And Then I Went to the Hospital

[copied from dland]

It's not that I ate all that much on Thanksgiving. I never really do. I had about a mouthful of turkey -- never my favorite -- and Husband's vegan stuffing, which is always such a big hit with everyone, has always tasted just a little weird to me. Sister made the wonderful family cole slaw, Shirl's recipe, and I do like that. So I ate the cole slaw, and damn, it was good. Even so, I don't eat that much of anything, even that which I love.

Did not feel so good Friday morning, and took an hour or more to get up. I had planned to hit Target first thing in the a.m., to return a couple of things and pick up a few more Christmas gifts, but I stayed in bed for a while instead. Within the hour, the gut began to hurt.

I spent most of the day popping Advil while doing a minor errand or two

And getting a haircut I really didn't need. By six p.m. I was in bed trying to find a comfortable position where I wouldn't be in agony. I was sure I knew just what it was: diverticulitis rearing its ugly head -- um, colon -- again. It was the raisins in the rice pudding. It was the sesame seeds ion the Whopper I had on Tuesday. No doubt, diverticulitis. Or maybe -osis. Diverticulosis goes away in a day or two, but -itis needs antibiotics. Either way, gut pain, gut pain, gut pain.

Nasty night, Friday. All I wanted to do was (excuse me) get rid of whatever was going on in there, which seemed to have found a home in my pocket-filled system. More Advil, and more, and an ice pack on my belly.

Woke up about 8:15 am, saw the note from Husband that he had gone out for a few things. (Because Home Depot is always open.) My doctor was off (it was Saturday, after all) and the gut doctor I had seen a few years ago for a previous bout of the same was already at the hospital working, so he said to come on in, get the CAT scan, and he would see me at two. Girls both still sleeping, I left a note and headed off to Emergency. My main fear at this point was that they would put me in the same cubicle where Shirl died.

I was settled into a cubicle (not that one) by 10, and my day began. Curiously, about this time, my pain disappeared. It's amazing what getting rid of all that stuff can do for you.

The Emergency Room is never a good place to be. Either you are really sick, which certainly sucks, or you're not sick enough to warrant much attention. Hmm. I was definitely in the second category.

They gave me the delightful contrast drink to drink and there I was. I read four magazines. By about noon, I began to wonder where my wonderful family was. The girls, true, might still be asleep. Husband not home yet? A sale on leaf suckers, was there? Did he see the note? Did he not read the word HOSPITAL? Where the fuck was he?

I thought about calling home to tell them I was still alive, but screw it. Someone could be making the ten minute ride to the hospital to see if I was living or dead, right?

Started crying about 1:00. Not big time weeping, mostly sniffling and tears rolling down the old cheeks. And I'm thinking:

"They all think I'm fucking supermom and I can handle it. To them I'm just a competent doer of things that need doing. Needs, I don't have needs. I don't mind being alone in the fucking hospital. I'm just a zero to them, nothing. I'm invisible."

You get the picture.

I finally went for the damn CAT scan at 1:30 and was back in my cubicle by 2:15. Oh wait, someone else was in my cubicle now. They parked my bed in the hall, where I sat crying until about three. At which time I started asking them to take out my IV because I was going home.

Not that I wanted to go home. I didn't want to see them at all. I thought, if only I had remembered to bring a credit card, I could go to a hotel. They'll be sorry. Everybody hatesmenobodylikesmeI'mgoingtogoeatworms.

They kept putting me off, and my doctor finally showed up at 3:45. Seems like the guy who reads the CAT scans had already gone home. But wait, the pain's gone. Why am I here again?

I begged them to let me go, and told them that my family sucked. The doctor said that I was okay (duh) and let me go.

I'd been thinking all along, don't lose the anger, you never get angry but you're right this time, don't lose it. I got in the car and lit a cigarette and got about three blocks away from the hospital and suddenly realized that I wasn't angry anymore. I was okay.

Got home about 4:30. Husband looked worried and relieved. "Why didn't you call?" he asked. "Why didn't you come?" I asked. So know we know: both of us are jerks. It was very nice that he insisted that he was the bigger jerk, since I was the one in the hospital. It didn't matter anymore. I was okay.

Then I found out that Sister found out where I was all day, and as I was about to call her and tell her I was home she called me and yelled at me and made me swear never never never to do anything stupid like that again, going to the hospital by myself and not calling anyone. I said it wasn't a big deal. She said, if she had gone to the hospital, would I have come right way? And we knew that I would, so she said she would too. And she was right.

And then talked to Jack, and he yelled at me too. He said he would have been there if he knew. Like I would have let him, all 83 years of hardly walking him. But he would have been there.

How do you like that. They love me.


ENTRY #22