Self Poor Traits

Yes, I am a handsome man and these new self-portraits are going to underscore that.

Dig it.

Down with the Sickness, Pt.3

Following the appendectomy/penis torture on Tuesday, I actually went back to work on Friday. I just had to have some semblance of normal again. Well, let me rephrase that by saying that by no means where I work is normal, but I've been there so long that it's a familiar routine. Besides, there was little chance of someone holding me down for a catheterization.

{The silence of the waiting room. Good times.}

On Monday, I had to go back to the hospital for a CTA scan. This had previously been scheduled in July and the hospital had given me the runaround, wasting three hours of my time and generally leaving a a heavy reluctance to reschedule. My wife, in her infinite wisdom, insisted that I call the cardiologist and insist on a redo. Because I wanted to avoid all hospitals at all costs, she called the cardiologist's office, raising hell, and in turn, the cardiologist's secretary got angry at the hospital for telling me that my orders were not correct and I was there at the wrong time.

My CTA was scheduled for 5 AM. Luckily (again) I live within walking distance and so getting there is no hassle for me.

My wait was short and soon a nurse was escorting me to the back. She was impossibly cute, of course, and smart enough to engage in decent conversation. She even laughed at some of my remarks. Not easy at this unholy hour. We did the usual vitals, weigh in and talky talk about meds, family history and medical history. All standard and boring stuff made somewhat easier because of her sweetness.

Now, it's time to insert an IV, don the gown and slide into ze hole. It looks like a huge half donut with a sliding tray. Basically, that's it/ Mine had the name brand of Philips. Not sure what that means, but perhaps Philip-Morris has some hidden sponsorship. Who knows.

I have done one of these before and they are not scary. What is slightly disturbing is the contrast that is used to really highlight the secrets of the heart.

This special injection makes you feel as though you have suddenly dipped into an overheated hot tub beginning with your brain, down through your chest and then suddenly you feel like you are pissing yourself. Yep. They even tell you that. In politer terms, of course.

The donut hole procedure done, you must hang out with cute nurse for a half an hour to make sure you don't have a reaction to the dye. Evidently, I don't have any bad reactions to any drugs except beef, candy, cookies and all the fucking tasty things in the food world. Drugs? He's ok. Food? Watch that man.

Needless to say, it was easy exchanging pleasantries with Nurse Cute and we even shared some personal information. My dad-heart disease. Her dad-same.

Then came my favorite part: time to get discharged. I went home and thought no more of the thing.

Three days pass and at work, my cardiologist's secretary call. Now, this is unusual in so many, many ways. I thought that her secretary never answered her phone and never returned calls.

"Dr. N wants to do a heart cath on Monday."
"Monday??!!"
"Yes, she wants to schedule on for Monday."
"Does she know I just got out for an appendectomy."
"I'll find out and call you back."

With a speed that I had never seen, she calls back and says that she still wants to do the cath.

This can't be good, dudes.

And it wasn't.

More of the bad stuff to follow.

Down with the Sickness, Pt.2

"Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?"


It seems after my appendectomy, there was a problem: I couldn't urinate.

(Our lovely model holds a Foley cath. Looks inviting, yes?)

Well, I sorta could with wincing and silent cries as what seemed to be burning liquid passing in a trickle. It certainly wasn't a flowing font. The bladder (and other organs) frequently temporarily shut down after surgery due, as it was explained to me, to the anesthesia. Evidently, mine chose to do this.

Or was this the issue? Nay.

The evening nurse noticed that my output was not adequate compared to the fluids they were giving me via an IV. Mucho IV fluids post-op are common. So, Nurse Wretched gets a machine that takes a sonogram of my bladder and sees that I'm not passing enough. Only one way out of this: a direct cath. (A direct cath is a one-time deal down the sacred pipe whereas a Foley cath is the one they use during surgery. It has a balloon that inflates in your bladder. Exciting and fun, yes?)

