Vindication

So, since nursing a rambunctious puppy back to health isn’t drama enough, I’ve been having health issues of my own.

Some of you may remember a few months ago when I had painful attack and had to go to hospital etc. etc. After all that, I had to see a specialist and have an endoscopy (which is another long story in and of itself) and the doctor's conclusion was that I had an ulcer.

“I don't have an ulcer,” I told Opie. "I mean, obviously, I do have an ulcer; they saw an ulcer on the endoscopy. But I don't think all this pain is just caused by an ulcer. I don't think that's possible."

"I don't think you're a doctor," Opie countered.

And he may be right but I do read a lot of WebMd and that's practically the same thing.

So I should've felt vindicated a few weeks ago when I woke up in the middle of the night with another bout of unbearable pain.

Unfortunately in these situations all I can really feel is panic.

So instead of pointing out that after three months of ulcer medicine, I shouldn’t be having ulcer pain, 

I preferred to elbow Opie ever-so-gently in the ribs and announce that I was dying.

And I have to hand it to him—he is really calm in the face of an emergency. If the situation had been reversed, I would have sat up screaming “What? What do you mean you’re dying?” And then I would have called my parents (who live about 8 hours away) and things would have gone progressively downhill from there.

Opie, on the other hand, sat up, nodded and said “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately; it’s probably your ulcer.”

“It’s not an ulcer!” I yelled.

And after about 40 minutes I didn’t really care what it was; I just wanted it to stop. “But I don’t want to go to the Emergency Room,” I said. “It’s too expensive.”

It is interesting to note that when I was relating this story to my mom the next day, this is the exact point she interrupted me and snapped “You just spent thousands of dollars on medical care for YOUR DOG! Do NOT tell me that you won’t do the same for yourself.”

Which is a valid argument and one that Opie has used frequently in the last few weeks.

It is also interesting to note that I seem to have an almost pathological need to over dramatize situations—even situations that are already dramatic. Which is probably why I gripped Opie’s arm and announced again that I was dying. “We’ve had a good run,” I told him. “But this is probably it. So promise me that you’ll move back to St. Louis immediately. I don’t want you here, alone, so far away from your family.”

“You’re not going to die,” he said.

“Promise me!” I yelled. “I can’t bear the thought of you languishing away alone!”

And I continued on like this in a way that I like to believe he finds endearing but others seem to think is completely annoying.

“I promise,” He said at last (and St. Louisians, hold him to that if I do happen to die sudenly). “But you’re not going to die; we’re going to the Emergency Room and you’re going to be fine.”

“Wait!” I moaned. "I need help getting my yoga pants on."

This was a little confusing to him "Didn't you already have pants on?"

"Those pants are horrible," I told him. "I can't wear them in public!"

Then he started muttering under his breath in a manner that made it seem like he didn't find me endearing at all. So I didn’t mention that he's lucky this didn't happen when I was young and in college or I might have insisted on taking a shower and doing my hair and makeup before leaving the house.

In any case, we finally made it to the hospital (even though my hair was a hot mess) and in an exam room for blood tests.

Which never go well for me.  Apparently, I’m a “hard stick” and it takes at least 3 times for any nurse or phlebotomist to find a “good vein” and I end up with marks all over my arms like this:

May I just mention how much I enjoy walking

 around looking like I mainline heroin?

Four “sticks” later they had enough blood to do their tests.

And my need for drama kicked in again. I grabbed the nurse’s arm this time and said “Are you going to give me the good drugs now?"

She didn’t take my histrionics nearly as well as Opie does…and, oddly, he didn’t take this one well.

“Don’t say stuff like that!” He told me after the nurse left. “Now they're probably going to do a blood test to make sure you’re not some prescription drug abuser.”

"She knew I was joking,” I insisted. “I'm sure somewhere in my file it mentions that I'm hilarious!"

“Oh, I’m sure," Opie agreed but it didn’t sound like he meant it.

Even worse. I think he was right because it took a lot longer for them to bring the good drugs and even then they weren't as good as last time.

But they were good enough that I didn’t gloat when the ER doctor came in and agreed that it’s not an ulcer.

What is going on?

We still don’t know. I’ve had tests and more tests and in a few weeks I’m going back to the hospital for another, more specialized probe. All of which I’m sure I’ll share later.  The point, for now, is that I was right.

It’s not an ulcer.

And you know what? Sometimes vindication is almost as good as a cure!

