My musings about illnesses some six weeks ago led the fates to give James' ol' Thread-o'-Life a violent tug. Kind of like God and the Great Flood - a little friendly reminder that "You humans don't run the show."
Noah got a flood; I got one hellish ER visit.
God put a rainbow in the sky as a promise to Noah that the Great Flood was a one-shot deal. No more.
I, unfortunately, failed to ask the Fates for such reassurances, as they sent me back to the ER yesterday.
It began as it always does. Thursday, after I caught myself for the fourth time saying both at work and home, "Am I the only one in here who's cold?!", I cautiously went to bed, keeping a thermometer handy on the bedside table. Sure enough, at about 3:00AM, I woke up both sweating and shivering, with the thermometer cheerfully announcing 100.9°F.
My reaction was predictably twofold:
1. "I don't have time for this sh*t." Pop two Tylenol, back in bed.
2. "Is it normal for a 'healthy' 25-year-old to be sick so often?" Zach: "Jim, go back to sleep..."
By morning, the Tylenol had decepitvely hidden my fever, and I headed to work. About two hours after arriving: "Am I the only one in here who's cold?!" By noon, I was on a bus heading home, shivering and cursing under my breath.
An hour later, I popped two Tylenol and rang Zach at work:
Me: "I don't have time for this sh*t."
Zach: "I know."
Me: "I have take-home midterms due next week."
Zach: "I know. Did you call your doctor?"
Me: "Do you think I should go?"
Zach: "Yeah. Why not?"
Me: "Because I'm the type of person who's often accused of running to his doc's every time he sneezes, and I'm trying to shed that image of being a burden on the health care system."
Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "I'm a health care abuser."
Zach: "Well, would you rather go now, or chance another ER visit, which is even more of a burden on the health care system."
Me: "Good point. I'll call them now."
So, an hour later, I was seeing a Physician's Assistant at my physician's office. Thanks to the Tylenol popped an hour before, my temperature was entirely normal, and I was sent home with these (apparently blind) reassurances:
1. "It's probably nothing."
2. "Take low-grade Ibuprofen to keep the fever down rather than Tylenol, since Ibuprofen works better."
3. "No, it's not normal for a 25-year-old to be sick this often, but you're probably fine."
4. "Our office is open from 9:00AM to noon tomorrow, should you need more help.
Unfortunately, low-grade Ibuprofen, while easier on the liver, did NOT keep the fever down.
The fever began to spike higher and higher, as I slept through most of Saturday morning. Apparently, Zach continued to check on me, record my temperature, and force-feed me water. But, at around 3:00PM, I apparently told him to "get these people out of the room!" I also announced that I was Dr. Phlox on Star Trek: Enterprise - or something like that. Zach took my temperature: 104°F. The magic cut-off for an ER visit.
Luckily, we chose a relatively clam time of day to make me a burden yet again on America's health care system. We spent most of our time in the waiting room bitching about the abysmal state of health care - that no doctor's office (at least, none that we know of) is open on the weekends, ostensibly thumbing their noses at the fates, blindly reassuring the public, "Oh, no one gets sick on weekends!" Thus, I have visited the ER twice in six weeks, because "no one gets sick on weekends." Granted, my doctor's office was open Saturday, but only until noon. Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell whatever bug was ravaging my immune system that it should adhere to a schedule of symptomatic outbursts: "Please keep fever spikes within a reasonable schedule on weekdays: 9:00AM to 5:00PM... anything on the off-hours should be mild and fixable with a few Tylenol... for weekends, obviously, you don't want to cause trouble, since no one gets sick on weekends..."
Seriously, who thumbs his or her nose at logic and gets away with it? Vulcans would have clinics open on weekends.
As no one gets sick on weekends, I soon found myself in my own ER room with Zach, having my vitals taken by a very attractive nurse. Unfortunately, with a high fever and chills, I was in no mood to look my flirtatious best. I wanted to tell Zach, "Go for it." But, Zach already has the hot physician. And, actually, part of me still thought I was Dr. Phlox.
Zach and I are usually huge fans of teaching hospitals, like the University of Washington Medical Center where I found myself, yet again, on a Saturday. While I was examined by a MD on her residency last time, this time: a fourth-year medical student. She did a thorough interview and exam, and then her conclusions were thoroughly checked over by the resident-doc-on-duty.
But, then the diagnosis came: "We're not sure, but we have ideas. We need to run some tests."
At about this time, the visits from the fourth-year medical student, the attractive nurse, and the resident-doc-on-duty became fewer-and-farther-between thanks to the sudden influx of
1. drunks
2. Halloween partiers.
I was apparently seen as one of their "easy patients." I soon began to prove them wrong. Some highlights:
1. I find that, for me, the grueling act of giving blood samples is made worse the longer it takes. So, imagine my horror when the fourth-year medical student failed to penetrate successfully - not one, not two, but THREE veins in two arms! Since I had only one vein in the pit of my elbow to offer them by that point, the attractive male nurse did the honors on that front. But, by that point, I was sqeezing the vital essence from Zach's hand, tearing up, whimpering, and flailing my legs in any and all attempt to distract myself, as I have mortal fears of both needles and blood.
