudden desire to punch said sexist doctor in the face. Being as you’re so weak, you only manage to squeeze sickly hand into half-fist before lying back, exhausted. Angel demands some tests. God bless Angel.
11:30pm – Nurse administers Demerol for “cramps.” In addition to having the feeling of being kicked in the stomach, you now get to feel nauseated as well.
12:00am – Dr. Dick was wrong – you really are sick. Blood tests reveal white cell counts are through the effing roof! Begin preparations for a CT. This is great news, being that you are claustrophobic.
12:30am – Drink 32 oz’s of pink swill. The stuff will make your organs show up on the CT, the doctor says. “Yeah,” you think, “and they might also show up pretty good when I start vomiting them up along with all this Crystal Lite lookin’ crap.”
2:00am – Go to CT. In addition to loading gut with not-so-tasty chemical cocktail, you must also get intravenously injected with something that makes you think you’ve wet yourself. Fortunately, the horror of perceived pants-wetting outweighs the horror of being stuffed in the tube, so claustrophobia is not so much a factor anymore.
3:00am – Dr. Dick returns. Says CT didn’t show anything critical, just “a possible lesion on your ovaries and maybe a thickened stomach lining.” (WTF again! A lesion is not critical?) Dr. D, as he’s so good at doing, brushes me off saying I probably have the flu because look I have a stomach ache and now, thanks to the magic of powerful drugs, I’m nauseous. Huzzah! Case closed. “I gotta use the bathroom,” I say.
3:15am – Walk forever, unattended by a nurse, to bathroom. Pee and return to sick bed.
3:20am – Learn from nurse that you are being discharged. As she’s reading her notes start screaming for a barf bucket, you’re going to be sick. Nurse provides pink pan and then, because a sick person doesn’t need attention, leaves the room.
3:30am – Realize the sick isn’t going to come out your mouth. Haul ass down to b-room, plop yourself on the john and – adding a new complication to this effed up sitch – get explosive diarrhea. Feel bad for Angelface, who in lieu of the Absentee Nurse, is standing in the bathroom with you, getting the full on experience. After done pooing, start crying… and then fall on the floor. Turn white, and, as Angel starts sprinting out the door tell him not to leave you. It smells like something died in the bathroom and wouldn’t it be pretty embarrassing for a nurse to come in and see this? Thankfully, Angel ignores your pleas and the Absentee arrives.
4:00am – Get hooked to some monitors. All you had to do was barf, poo and pass out before the doctor finally thinks you’re sick for real.
4:00am – 6:00pm – Lie in bed in all day, except for a few minutes every hour or so, when you are forced from your bed by bowel-shaking burst of diarrhea. As per the nurse’s instructions, every time you have a BM you must ring the assistance button in the bathroom to notify the front desk that you’ve made a dookie and need the collection pan in the toilet emptied. You also – because you need more fuel for diarrhea (obviously) – eat some “healthy” hospital food. You know, because ice cream, coffee, and meatloaf is good for you.
The Aftermath
When released, there was no verdict on what went wrong. I’m not being treated for anything and I’m to see an ob/gyn and general practitioner ASAP. I’m totally bummed because I had plans to see Maaa and Popi in Alaska for Christmas, but if this stomach thing continues, I probably shouldn’t be on a plane for ten hours.
I’m also bummed because apparently I *look* sickly. To cheer myself, the day after I left the ho-spital I went for a manicure. Mid-filing the Asian manicurist doing my nails abruptly stopped and started fiddling with her lamp. After a few seconds, examining my hands, she said “Your hands yellow. You sick?” I said yes, and like I had the black-effing-plague, this lady rolls her chair back and puts her hand to her mouth. She says “You go to doctor!” then asks me to wash my hands. She twitters nervously in a language I don’t understand.
Now I really feel like crap.
