Since having chemo, I have ended up in the emergency room a few times. (Cancer, the gift that keeps on giving.)
Naturally, my side effects occurred when Tim was not around, so I called Rose and asked her to take me to the hospital. (Bless her little heart, she would do anything to help someone.) After all, she was a candy striper when she was younger. All I can say is, "God help the people she was assigned to. They are probably still trying to recover!"
The first hurdle was getting to the hospital without getting killed.
"Go straight through the stop sign," I directed as we came to an intersection.
And she did. Straight through the stop sign.
"What?" Hearing my gasp, she glanced over at me, mistakenly thinking the reason I sounded like a beached whale was because my face had swollen up and I looked like a beached whale. Somehow, she missed the fact that we had just narrowly escaped death due to her driving skills.
"You just blew through that stop sign," I sputtered.
"Well, you said to go straight through it," she protested.
"I meant go straight, after stopping!!! I do not want my tombstone to read, 'She survived cancer, but not a car ride with Rose' "
Sadly, she was not done trying to kill me yet.
Upon arrival at the hospital, they gave me a mask to wear, and a gown to put on. Yep, nothing makes you feel more like the expendable crew member in a sci-fi movie who gets some horribly disfiguring disease and dies an agonizing death during the opening credits while the star stands over you, looking like they just finished shooting a cover for Vogue than having to sit in the ER covered head to toe in paper mache. Woo-freakin'-hoo.
After drawing blood, taking my pressure and temperature for the fifty-sixth time and assuring me that whatever it was, it was probably not fatal, maybe, they left Rose and I alone in the room and went off to scratch their heads again. (Paging Dr. House...disease of the week in room 4)
Vainly, I tried to get comfortable on the hospital bed (which is like asking a hot dog to get comfortable on a nice, hot grill). I triple-folded the plastic pillow and scooted up, then down. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I used the side-rail as a prop, went into downward dog, attempted a warrior three and ended with a triple-toe loop, but nothing worked.
"Here, let me help you," Rose offered. "I know how to put the back of the bed up. It's just this lever here."
And faster than you can say, "Code Blue" she pulled something under the bed and the next thing I knew, I was getting up close and personal with my knees!
"Um, I think I prefer it the way it was," I panted, trying in vain to drag some air into my lungs without rupturing my spleen in the position I was in.
"Oops," Rose muttered, tinkering with the lever again, "Sorry. I didn't mean to push the top that far forward."
Really? So you were not trying to fold, spindle and mutilate me?
"There," she announced as the top half of the bed went flying 180 degrees back to its original position, taking me with it, "how's that?"
Gee, I'm not sure. Let me get this case of whiplash taken care of and then I'll let you know.
"Okay, I've got it figured out now," she announced, pressing the lever of death once more before I fully regained consciousness.
This time, I ended sitting up straighter than a corpse at an Irish wake (sadly, this has actually happened in my family back in the day when some great-uncles and assorted cousins decided the deceased needed "one for the road", but that's another blog).
"Is that comfortable?" she inquired, reaching for the lever again.
"Not really, but I'm afraid if you go for a fourth attempt, I will end up in Ripley's Believe it or Not, or the Guiness Book of World Records, and I've kind of gotten used to having my limbs in all the usual places." I mumbled as I shooed her away from the bed.
Luckily, the hospital staff interrupted at this point, and there was no further experimentation with trying to turn me into a human pretzel.
So just this last week,when I ended up in the ER yet again with my foot, Rose tried to help me move my wheelchair away from a too-close-to-my-broken-foot-to-be-opened-safely-door.
"I know how to do this," she bragged. "Remember, I worked at a hospital as a candy striper."
What I remember is barely surviving the last time you touched the hospital equipment.
"Put the chair-lock down, back away, and nobody gets hurt," I warned her.
Especially not me. Next time I need to go to the ER, I think I'll call a cab.
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
Sometimes You Just Can't Catch A Break...And Sometimes You Can
Earlier this week, I was on a private yacht with George Clooney and
Denzel Washington. The two of them started fighting over who would get
to give me a massage, and as I tried to intervene, I slipped on the wet
deck and broke my foot.