U Is For Ulcuscle

Today’s word is actually also an explanation for why I’m so far behind on the A-Z challenge.

Ulcuscle – noun, a small ulcer.

Which I, apparently, might have…although, not sure it’s a small one.

Here’s what happened:

Earlier in the week I was getting ready to go teach my evening class when I got a terrible, incapacitating pain in the middle of my chest/upper abdomen. It was like a gallstone attack, only worse. I started sweating, I couldn’t breathe…and I certainly couldn’t call Opie as this has happened twice before and he kept telling me to “GO TO THE DOCTOR!”

And I had put it off, saying “It’s probably nothing; it goes away after ten minutes or so.”

Which probably makes me sound like an idiot. 

But the truth is, I’m not an idiot, I’m a bit of a hypochondriac.

And, yes, I know that this is a condition that normally makes people run to the doctor’s office.

But I’m a hypochondriac who knows she’s a hypochondriac.  So, even when I have something serious going on, I assume I’m overreacting in hypochondriac fashion and put off going to the doctor until it’s the last possible choice.

So, when the incredible abdominal/chest pains lasted for over half an hour, I did what any sane, normal person would do…I called my mom.

“I’m in Illinois!” My mom reminded me. “I can’t do much from here.  You need to call your doctor!”

“But what if it’s something stupid like gas pains?” I protested. “Then I’ll feel like an idiot.”

Then she reminded me of what my dad always says in these situations, that there are a lot of people in the cemetery who didn’t want to feel stupid.

Which kind of put things in perspective.

So I was going to call my doctor but I couldn’t seem to find her direct line, only the scheduling line. Which meant I had to call Opie at work after all.

And since I’m always completely calm in the face of an emergency and since I was now convinced that I was dying, I very calmly shrieked that I was having some unexplained attack, that I was probably seconds from death and could he spare a few minutes to look up our doctor’s number before I collapsed unconscious on the floor?

I bet he looks back on all those years he was single and alone and just weeps thinking about how interminably dull his life was then.

Anyway, since he IS calm in the face of an emergency, he got the number, gave me the number and as soon as he hung up, began making arrangements to leave work and called the neighbors to get me some help until he got here.

In the meantime, I called the doctor’s office and explained things to the nurse who said “Kimberly, I’ll ask the doctor what to do…but if you’re having severe pain IN YOUR CHEST, we both know what she’s going to say.”

“Take an aspirin and lie down until it goes away?” I suggested.

Oddly, no, that’s not what she thought the doctor was going to say.  And she was right. The doctor said I needed to go to the Emergency Room IMMEDIATELY and get an EKG in case I was having a heart attack.

Though, in my defense, I was pretty sure it wasn’t a heart attack since if it had been some sort of cardiac event, I already would have been dead.

Wait, that doesn’t sound like a defense at all!

Anyway, everyone else apparently suspected all along that I needed to go to the ER as the neighbors were on their way over to drive me and Opie was already planning to meet me there, and my mom sounded not one bit surprised when I called her back.

Weird.

However, I would like to take this moment to point out that I was right, I wasn’t having a heart attack. The EKG was totally normal.

Which was relief largely because once they ruled out heart trouble they could give me the good drugs and the pain finally started to subside.

Unfortunately for Opie, I was still nestled in the sweet embrace of the dilaudid when he and my mom started a texting conversation and he mentioned to her that this has happened twice before.

“Don’t tell her that!” I yelled.  “Next thing you know I’ll be grounded and won’t be able to go to the big dance.”

I have the feeling I would make a very annoying drug addict.

Anyway, the most frustrating thing is that they still don’t know what’s wrong. All they know is what’s not wrong…no heart attack, no gallbladder attack (which I already knew since I had it removed a few years ago) and no kidney stones. 

Possibly a hiatal hernia, maybe liver trouble, most likely an ulcer that was causing stomach and/or diaphragm spasms…

“It can’t be an ulcer,” I said. “I’m too easy-going.”

“Stop saying that!” Opie said. “You are NOT easy-going. No one thinks you’re easy-going! I’m the calm one in this relationship--you freak out about everything!”

Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t know me at all.

In any case, I have an appointment with a GI specialist in 2 weeks…and I guess I have to go because when I suggested to Opie that in two weeks I’ll probably be totally fine and there was really no reason to waste everyone’s time, his head almost popped right off.

Which, pardon me for pointing out, just doesn’t seem easygoing at all.