It's simple in concept, but excruciating. Perhaps my pain was due to the fact, discussed later and openly agreed with by my cardiologist, I had had my urethra traumatized during surgery. When Nurse Wretched did her direct cath, at the lovely hour of 3 AM, there was a bit of blood and what seemed to be a clot.

[I am sorry this is gross, but there is no way to tell this tale without the grim facts.]


I kept telling them that it fucking hurt. Who listens to a patient?

Well, six hours later, Nurse Dude says (at 9AM) the same thing- time for another cath. The old bladder is full and needs a draining. Holy fuck me in the ear drum!


He tries to be consoling, but nothing can take away the agony. You just take a deep breath and hold yourself back from strangling the motherfucker who is doing it.

Let's count them, shall we kids? That makes three caths so far. Get the picture???? Each one, with the exception of the surgery because I'm out, a screamingly painful affair.

At this point, I'm wondering a few things:

1. Can I slip out of here without being noticed?

2. Why isn't Old Faithful working? Have they screwed it up or are my works still anesthetized?

3. When's my next pain pill?

4. When's my next pain pill?


You better believe I requested pain meds after that. Besides, I was scheduled for meds anyway for the abdomen discomfort. I should have been prescribed meds just for having Mr. Oxy as a roommate who continued his moaning and groaning throughout all this.

My surgeon is alerted to the situation and eventually he shows up. Evidently, Nurse Dude did not tell him about the blood. The urologist is alerted as he wants to do a contrast sonogram of my bladder. Contrast being the dye they put in to see everything on the big screen.

You see, my surgeon is wondering whether or not he has nicked my bladder during surgery (He pretty much admitted this.) and he is probably more worried about that than my pain. Still, I like DR. P and plan no law suits or harbor ill will. I do contemplate the law suit idea immediately after each cath, but can you blame me?

Down to the basement of torture. The basement of CAMC is sort of a menacing place which seems more akin to a post apocalyptic bunker, a warehouse of medical odds and ends, and where huge, scary machines are always on a humming standby.

A young nurse comes and talks to me. She is attractive, but you can't help notice the speech impediment. There's a history there to be sure. She's very pleasant and all, but leaves in frustration with these parting words: "They told me that they were going to cath you upstairs."

Wha??? Cath? Surely not. Another cath? Goddamn. No way. Fuck, I can get out her right now. Fuck it, my water works will come to life at home. In between the caths, as painful as they were, they were already starting to come back. Again, who listens to the patient?

Sure as shit in an outhouse, a young cocky John Stamos sort of lookalike pauses in front of the room, checking his iPhone. He's got scrubs on, so let's assume this is the urologist.

Yep, and in order to see everything the dye is shot into the bladder via yet another cath.

I tell him, the nurse and another guy who I have seen before in radiology, that I have been experiencing horrific pain every time the monstrous cath is done. To which he replies these golden words:

"Why does it hurt?"

Is he fucking kidding? Should I jump off the table and clock him (Let's face it, I probably had no more clocking power than an old Timex after surgery. My wounds were hours fresh and my bladder feels like I drank a small lake full of beer.)?

"I don't know, but there's been blood and each one has been worse than the other."

Despite my tale, it's time to lie down and "take my medicine." He shouts, "Don't hold your breath! Don't hold your breath!" Barking commands at me like he's some DI at Paris Island boot camp. NOT my favorite doctor to be sure. In fact, I'm going to kill him once I get better.

After Niagara Falls flows away, the nurse and the other guy take all sorts of pictures. I have to move around which is painful enough. They are compassionate and kind and I deeply appreciate not feeling like a goddamn test subject.

There I was, exposed in front of three strangers (one of them a woman), my works hanging out and all cathed up for the fourth time. Helpless, hurting like a bitch in my back, my abdomen and of course, Mr. Happy was seriously unhappy. It was then that a change happened to me. I no longer had any embarrassment about my body and anybody who saw it.

This is a Foley and it's staying in. So, no more caths and Mr. Bladder is free and clear. I can stop worrying about this for a while.