Okay, so what really happened is that I was out in the yard, slipped on some wet mulch, fell on my butt in the mud, and broke my foot. But I like the first story much better.
I called Rose, who took me to the ER where they all know my name now. In fact, I'm pretty sure there is a wing named after me.
"Okay, we'll put you in the express ER," the nurse said after checking me in.
Express?? Woo Hoo!!! So that means I might actually be out of here before the next millennium? Oh, Happy Day!!
Four hours later, I was fairly certain they did not truly understand the concept of express. Glaciers during the ice age moved faster than these people. A pregnant snail towing a semi moves faster than these people. The line at the DMV moves faster than these people and I'm convinced I actually saw the real Elvis in line the last time I was there. He isn't dead, just waiting to get his license renewed.
Eventually, a doctor mosied her way into the room. "Does this hurt?" she asked, drilling her bony finger into my foot.
No. It feels like a butterfly's kiss. OF COURSE IT HURTS!!! My foot looks like a science experiment gone horribly wrong and you are asking if it hurts when you jab it? News Flash---It hurts when you look at it!!!!!
"Did you take anything for the pain? No? Don't worry, we have a lot of good drugs here."
Two hours later, I got one measly motrin and and an ice pack. Her definition and mine of what constitutes "good drugs" was clearly not the same.
Really?? That is the best you can do? What's the matter, didn't you have any Boo boo Bunnies in the pharmacy? We live in a major metropolitan area. Surely there is a street corner or alley nearby where you can score something, anything better than a Motrin!
Twenty minutes later, and waaaay before the highly advanced drug therapy they had dispensed kicked in, the guy from x-ray showed up with his portable unit.
"We're really busy this week," he informed me, "so I had to come to you. Too bad you weren't here last week. It was really quiet."
Gee, if I had known that, I would have broken my foot last week. Maybe next time, you can email me and I'll schedule better.
"So which foot is it?" he asked, peering at my feet as though expecting them to be tattooed with a "Place x-ray machine here" sign.
Uh, I'm pretty sure it's the one that's all swollen and discolored, but, hey, you're the medical professional, so I'll let you make the call. (sigh)
Another hundred years later, the doctor decided to breeze by and inform me that my foot was indeed broken.
Ya think??? I could have told you that about sixty seconds after the crash-landing in my front yard. But since you're here, perhaps you can help me fill out the medicare forms, since I've become a senior citizen while waiting for you to come and state the obvious.
After yet another interminable wait during which Rose and I entertained ourselves by wondering what life on the outside was like (had robots taken over? were flying cars all the rage? perhaps a condo in Florida had been replaced by a biosphere on the moon?), a young woman popped her head in and asked me my shoe size.
"We'll get you a nice little beige bootie that you can wear till you see an orthopedic," she assured me.
Fabulous. I'll take something in a medium heel, size 6 1/2. Maybe a nice Jimmy Choo or Manolo.
The next woman showed up with a black, knee high boot that was the actual size of Italy. What we had there was definitely a failure to communicate.
"Oh. Um." she mumbled, trying to wrap the velcro fifty-six times around my foot to hold the boot on. "This is the smallest we have."
So who do you treat here, giants? Were you expecting maybe Shaq to stop by, hoping to be signed to an endorsement deal?
"Well, you'll get a better one from the orthopedic," she chirped optimistically, while avoiding eye contact. "Now, do you want me to get someone to wheel you out, or do you want to walk?"
How about you just give me an oar, and I can paddle out of here in the boat I am now wearing?
George, Denzel, where are you when I really need you?
Okay, so what really happened is that I was out in the yard, slipped on some wet mulch, fell on my butt in the mud, and broke my foot. But I like the first story much better.
I called Rose, who took me to the ER where they all know my name now. In fact, I'm pretty sure there is a wing named after me.
"Okay, we'll put you in the express ER," the nurse said after checking me in.
Express?? Woo Hoo!!! So that means I might actually be out of here before the next millennium? Oh, Happy Day!!
Four hours later, I was fairly certain they did not truly understand the concept of express. Glaciers during the ice age moved faster than these people. A pregnant snail towing a semi moves faster than these people. The line at the DMV moves faster than these people and I'm convinced I actually saw the real Elvis in line the last time I was there. He isn't dead, just waiting to get his license renewed.
