Now Where Was I?

So the doctor wrote up my list of goodies. And I waited and waited. In agony. It took 45 minutes from the time I walked in before I was hooked up. Now that may not actually be that long in medical/ER time, but at level 8-9 pain, that is forever. And the kicker, Morphine doesn't really work for me. It only brought me down to a four. I could at least now lie still in pain. So when they come in to check on me, I tell them that I still hurt. And I didn't get any warm blankets either. And I was too hooked up to stuff to really use the blankets that I had. And Ducky was out in the waiting room with sleepy boys.

So they ordered up another round of Morphine. I remembered later that my earlier experience with Morphine was remarkably similar. Two years ago when I was having Gall stone attacks. Lucky me. I should have been a geologist with all of my experience with stones.

The second round of Morphine worked. But, they asked me to drink water to make sure that the Zofran worked to keep me from being nauseous. It did. But, then my stomach ramped up to a level 8 pain. A pain that caused me to sit and convulse. It was almost instantaneous. And it was right in the middle of shift change. Splendid. So Bailey, my less of a best friend, told me to breathe through it. Sure, gotta use that lamaze stuff somewhere.

I am not a whiner, or a complainer, I suffer through the pain. I am stoic and don't show how much it hurts. I am stubborn that way. When I finally break down and hit the call button, it means something. So someone, don't know who, shows up to ask what is wrong.

"Well, my pain is now a nine, it is worse, can we please fix it." I don't know if I ever told them that I don't use ten. I am too afraid that if I do, it will get worse. There is no 11 on their scale. So the most I will say is 9.5. And I was there. My legs were jerking and my breathing was shallow and rapid and suddenly unconsciousness looked mighty appealing. Not the kind where you stop breathing. I am fond of breathing. Just the kind where you stop knowing the amount of pain you are in.

So Bailey, comes in, sits me up and it helps a little. And so I continue to breathe and it gets better. And I am abandoned again. And then I make my next mistake. I take another sip of water. BAM! It's back. Oh, help me. In many ways I was glad that Ducky wasn't there. He is wonderful and I love him, but I hate when he sees me in pain. He sits there and watches me with this look of worry. And panic. And worry. And then I feel guilty. So at least I was not feeling guilty.

So when I am checked up on again. I tell them I can't drink. It makes me hurt. BAD. Very Bad. So what do I get, but a GI Cocktail. Not a fun little fruity drink with an umbrella. No, I am not that lucky. A chalky, minty, anestheticy concoction that the mere thought of consuming makes me want to gag. Visions of my 4th grade stomach x-ray come flooding back. And I have to chug it. Because it will make it hard to swallow. Are they trying to kill me? I sip my beverages. Part of why I am in this mess. Sippers do not drink as much as chuggers.

So I chug it. And it is nasty. And I don't know if it helped. I didn't drink anything else after that. So my doctor is checking out for the night. And checks me out too. I think I might live. And I don't have to work the next day. Ducky has taken the boys out to the van to sleep. They sleep better in their car seats than in the waiting room. And we brought blankets. So I head out to check out. And then they want money. Remember I only brought my medical card, my list of medicines and my cell. Just vital info. No ID, no credit card. Sorry, you will have to bill me.

I head out to the lobby doors to get a signal. They have excellent signal blockers in there. Call Ducky, he pulls around and I get in. And we go home. And crawl in bed. SweetP can be late for school. Ducky has already left messages canceling appointments. We go to sleep.

And that brings us to Friday morning. The adventure continues tomorrow.