Let me say this at this juncture that I had many a sweet nurse who never delayed in bringing this old boy his meds, the standard and the good stuff. My philosophy is this: they have you bent over a barrel, so being an asshole isn't going to help your get what you want. Plus, you have to do some things for yourself. For instance, when the old liquid gold bag got too full, I dumped it into two receptacles provided for such use. One nurse exclaimed, "You did that by yourself?? You are the best patient ever!" Trust me, while her name now eludes me, she doted on me. You have to NOT be a pain in the ass (like my roomie) to them.

You develop a sense pretty quickly which nurses are the creme of the crop and which seem to be nice, but you wonder if they are in over their heads.

Though I went in on Tuesday morning and was released Weds, I began to feel like my mind was unraveling. With the drugs, the endless worry and anxiety, the procedures, my wacko roomie, and the endless parade of nurses coming in at all hours of the night to take vitals, there was a feeling of such chaos in my mind that it felt a bit like an acid trip. I probably had had two hours solid sleep in 72 hours. Sleep is not something you get in a hospital.

There were some comical moments. Always, yes?

I was woken up at 5am to have an intern tell me that my bladder was OK, only to be told a few hours later by another intern the same fucking thing. I was laughing inside at their attempts at gravitas. It wasn't working. I don't listen to twenty-somethings with too much seriousness anyway, let alone those dressed causally in North Face fleece or those that have their names embroidered on clean lab coats. I am a test subject to them, a patient to see on appointed rounds, someone to "practice on." No thanks. Give me a grizzled, old gray haired bastard that's seen it all. Gimme the real doctor please.

(By the way, Urologist John Stamos lite did come in and told me that my bladder was OK. gee, this play is repetitive. I got a call during his brief visit and he turned my iPhone to silent. Hmm....taking liberties are we? Still don't like him. No sir.)

I had my right arm across my forehead and I swung at what I thought was an intruder. It was a sweet nurse who remarked, "Good thing I spoke to you before taking your temperature." Yep. I was a case.

OK.

I was discharged by my surgeon, but there came one huge, disheartening catch before I would be released. Something that was told to me by the afternoon nurse just when my hopes were so high: the urologist wanted me to be able to empty my bladder adequately before discharge. I felt like a prisoner. FREE ME.

After calming down, I realized he was fucking right. Goddamn it.

I set about getting as much liquid into those urine bottles as I could, sitting them up on my movable table like they were bowling trophies.

"Look! Loookie! I can pee! Seriously!" In fact, the pipes, although very tender, were coming back. Hotdamn!

I ask her about discharge again (finding a nurse is much harder than pushing the old red button provided for you) and she announces another bummer: "Your bladder has to be below 100 mils before he will release you."

Trust me, I actually did this. I watched a video on YouTube of Niagara Falls. You know how water sounds makes the pipes flow, so quit laughing. Actually, it was funny to me and by God, I was desperate to get the hell out of there.

Remember that Mr. Demerol was still doing his "Ooooooooooh...........Ohhhhhhhhh" all the time. Well, sometimes they gave him meds which put him to sleep. Thank you very much.

Eventually, I cleared the Golden Bar with a 76 mil count when she finally got the old bladder sonogram machine on me.

I was going home. Yay! Yay!

Little did I know, I would return very soon. More on that soon.

Down with the Sickness: Part 1

"Get up, come on get down with the sickness
You mother get up
Come on get down with the sickness
You fucker get up
Come on get down with the sickness"

"Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane"

It's been an interesting ride lately, kids and I can't say it's been at all pleasant. Our topic for this post is a telling of recent events, that is, events of the hospital kind. Normally people's retelling of their illnesses is as interesting as a C-Span marathon, but I think you may agree that this old boy has been through it. So, read on if you want to hear the ridiculous details of my recent "visits" to CAMC.

[Be warned: some things are graphic.]