Eventually, a doctor mosied her way into the room. "Does this hurt?" she asked, drilling her bony finger into my foot.
No. It feels like a butterfly's kiss. OF COURSE IT HURTS!!! My foot looks like a science experiment gone horribly wrong and you are asking if it hurts when you jab it? News Flash---It hurts when you look at it!!!!!
"Did you take anything for the pain? No? Don't worry, we have a lot of good drugs here."
Two hours later, I got one measly motrin and and an ice pack. Her definition and mine of what constitutes "good drugs" was clearly not the same.
Really?? That is the best you can do? What's the matter, didn't you have any Boo boo Bunnies in the pharmacy? We live in a major metropolitan area. Surely there is a street corner or alley nearby where you can score something, anything better than a Motrin!
Twenty minutes later, and waaaay before the highly advanced drug therapy they had dispensed kicked in, the guy from x-ray showed up with his portable unit.
"We're really busy this week," he informed me, "so I had to come to you. Too bad you weren't here last week. It was really quiet."
Gee, if I had known that, I would have broken my foot last week. Maybe next time, you can email me and I'll schedule better.
"So which foot is it?" he asked, peering at my feet as though expecting them to be tattooed with a "Place x-ray machine here" sign.
Uh, I'm pretty sure it's the one that's all swollen and discolored, but, hey, you're the medical professional, so I'll let you make the call. (sigh)
Another hundred years later, the doctor decided to breeze by and inform me that my foot was indeed broken.
Ya think??? I could have told you that about sixty seconds after the crash-landing in my front yard. But since you're here, perhaps you can help me fill out the medicare forms, since I've become a senior citizen while waiting for you to come and state the obvious.
After yet another interminable wait during which Rose and I entertained ourselves by wondering what life on the outside was like (had robots taken over? were flying cars all the rage? perhaps a condo in Florida had been replaced by a biosphere on the moon?), a young woman popped her head in and asked me my shoe size.
"We'll get you a nice little beige bootie that you can wear till you see an orthopedic," she assured me.
Fabulous. I'll take something in a medium heel, size 6 1/2. Maybe a nice Jimmy Choo or Manolo.
The next woman showed up with a black, knee high boot that was the actual size of Italy. What we had there was definitely a failure to communicate.
"Oh. Um." she mumbled, trying to wrap the velcro fifty-six times around my foot to hold the boot on. "This is the smallest we have."
So who do you treat here, giants? Were you expecting maybe Shaq to stop by, hoping to be signed to an endorsement deal?
"Well, you'll get a better one from the orthopedic," she chirped optimistically, while avoiding eye contact. "Now, do you want me to get someone to wheel you out, or do you want to walk?"
How about you just give me an oar, and I can paddle out of here in the boat I am now wearing?
George, Denzel, where are you when I really need you?
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
And Today's SIde Effect Is......
I, am a delicate flower.
If I use a certain hair coloring product that shall remain nameless (only because I cannot for the life of me remember what it's called), my left eye swells up like I went fifteen rounds with the champ, then my right middle finger (which just makes it easier for Tim to see when I flip him off), then my left leg and finally the bottom of my right foot. So, for one week, I am basically the Elephant Man in drag.
A swig of NyQuil makes me want to party like Lindsay Lohan after a vat of Vodka Red Bulls, Benadryl makes me jumpier than Rush Limbaugh in a roomful of democrats with no door, and Nair actually leaves the hair, but removes the skin (which I unfortunately learned just in time for my honeymoon--yeah, honeymoon, woo hoo. Tim is one lucky man.)
So it should not have been a surprise when I morphed into a cross between the bride of Frankenstein and, well, Frankenstein what with all the drugs that have been pumped into my system lately.
First up: The Rash From Hell.
Day one after the operation I had what looked like a sunburn on my right arm. By day two, the doctors all looked at me like I was boarding the Titanic with my steerage ticket clutched firmly in my rashy little hand.
Hint: If doctors start talking about something called Stephen Johnson's disease, run, because you are just one blister away from doing guest appearances on Today, Good Morning America, The View and Dr. Oz, where you can be a true inspiration to all the other poor schmucks whose skin is peeling off faster than a g-string at a strip club.