2. When being taken to get my chest X-ray, the attractive twentysomething attendant who was pushing me in my wheelchair (I was too dizzy to walk) muttered, "What are you doing here, man? You're too young to be here!" I wanted to reply with some sort of innuendo about my age and abilities, but those damn fever spikes really do make witty retorts quite difficult to fathom. The X-ray verdict: no fluid in my lungs and, between you and me, my heart looks freaking HUGE.
3. The fourth-year medical student came in sometime during hour six in the ER to report the "good news":
Fourth-Year: "Your mono and rapid strep test both came back negative. But, just like your last time at the hospital, your leukocyte count is... well... unusually high. So you're fighting something, and there's one more thing we'd like to check before writing it off as 'something viral you'll just have to get over'."
Me: "And what's that?"
Fourth-Year: "Do you know what a lumbar puncture is?"
Me: "You want to perform a spinal tap?!"
Fourth-Year: "I guess you've heard of it, then."
Another attractive attending physician came in and explained the details, risks, etc. By then, I was nearly at my wits end. Four veins mauled, two chest X-rays taken, and a lot of sweaty blankets: that's what I had to show for six hours in the ER - that, and the never-reassuring reassurance: "Yes, it is unusual for someone your age to be sick so often." Now, within a half hour, I was about to be shown a small sample of my own cerebro-spinal fluid.
The whole torture lasted about twenty minutes. I'm the type of guy who likes to be told when the bad stuff's going down, particularly when I can't (or won't) see what's going on. In the case of a spinal tap, I was sitting upright on my bed, with my head and shoulders folded over on a tray - any minute expecting to feel intense pain since, for reasons I cannot fathom, no one would tell me what was going on. Since I didn't know when it was coming, I spent the five minutes prep time in near hyperventilation in anticipation of an event I knew nothing about, except for the fact that it's been generally described to me as a painful event.
During the procedure, I began to regret my love of teaching hospitals. While the four mauled veins in my arm were one thing, hearing the cross-talk between the attractive attending physician and the fourth-year medical student added pounds of psychological trauma to what actually turned out to be a few ounces of physical discomfort.
Attending Physician: "Are you feeling resistance?"
Fourth-Year: "Yes, I'm feeling a lot of resistance."
Attending Physican: "Here, let me do it. I think you've been scraping bone with whole time."
My face was buried in Zach's sweatshirt, as he was standing in front of me with his torso holding my head in place, while his arms kept my shoulders firm. As soon as I heard "hitting bone," I let out a wail to rival the drunkards out in the waiting room. I've now decided that, for me, medical treatments involving needles and bodily fluids are a mere 1% medical science and 99% psychology. During the blood-drawing-from-hell earlier that day, I probably would have whimpered a lot less had a team of psychiatrists accompanied the attractive nurse and the fourth-year medical student into the room. As soon as all of the horrid mental images associated with the phrase "hitting bone" reached my brain (passing a protective layer of cerebro-spinal fluid, I might add), all psychological discipline cautiously built step-by-step during my 25 years on this planet, any and all manners and modes of self-control, and any culturally-induced mechanisms that permitted me to act like a civilized, adjusted human being collapsed like a frail house of cards.
A needle was scraping bone, and I wanted my mommy.
I'm a big fan of primate instincts. I enjoy pondering their existence, purpose, and function in a "modern" human culture and society. I realized yesterday, though, that my thought experiments neglected at least one important set of instincts: childhood instincts. Sure, they fade as we grow, but why? Do the genetic and psychological components influencing these childhood instincts fade in expression as we mature? Or, is it simply severe rounds of adult conditioning and societal influence that make us shed our childhood insecurities, and bury them under layers of psychological barriers?
For me, I'm now convinced that the latter case is true, and I apparently failed to bury my instincts deep - it took four jabs in the arm with a needle and the mental images of "scraping bone" to make this phrase, for the first time in over fifteen years, move to the forefront of my cerebral cortex: "I want my mom!!"
I guess, at the core, I'm still a "momma's boy." When I shared these very disturbing ideas with Zach today, he tried to reassure me that, "We all have our limits." Still, it was a pretty humbling situation. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
For the record, the spinal tap was successful. And my Cerebro-spinal fluid looks just like water! The test results came back in about two hours: no signs of meningitis or other infection. Which left Zach and I staring at the fourth-year medical student with my discharge papers, asking, "So what's wrong with him? And why does he keep getting sick?"
Fourth-Year: "Oh, he probably just has some pharyx-associated virus, based on how raw his throat looks. Keep the fever down by alternating high-dose Ibuprofen with Tylenol, but look out for the side-effects. And do a follow-up with your doctor after a few days."
Me: "But, how will I get over it?"
Fourth-Year: "Time and rest."
Four bandages on my arm, one on my back, and two chest X-rays later: "Time and rest."
Those 7.5 hours in the ER amounted to more of a psychological awakening than medical progress. While I've again been a burden on the health care system, I guess they were asking for it this time.
Posted by James at October 30, 2005 03:31 PM