Le Prelude

The prelude to all this includes more medical misery. In September, I weathered a sinus infection and bronchitis, not once but twice. It was your basic lung hack-a-thon misery. Fine. That which doesn't kill us, makes us stronger.

Late October, I notice that my right ankle feels particularly tender after the afternoon shift. I discount it, thinking maybe I just had it at at bad angle. No such luck, dudes.

Gout had returned and knocked out the next two days. If you've never had gout, then feel lucky because it's a continuous painful guest that brings mobility to a standstill. The mere flow of blood to the site is painful.

Get Thee to an ER

November comes and it begins with a pleasant surprise. On the 2nd, I had a nice takeout meal from Soho's (tremendously overpriced and pretentious). My meal was a healthy section of fish with vegetables. Soon after supper, I felt like I eaten too much and my abdomen was too full.

As the evening progressed, a sharp and unrelenting pain appeared in what I thought was my stomach. The swollen feeling continued as well. Bedtime brought no relief, falling asleep for a few hours, I would get out of bed to see if the old trusty bowels were just in need of some relief. Again, brief sleep only to be awoken by the continuous stomach pain. A wretched night.

Finally, it dawns on me that I cannot handle this with with any homemade remedy nor will it leave me alone. It's around 7am and I get dressed and tell my wife that I am going to the ER. We live within walking distance, so getting there is a matter of minutes.

On the walk there, I get a wave of nausea. I fight it, hoping the cold winter air takes it away like it has a thousand times before. Approaching the ER doors, the nausea overtakes me. I instantly realize that I am dressed in such common street clothes, including a hoodie, that I must resemble a homeless man getting sick outside the ER.

This is not going well.

The ER is surprisingly empty and check-in is pretty fast. I'm in a gown and got a bed (Number 13-a number which has followed me for a long time.) in record time. Fine, but the pain is not subsiding.

Doc#1 comes in and I describe all my symptoms: intense stomach pain, swollen feeling in abdomen and a slight pain near my groin. He runs some tests, and in his blessed mercy, he gives me a shot of morphine.

Pain is gone. The room is spinning slightly and I'm making sense in my mind, but not to others. Funny how that works.

More tests, but he says he might release me, but I complain more about the pain near my groin. Like a play or a comedy (Miss Morphine is dancing in my head, of course.), another doctor comes in and introduces himself and I have to start my story all over again. He wants to do a lower abdomen scan.

There goes my chance of going home.

SIDEBAR: In the ER, across the room, is a man who keeps making sounds of pain. "Oohh....oohhhh." This goes on like his mantra. He has some visitors with him. I hear him explain to his family that the cause of his pain in his stomach "musta been them two burgers I ate. Oooohh....Ohhhhh." This guy is in deep shit or drug seeking. A doctor asks him, "Do you drink?"

"Four quarts."

"Four quarts?"

"Two on Friday and two on Saturday."

If this is his sense of humor, then he has chosen the wrong audience because I do not hear the doctor laughing. More on this mystery man later. Seriously.

There is a long-ass delay in the getting the results because of a computer malfunction in radiology, but no one in that department could pick up a phone and tell anyone this. Hours later, Doc #2 has an announcement: "You are having an appendicitis. Looks like we'll have to do surgery tonight." My appendix is enlarged, but mercifully it has not ruptured. To think Doc#1 was going to let me go home.

Surgery? Well, I'll be picking my jaw up off the floor any second now. Up to this point, I have only had minor surgery once in high school for impacted wisdom teeth. Scared? You bethcha, but the morphine, lack of sleep combined with the pain and the reality of my situation all point to the knife. What can I do? Nothing. I must accept this.

Doctor P comes in and tells me he's going to be my surgeon. I like him instantly. He exudes a calm confidence without a trace of arrogance. Now, we wait. Then again, what fucking choice do I have?

Let the Show Begin

Taken up to the prep room, I meet Dr. S, my anesthesiologist. I sort of recognize him from high school. He's a good egg and even though he gives me the obligatory list of a thousand things that could go wrong, I sense he knows what he's doing.