From there, I broke out in rashes over the next month from every cream, lotion, potion, pill, drink of water, and breath of air that I took. I was starting to make the "boy in the plastic bubble" (a John Travolta movie or Seinfeld episode depending on your age) look like the cover model on Health and Fitness magazine.
Next: A Pufferfish Imitation
My face decided to join the party and swelled up from the chemo (?) landing me in the ER for three hours of just about the most fun you can possibly have outside of a lobotomy. The good news is that after testing, poking and prodding me like I was the first alien to land in Area 51, they informed me I would probably survive and sent me home with Benadryl. Benadryl??? Really??? I look like Marlon Brando in The Godfather, and you are giving me Benadryl????? Um, I don't have a medical degree, but I'm pretty sure I could have come up with that one on my own.
And finally: A Life Threatening Reaction (maybe)
To complete the trifecta of side effects, (and for my next trick, watch me pull another rash out of my hat!) my legs rashed up. And down. And all around.
Only it wasn't a rash. Oh no. Not something as simple as that for me. The chemo had apparently attacked my blood vessels and broken each and every one. Oh goody, a second chance to make the medical books. Stephen Johnson watch out! I am about to have something much more impressive than peeling skin named after me. Once I get on the talk show circuits, they won't even remember your name!!! Ha!
And so all of this has led me to make a decision: I am going to wrap myself in bubble wrap and sit in the corner of a padded room for the next few months.
If I use a certain hair coloring product that shall remain nameless (only because I cannot for the life of me remember what it's called), my left eye swells up like I went fifteen rounds with the champ, then my right middle finger (which just makes it easier for Tim to see when I flip him off), then my left leg and finally the bottom of my right foot. So, for one week, I am basically the Elephant Man in drag.
A swig of NyQuil makes me want to party like Lindsay Lohan after a vat of Vodka Red Bulls, Benadryl makes me jumpier than Rush Limbaugh in a roomful of democrats with no door, and Nair actually leaves the hair, but removes the skin (which I unfortunately learned just in time for my honeymoon--yeah, honeymoon, woo hoo. Tim is one lucky man.)
So it should not have been a surprise when I morphed into a cross between the bride of Frankenstein and, well, Frankenstein what with all the drugs that have been pumped into my system lately.
First up: The Rash From Hell.
Day one after the operation I had what looked like a sunburn on my right arm. By day two, the doctors all looked at me like I was boarding the Titanic with my steerage ticket clutched firmly in my rashy little hand.
Hint: If doctors start talking about something called Stephen Johnson's disease, run, because you are just one blister away from doing guest appearances on Today, Good Morning America, The View and Dr. Oz, where you can be a true inspiration to all the other poor schmucks whose skin is peeling off faster than a g-string at a strip club.
From there, I broke out in rashes over the next month from every cream, lotion, potion, pill, drink of water, and breath of air that I took. I was starting to make the "boy in the plastic bubble" (a John Travolta movie or Seinfeld episode depending on your age) look like the cover model on Health and Fitness magazine.
Next: A Pufferfish Imitation
My face decided to join the party and swelled up from the chemo (?) landing me in the ER for three hours of just about the most fun you can possibly have outside of a lobotomy. The good news is that after testing, poking and prodding me like I was the first alien to land in Area 51, they informed me I would probably survive and sent me home with Benadryl. Benadryl??? Really??? I look like Marlon Brando in The Godfather, and you are giving me Benadryl????? Um, I don't have a medical degree, but I'm pretty sure I could have come up with that one on my own.
And finally: A Life Threatening Reaction (maybe)
To complete the trifecta of side effects, (and for my next trick, watch me pull another rash out of my hat!) my legs rashed up. And down. And all around.
Only it wasn't a rash. Oh no. Not something as simple as that for me. The chemo had apparently attacked my blood vessels and broken each and every one. Oh goody, a second chance to make the medical books. Stephen Johnson watch out! I am about to have something much more impressive than peeling skin named after me. Once I get on the talk show circuits, they won't even remember your name!!! Ha!
And so all of this has led me to make a decision: I am going to wrap myself in bubble wrap and sit in the corner of a padded room for the next few months.
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