I’ve never been to the emergency room for myself. And there aren’t any times I can recall, recently anyway, where I’ve been for someone else.
Until last night.
Let’s start at the very beginning. Ish.
Like 4 or 5 years ago, when I lived in O-town, I got this horrible pain. It felt like I couldn’t breathe and that someone was pushing their fist through my body from the middle of my chest. The ONLY thing that felt even remotely good was when I took my shirt off and laid on the cold bathroom floor. Then I concentrated on breathing. Then it got less painful and then I went to sleep.
It scared me enough to go to the hospital in Frankfort for some tests, wherein I was made to wear an IV not attached to anything for 20 minutes that almost made me pass out and then put under a machine and told not to move while they looked at my internal organs turning different colors from some dye stuff they injected me with. Like how I’m using all these medical terms so it’s real easy to understand?
Tests didn’t show anything to be scared of so I got some acid reflux pills and headed on my way. And I still got/get that and heartburn and stuff from time to time, but nothing as bad as that one night.
Well. Then there was Tuesday night.
I had high hopes for that night. I was gonna watch the U of L bowl game with my parents and Rachel and Charles and Mom told me to come over early and eat dinner with them. After the game I’d probably work on finishing up the book I’ve been reading and maybe post that blog I’d written earlier that day.
When I got over there, Rach and Sam were making homemade spinach dip, and, since I’ve never had a problem with it before, I ate some. No problems, no problems, so then I ate dinner like the rest of my family.
Look at what that arrow’s pointing at. One would think that the good (artichoke) would cancel out the evil (cheese), amirite?
Approximately 20 minutes-ish after I’d finished eating, well, it felt like it hadn’t moved anywhere near my stomach. No bueno.
Naturally, to fix the problem, I made myself throw it up, which in my mind should have solved things. Except it didn’t. And I got sweaty, and shaky and there was that fist again pushing all the way through to my back.
I thought my bra was too tight, so I took that off. The pain got worse. So I drove home. Dumb, I know, but nothing sounds much better than your own bed when you feel like absolute shit and I wasn’t gonna just lay down there in the bathroom topless at my parents’ house because that’s rude. Other people might have to pee or get a Kleenex or something.
I didn’t make it home. I pulled over twice to puke and the second time tried every possible position of sitting and laying down in my parked car to get comfortable. It was probably the worst pain I’ve ever felt, which really isn’t saying much because my threshold for pain is pathetically low. God help me when I give birth someday.
Luckily, my psychic mother, who probably could have diagnosed me at her house and who would totally be my doctor if she could just LEGALLY WRITE PRESCRIPTIONS, happened to call. In the midst of my having trouble breathing from the pain and the possible panic attack because I must have been dying, I told her to get there quick.
And then there was a little less pain. Probably ’cause I immediately felt better knowing my mommy would be there soon. I’M SUCH A GROWN UP.
By the time she got there, I could drive…not far, but I could.
We got to the Immediate Care place where, when I told them it was chest pains, had me convinced for about 30 seconds that it could be a heart attack.
Guess what the worst thing in the world to tell a hypochondriac is?
THAT THEY COULD BE HAVING A HEART ATTACK.
Luckily, I wasn’t, which was rapidly told to me by the doctor that was ready to go home because it was 10 ’till 9 and they closed at 9 and unless you’re having a heart attack, they have no reason to care. Oh and he looked like this:
P.s. If you know who that is in the picture, I love you.
He told me it was probably my gallbladder, and then pushed on the place where I said it hurt. He said gallbladder problems are most often caused by cheese and birth control pills. WHO KNEW?
And wouldn’t you know it, I take those pills and I’d had a hell of a lot of cheese an hour earlier. Shit.
Side note: Both times I have been in a sort-of scary medical situation for myself I have been in a hospital that is about as busy as that hotel in the The Shining.
My mom stayed in the waiting room and waited for my dad – for the record I told them both to go home because I felt bad they were missing the U of L game and also I feel bad having to be taken care of by them.
Related song break: “I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T do you know about me?”
Anyways, to make this long story a tiny bit shorter (and because the rest of it’s super-boring), I spent 3.5 hours in the emergency room, watching the Cards lose the Belk Bowl, trying to stay warm (hospitals are cold, y’all), getting IV-ed and being forced to drink stuff that would make me feel better but really just made my mouth numb and made me burp stale grape flavoring until yesterday around lunchtime.
I’m still achy but I’ve got meds (thank you, Baby Jesus) and I have an appointment set up next week for my doctor to check things out, followed by an appointment two days later for an entirely different matter that’s equally as annoying, frustrating and painful.
Here’s hoping both doctors can come to a consensus and just go in there and remove anything unnecessary, whether it’s started causing problems or may in a year or so.
Not really, but seriously, if it means this shit stops, I can live without the gallbladder.
Have I mentioned that my body hates me?
‘Cause it totally does.