One thing: more than a few people will ask you the same questions over and over. What's your name? Do you know where you are? Do you know what procedure you're going to have? Etc.

These measures are reassuring. I want to know that everyone is on the same page. Plus, this is so we don't wake up with our left leg amputated and our appendix right where it was.

A little Versed and we are ready to go.

In the OR, under the tutelage of Dr. S is a young trainee who has an enthusiasm that is not quite inviting. Shall I say she was a little bitchy? Yes. Was it nerves on her part? I don't know, but she puts the mask on me so tight that I can't breathe through my nose.

Muffled through mask, "Can you not put that so tight, please?"

No response. Please, lady, you're smothering me. I know I'm supposed to relax, but I gotta breathe.

Finally, I guess I kept insisting on being heard that they take the mask off, hear my request and replace it properly. Then the lights go out.

That's the beauty of surgery, if any beauty can be ascribed to such a barbarous act, is that when you wake up, you know it's all over but the hurting. The scary stuff is over.

B-U-L-L-S-H-I-T

When you're under, everybody knows that they catheterize you. Here's what I found online about this delightful procedure: "His anxiety was greatly lessened when the corpsman explained to him that the procedure might look painful but actually was not. In addition, the relief he would feel would worth any discomfort he might feel."
Or this: "Catheterization in males is slightly more difficult and uncomfortable than in females because of the longer urethra."

They forgot these little words: screaming agony like a hot fire poker is going down your most delicate bits. I shall elaborate in a minute, trusted readers.

When I woke up, I was in no pain and I instantly knew where I was. I was higher than the moon, but I've been there before. The nurse got my family and off to my room. It was late and I told my wife and my friend to go home. Nobody likes hospitals, so the hell with them staying bedside. I'm out of danger and going to sleep.

Or so I thought.

Your Roomate is a Freak, Dudes

My roomie was......drumroll.....Mr. Pain from the ER. Yes, for hours this man continued his mantra. Friends, family, nurses, doctors: no one could console him. Eventually, they took him to have bowel surgery to remove an obstruction. That can't be good.

Know this to be true: There is no resting in a hospital. None. Just say, "Fuck it" and accept it right now. Whenever the sweet veil of slumber comes upon you, indubitably a nurse will come in and check your vitals, draw blood, weigh you or any number of interrupting procedures. OR your roomie will be a drug-seeking psycho. Yes, it is difficult at best to judge another's pain and I should have compassion on my fellow traveler, but in this case, methinks the dude was mostly faking it.

Then Mr. Pain came back from surgery and slept for a few hours. Then the mantra began. "Ooooohhhh................ooooohhhhhhhh." Every minute on the hour on the minute to the second. Over and over again.

You think I'm kidding or exaggerating just to try to be funny. I wish I was. God likes me a lot the way I figure, but he also likes to endure things that stretch my patience and humanity to the limit. And this dude stretched it to the limit. He even apologized:

"I'm sorry, buddy."

I lied, but replied kindly, "Don't you worry about it." I actually thought: "Motherfucker, shut the hell up!" He wanted to be in a pain med coma and tried every trick in the book, even faking a heart attack (I'm serious) to get more pain meds. Over and over again, nurses and even doctors refused his suicidal request. "Sir, I've never heard of that and we can't give you any more pain medication as you are now at the legal limit." said one young and exasperated intern.

His wife said that he had been on a Demerol patch because he was in an accident years ago.

"Sir, how long have you been on pain medication?"

"Fifteen years."

"How long ago was your accident?'

"Ten years ago."

Eh? I had to ponder that one and still I had no answer.

"What medication were you on?

"Demerol patch, Oxycontin and Valium."

What's that called? The Walking Dead combo? I mean, I appreciate a good buzz as much as the next person, but isn't there some semblence of reality you want to hold on to?

No Sleep, Fresh From Surgery, Freak Roomie: What's next?

The Joys of Catheterization!