Deep is shallower than you think

I didn’t mean for yesterdays post to be a teaser. I meant it to be like, ‘Hey! I’m not dead!”

Two Fridays ago the Teebs and I were in San Diego, soaking up the fact we were outside and sweatshirtless at 11:30pm. Saturday morning, at some unholy hour I woke up and gave the bathroom a what for. Maybe I was hungover. But then I thought, “I’ve been hungover, and THIS? This is not a hangover.” It definitely wasn’t. It had reason to be, but it wasn’t.

My mom bought me all kinds of food remedies. As Mexican moms are wont to do. But I couldn’t keep anything down. Then the trips to the bathroom became less and less frequent. Great! But no, the severe abdominal pain of diarrhea was there but nothing came out. It was agony. My midsection felt like death laid eggs in me. The pain compounded until it was a fiery ball of heat and destruction. No food, no water.

On Monday I went to the doctor. He told me to drink fluids and take fiber. Tuesday night the pain was so bad I couldn’t sit, stand, breath or talk. My knuckles were white and I was shaking. By this point I have not eaten or drunk anything in 4 full days. I called my mom crying and she told me to go to the ER. It was midnight.

The nurse in the ER said, “So I hear you have a tummy ache.” Because I definitely did NOT have a tummy ache all I could do was grimace in acknowledgment. I gave the rundown of my symptoms to the doctor. He commented on my tattoos and pink hair and ordered some blood tests. Another nurse came in and gave me an IV and some morphine. It was at this point I realized I hadn’t really been breathing for 6 hours. All the oxygen in my body rushed to my head. Coupled with the morphine, it wasn’t half bad. After the IV fluids I had to pee. (Have I mentioned that I never, EVER sit down in a public restroom? Tissue paper is not a sufficient barrier between my skin and the world at large.) I was determined not to sit in the ER bathroom. If there is ever a place to rally it is there. But I had a fucking IV pole, I was severely dehydrated, weak, in pain and I just got a dose of morphine. In deep contemplation, I looked around, determined the logistics and found the strength to squat. I consider that moment a testament to my inner strength and beauty as a human being.

An hour later all the blood tests come back normal. The doctor asks if I want another bag of fluids before I go. BEFORE I GO?! ARE YOU MOTHERFUCKING KIDDING ME? Get this, his diagnosis is diarrhea and severe abdominal pain. I guess we’re all qualified to be ER doctors, people. In response I say, “Even though I don’t even have diarrhea?” He laughed and said, “Well that’s your main complaint isn’t it? What do you want me to do wave my magic wand?” One, my main fucking complaint is this crippling pain that is radiating throughout my entire body, rendering me a useless, fleshy sack. Two, I want you to take your magic wand and shove it up every possible body orifice I can think of on command while crying and apologizing for your existence. Instead, I started crying. I try to explain that I am on morphine right now but in 8 hours I will not be and I will be back where I started. This guy looks at me and has the audacity to utter, “Don’t be so upset, a lot of other people come in here a lot worse. Your not going to die from this.” How do you know? You asked me 4 questions and got a basic blood workup. You, sir are retarded. The whole time he has treated me like a runaway looking for drugs. I guess my little drama confirmed it for him so he asks me if I want pain meds. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction but I had to say yes. Obviously he wasn’t going to figure out what was causing my pain. He told me whatever it was would probably pass in a few days and left the room.

Yet another nurse came in and handed TBU two pills without a word. He was there to take my IV out. His first words were, “It’s gonna pull some skin and some hair off.” I’m still crying from being so angry, he looks at me and says, “Oh come on, it’s not that bad.” That just made me cry more.

We left at 3am, I was STILL in pain and no where closer to feeling better. I called my mom the next morning, in tears, to tell her about the shit fest that was the Dominican Hospital ER. Interestingly, my mom is an ER nurse and she was pissed. I could tell you all manner of stories where Mama Millionizer takes matters into her own hands. I received a call the next afternoon from the patient relations director at the hospital. I was confused and a bit hazy from the night before. She explained by saying, “Your mom called me this morning.” Oh, well then. She went on to apologize for what happened and said the event would be investigated as well as all staff involved with my visit.

Finally, on Friday I went back to my regular doctor. More blood and urine tests. By this point I can drink water in very small amounts but I haven’t eaten anything in a week. I am still in pain. There was a rectal exam. There was all manner of questioning, palpating, and looking in medical references. My doctor developed two theories. One, my pancreas was inflamed. Two, my stomach was secreting ungodly amounts of acid and essentially digesting itself. Surprisingly, option two was the one to hope for. He prescribed something that would inhibit the acid pumps in the stomach and ordered an ultrasound for my pancreas. Within 1 hour of taking the acid medication I was fine. FINE! It had been one week of hardly any fluids, my kidneys were pulsing. But my stomach was fine which meant I could chug some friggin water. So I did and it was good.

The pain kind of became it’s own entity. Something that lived in me, something I was unwillingly hosting. It had a life of it’s own and was taking me with it. It had come to control me, every movement, every decision was based on the pain. When a tiny little pill killed it so easily and quickly, I realized how much I had succumbed to it. It took so long to diagnose because it was so obvious. I had these huge, overarching symptoms that are suggestive of much, much worse. There is a lot of damage in my stomach lining though, like burns. I have to keep taking this medicine for 3-6 months to keep the acid levels low enough to allow my stomach to heal. But other than that it’s pretty much business as usual. Except not, because alcohol is highly acidic. Which is fine because if it means not ever having to feel that pain, I can moderate my intake.

That, people, is the story of how I thought I was going to die, wanted to murder everyone in the ER and the simple solution that made life not so shitty.