This is kind of a long story, one that doesn’t yet have an ending so I am opting to break it into parts. Here is Part 1 of who knows how many.
I’m not a Broadway person (other than this really) but recently, I keep find myself rewriting the lyrics to that famous song from Rent.
But instead of “minutes,” I’d say “blood tests, CT scans and doctor visits” because for the last two weeks, that has been my life.
Things were looking up, mostly.
I went on a fabulous vacation with friends. Though hard, I survived a year of sad anniversaries. I moved to a shiny new apartment and had a trip to Italy in my immediate future.
But there were issues. I had been full-on sick three times since December 2015 (and as I write this, I seem to be getting sick again). And I had this nagging, super-specific pain in my right side. It made me grimace each time I moved from sitting to standing, but then disappeared.
While at the chiropractor, I asked him to be careful around the sore spot. When I left the office, it was with his strong recommendation that I see my general practitioner to rule out sub-acute appendicitis. Sigh.
A few days later, I did see my doctor and after an examination, he asked me to go to the Emergency Room versus waiting a few more days to schedule an outpatient CT scan.
[For my readers outside the US, know that the words Emergency Room fill us with dread as it typically means hours of waiting around with other suffering people, many of whom you wouldn’t want to encounter in a dark alley. In NYC, it tends to be much, much worse.]
Fortunately I was seen relatively quickly at the ER. In fact, I was initially treated like quite the princess, being assigned a large, private examination room. They efficiently made plans for me to get the CT scan, inserting an IV and giving me a little pitcher of gross contrast-laced water to gulp.
I felt silly for being in the ER, surrounded by sick people needing treatment when I felt more or less fine.
When I was taken for my CT scan, they warned me that an infectious (!) patient was coming in so I would not be luxuriating in my palace of privacy complete with a flat screen TV while I waited for results. And that’s how it came to be that I was lying on a gurney in a busy corridor next to a drunk old man who looked way too much like Bill Cosby when I got the news.
The very kind physician assistant Cedric who had been leading my case had to end his shift at 8 pm by telling me that while my appendix looked healthy, the scan found a large adrenal mass. He looked as stunned as I felt. I worried that I had ruined his night as I went from his healthiest patient to potentially his sickest.
Before I could even begin to process the news, “Bill Cosby” bellowed for a nurse until one brought him a bottle to pee in. And that’s what he did, just four or five feet behind my now-spinning head.
If you want to support this blog (and me), click an ad banner or use my Amazon affiliate link any time you shop. You can also use my referral links to sign up for Ebates, Uber, Delivery.com, Seamless, Postmates (code e3cd) TryCaviar and DoorDash.
I’m so sorry, Jen. On to part two of suck. I’m thinking of you, pulling for you, worrying about the news.
Pingback: Summer of Suck 2.0 – Part Three | OneChicklette
Pingback: Summer of Suck 2.0 – Part Eight: Why am I like this? | OneChicklette