I had this great post all plotted out- it was going to be whimsical and hilarious, detailing how my family experienced an elusive unicorn of a weekend, with no actual plans. Which is pretty much the bloggy equivalent of saying how lucky you are, how nothing bad ever happens to you.
On Saturday morning, Nora had a tooth situation. More on that later.
Because an hour after Nora’s tooth situation was resolved, I began to get shooting pains in my upper belly. And then, over the course of 6 hours, they moved down to my lower righthand side. It was real. (Real awful.) So then I did what no parent of littles ever says or does on a Saturday, save for apocalyptic circumstances: I said that I felt terrible, and was going to bed.
After P.J. fed and bathed and tucked in all three kids, I woke up(?!) and informed him that he would promptly be driving me to the E.R. Since I a) dislike hospitals and b) am a chronic downplayer of my own ailments, this shot P.J.’s panic level through the (minivan) roof. And as soon as our neighbor/bestie Angie came over to stay with the kids (thanks, Angie!), we checked ourselves into the scenic Swedish Covenant E.R. where, silver-liningly enough, a ridiculously attractive man took down all my info and feigned extraordinary interest in my habits and pain levels. (“Any bowel problems?” “Oh no, I don’t do anything disgusting like that. You’re gorgeous.”) They took lots of blood and informed me not to drink anything- just in case. (Of what, I asked. OF WHAT?!)
Then we sat in the waiting room for about three hours. In pain, in thirst. And for P.J.- in boredom, in concern. (And granted, the north side of Chicago on a Saturday night? They were bizzy.) Eventually we were triaged into a room/cubby with a bed and a curtain and I was actually thrilled. By this point my innards were so awful that the ability to stretch out somewhere that wasn’t a public waiting room floor sounded marvy. And I heard there’d be drugs!
But before the Drug Parade, there was apparently a checklist that involved getting shoved in the stomach by no less than three people. “Does this hurt?” YES THIS HURTS, WHY DON’T YOU JUST POINT NEXT TIME AND I’LL TELL YOU YES.
They decided I was in pain.
Next up came an I.V. for fluids- “You’re really dehydrated.” “I’m not the one who forbade fluids!”- and meds and future contrasts for scans. The guy warned me that I was gonna be pretty unhappy because he had to do the “big I.V., the one that really hurts, sorry.” I asked him to keep the exposition to himself, and that I’d be the one in charge of emotions. (It really hurt, so he got points for accuracy.) Then I got some morphine, and some more exams and stomach-shoving. “It looks like appendicitis,” I was told. “But it also doesn’t look like appendicitis!”
So that was fun.
I drank two gigantic melted-Popsicle-like jugs of orange contrast, received two more shots of morphine (when three shots of morphine doesn’t touch the pain, you pretty much start looking around for the protruding bone shards, amiright?), and napped in a stretcher with P.J. until 1 a.m. when it was time for my CT scans. Fun fact: I get full body hives when topical iodine is applied. The tech informed me they’d be pumping my I.V. full of iodine to help see the organs more clearly. I suggested that maybe that was a terrible idea. They told me they’d have shots of Benadryl and adrenaline at the ready. I was excited.
Good news! Whatever cocktail they put together for me caused me not to hive/stop breathing (although my inner arm was threatening to secede from all the potions/stab wounds) and my neon innards were successfully photographed. Back to the room/cubby, back to a stretcher nap with my borderline delirious husband.
An hour later, the doc came to tell me the good news: It’s not appendicitis! It’s just an ovarian cyst! (I told him that I’d had ovarian cysts- I’d had surgery because of ovarian cysts- and that this felt worse. He agreed that there was swelling and pain and I should rest. I promised him I’d sure try.)
So we were sent home around 3 a.m. with narcotics, grateful to have dodged the surgery bullet, and ready to sleep for roughly 48 hours. And for the most part, I have. (Sorry, Peej.) I’m still not a hundred percent- more like 47%- but the drugs help. (Put THAT on a tee shirt, yeah?)
And that’s my zero whimsy, not-so-great-at-doing-nothing weekend story. But it’s okay, because my big sis sent an edible arrangement. Because you shouldn’t pop drugs on an empty stomach. (I AM KIDDING, MOTHER.) Back to bed. If anyone sees my children, tell them I said hi.
(I AM KIDDING MOTHER, THEY’RE RIGHT…around here, somewhere.)
Speak Your Mind