Monday, October 18, 2004
More Fun Times at Camp Happy Little Clouds
What time is it, 10:30 PM? That would mean that it's 9 hours since I headed to the local emergency room (on the advice of my primary care provider) with what looked suspiciously like a miscarriage. I JUST got home about 45 minutes ago with good news, bad news and a bonus day off work tomorrow by doctor's orders. All that for the price of my dignity! What a deal!
Let's start the tale by noting that it was, in fact, the LOCAL E.R. Triage was well stocked with burly men in overalls and other people that I'd expect to see shopping at Wal-Mart at midnight. Are these people more emergency-prone than the rest of the population*, or did I happen to pick a weird time for my emergency visit?
*Yes, there are professional yuppy-ish liberal sorts 'round these parts. Increasingly so! We drive VWs and Volvos and post Kerry-Edwards signs in our yards and are installing security cameras in case our houses are egged on Election Day by the other sort.
After hanging around for eons watching the parade of recessive genes in triage, one of the doctors finally called me back into the E.R. office to start baseline measures. Lucky me, I managed to get Mr. Funny Doc. Hey dude? Here's a tip: if your patient says, "I don't do well with needles" when you mention needing to start an IV, the CORRECT RESPONSE is to find out exactly what that means and consider putting the patient in a bed before poking her, NOT saying "Ha ha, that's okay, I do fine with needles!" and then proceeding to draw a big ass vial of blood WITHOUT WARNING THE PATIENT. It will be your own damn fault when you have to scoop my passed-out carcass off the ER floor and drag me to the nearest empty bed. And you can count on me being plenty pissed off when I wake up.
So, today's "nearest bed" happened to be right between an elderly stroker and an elderly hip fracturer. I'm sure it brightened their days to overhear several narrations of my particular problem as well as my sexual/reproductive history**. Perhaps they were biting their nails right along with me when the doctor explained the diagnostic techniques they'd be using on me and said - four words that absolutely should never be uttered in connection with OB/GYN procedures - "We're going to improvise."
**The doctor ACTUALLY ASKED ME IF I'M SEXUALLY ACTIVE. When I reminded him that I was in the E.R. for a possible miscarriage, he responded very solemnly, "Well, you'd be surprised." Uh, yeah, to put it mildly.
Anyway, fast forward a gazillion hours past the exams and sonograms to the diagnosis. No miscarriage, no ongoing pregnancy, just a vague diagnosis of "complex follicles". It must be all the Sartre and Nietzsche they read when they were young school-aged folliclettes. Now they're confused and have rage issues and have been randomly egging my house, so to speak.
My sister-in-law just asked me if follicles ever become "simple" again. Well, I'm planning to spend Tuesday curled up on the sofa watching trash TV, which always makes me feel like I'm losing braincells, so maybe that will help.
# posted by Amanda at 9:32 PM |
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