Apr 28, 2011 - 3:18 pm
(Jimmy Buffett reference)
During what was a busy week for me these days, especially when the week is only two days old, I went in for a CT scan one day, and on that very day was directed as well to get some blood work done.
Whoo! I was worn out. That should be the end of my week, eh?
GastroPod (aka GI Joe) wanted me in his office the next day, and I think I have spoken of this. My busy week was getting busier.
I arrived on time (I honestly do not know why, as they apparently have no concept of time in the universe in which they live, these medical professionals), and waited in a room for about 30 minutes...I know, I know, approaching my record.
I looked at charts on the wall showing the relationship between the various organs, in my particular case, of particular interest the esophagus, the pancreas, and the abdomen, apparently a Latin word for stomach. There were also rubber models of livers and pancreases and such, and I had a look at them as well, all while waiting for, I thought, GastroPod.
Instead, eventually, PALady showed up, and to her regret, I think, by then I was not in the best of moods, owing to the waiting and not even getting to see a real GastroPod after such a wait.
To skip over the minor stuff (the stuff that I didn't want to hear with respect to beer, to begin with), she had me lie down on that thing they have, and, believe me, I spent much of the night trying to recall what exactly the thing is called and could come up with nothing: it is not a bed, it is not a chair, it is really not a recliner, although it most closely resembles that, and I am sure they have some Latin name for the thing I was asked to lie down, the thing with the white paper attached from foot to head of the thing, giving you the pretense that they change it easily between patients.
I am married to a nurse and she has never introduced me to a paper changer. Not even at Christmas parties. I'm just saying.
I suspect it is there, really, for those of us who, upon learning that we are getting surgery we were unprepared for, utilize our intestinal organs to exhibit fright, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.
Maybe there ARE paper changers, after all.
I laid down on the paper on the thing for which there is no name, and she prodded my abdominal region with a stethoscope, and I suppose I was fortunate in that it was a Hurt day, so when she poked in one area, I flinched.
Oddly, when I didn't flinch in other areas, she came back to Flinch City a number of times. I am not saying that she is a sadist. I am saying that she is diligent.
Each time she poked in that 'lower left quadrant' as they call it, I flinched, sometimes grimaced, even wanted to inflict bodily pain upon her were I not a Southern gentleman.
This, folks, is how you get GastroPod into the room, whether you want him or not.
He is a nice enough fellow, a kind man, and it is not his fault, I don't guess, that he said to me, straight up front: "We need to schedule you for surgery."
Oddly, in my opinion, after all of this hurrying up, the surgery was scheduled for the last week of May. Even odder, I received a call today saying they needed to move it to June 2, a week later, because it interfered with a golf tournament (not a tournament I was in!). Okay, they didn't mention a golf tournament. I am only assuming that.
But re-schedule they did, and THEN called me today to say they wanted another CT scan on the date of the originally scheduled surgery, exactly a week before the surgery.
Hopefully, only one of us is out of the loop.
What's really crazy, from my perspective, is that in the heat of the moment, when he said it was inpatient surgery, I didn't think to ask how long I would be in the joint. It never crossed my mine, and is another reason always to have someone with you when you go to see the Warden.
I have no idea. Nurse Cratchitt is supposed to call me back, for two reasons, the first of which, of course, is to explain my itinerary, vis a vis the inpatient stuff, the second which is to tell my why I need another CT scan.
If I understood GastroPod correctly, they are going to use a stent, something my heart attack friends will be familiar with, although to me it sounds like a straw as explained. They are going to run this thing from the fake sac (what is a pseudosac? It is actually embarassing to try to explain that I do not have a real sac (hey, hey, cut the snickering!) but a fake one) and, I think, drain the fluid into the stomach (known in Latin as abdomen) so that the stomach can then flush it with no issue (but probably lots of tissue, I'm just saying).
No worries. NO big C. Yes, the wife reminded me you can die of other things, but I like my chances with a fake sac.