Let’s take a brief respite from politics so I can tell you a little personal story, which I swear is God’s truth, though unbelievable. It’s about my health. In a way it’s funny, which is to say, you could choose to see it that way, if you’d rather laugh than tear out your hair.
It seems like the older you get, the less good news you receive, and lately, I’ve had rather more than I’d like to do with those ultimate purveyors of ill-tidings: medical professionals. I’m not saying I’m in piss-poor condition, perish the thought, but let’s face it, in these latter years I’ve come down with various afflictions that have me sitting in doctors’ offices about 30 times a year, so O.K., if I’m honest, I’m falling apart. My knees are arthritic (treatable), somehow (nobody can say how) I injured my back, causing some sort of permanent nerve damage that impedes my mobility (not treatable), I had a run-in with cancer a couple of years ago (treated, so far so good), and all of that was manageable, sort of, but then came the latest diagnostic bolt out of the blue, just in time to stop us from leaving town for Mahone Bay, which we’d planned to have done about two months ago. Just when I thought I was in the clear for a while, the doctors were all over me. Again. In just the worst way.
It’s a clammy tale, beginning with my routine thrice-yearly cancer screen CT. I had the latest scan on May 4, and got the call from the oncologist on May 6, a Monday, telling me there’s no sign of a recurrence, so super. It’s been two years since my procedure, so now we’re moving to screening every six months, excellent.
THEN, on the following Friday, around four PM, I’m sitting there on my couch, big, fat, dumb, and happy, when the doctor phones me and says hey wow, holy shit, just looking again at your scan, and I consulted with a colleague, and you gotta RUN, not walk, to Emergency right now, you have a burst appendix and you’re going to need surgery ASAP.
But I feel fine, I objected, mildly, not wanting to go to hospital. Any pain? Nope. Nausea? Unh-uh. Vomiting? Not a bit. Diarrhea? Not so far. Appetite? I was just chowing down when you called. Do me a favour – push firmly upon your abdomen, lower right quadrant, would you? Ummm, OK. Any pain? Not at all. Well, never mind that, you’re at serious risk and must rush to a hospital now. Go! Go!
What could I do?
Right, so there I am at Mt. Sinai ER. I have no symptoms, and am in no apparent distress, so of course they triage me to a bank of chairs where sit a dozen or so desperately ill men and women, none of them being seen by anybody, until after about three hours, I get an initial consult, am sent back to my chair, and told to wait. Two hours later, I have another consult. Better get another CT, they say. Then it’s back to my chair. Some of the casualties who were there when I’d arrived five hours earlier have been treated, some not. It’s now nine at night. I sit, and I sit, as one by one those around me are seen, until, at about two in the morning, someone wheels me over to get a CT. An hour later, they decide to move me to a room upstairs, an ER “annex”, where I’m not admitted, just put on a gurney, and told to lie there and stew. A nurse gets me water, and then I’m on my own in this big room, watching the night turn slowly to day over downtown Toronto. Four AM, five, six, seven, then finally at eight, a punk of a freshly-minted resident comes in, he’s maybe 28, pushes violently on my abdomen, and, having elicited no howls of agony, says OK, your CT shows inflammation, but you can go home, and here’s the name of a surgeon, call him.
You want me to cold call a surgeon?
Yup, in four weeks. Now go home.
Perturbed, but delighted to be removed from their clutches, I go home, getting back just after nine AM, feeling a little out of sorts. What the hell just happened? Why am I the one calling the surgeon? Why in four weeks? What requires a surgeon but can wait that long? At this point, I’m too frigging tired to care.
THEN, around five that afternoon, I get a call from a guy at Sinai, and he says ARE YOU AWARE YOU HAVE A PERFORATED APPENDIX AND COULD DIE???!!!! YOU HAVE TO COME BACK!!!! Apparently he was under the impression I’d just walked away (which thought had occurred, actually). Look, I said, they discharged me. I feel fine, I think. The resident told me to call a surgeon in four weeks. WHAT???? says the guy. I’LL TALK TO THEM ABOUT THIS!!!
About 20 minutes later, the same whelp of a resident who discharged me calls and says no, no, don’t come back in, just call the surgeon like I said, and meanwhile take the antibiotics I prescribed. But, says I, you didn’t prescribe any antibiotics. Oh, he replies, I didn’t? Upon which he calls in to my pharmacy and I get two different varieties of very powerful antibiotic to take for my non-existent/deathly emergent appendix problem.
THEN, the following Monday morning, I call the surgeon they told me to ring up (four weeks my ass), get voice mail, leave a message, and nothing happens. At around four Monday afternoon, my GP calls, bless his heart, and says he just got the paperwork, it says I have a burst appendix, and what the hell is going on?? Why am I at home?? So I tell him the story, and he asks, what the hell, they told you to call a surgeon? They didn’t refer you? Nope, says I. OK, screw that, my GP replies, I’m calling this guy. Which he does. Next day, the surgeon’s office – not him, his admin assistant – calls and says they’ve received my and my GP’s messages, but it’s awfully unusual to get this sort of referral in such a fashion, and they’re still debating whether to accept it. Really? says I. See the thing is, I say, there has apparently been some debate about whether I should ever have been discharged at all, and whether my life is in danger. Hmmmm, can’t advise you on that says the admin assistant. Maybe you should go in to the ER.
Nope. I’m not about to put myself through that again.
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday go by, I’m still feeling fine, and my GP calls and asks how it went with the surgical consult, and I have to tell him there hasn’t been any. The guy never called back. WHAT??? says my doc. Fuck this, I’ll call a surgeon I’m tight with, screw this other guy, we’ll get this sorted. Which he did, bless his heart, except this new surgeon never called me back either. About another week goes by, so I phone my GP, and he arranges for me to see yet another surgeon, this time at Women’s College Hospital, who books an appointment to see me in mid-July. Mid-July. Supposedly I’ve been in mortal peril since the beginning of May, but you know, it can wait, and I guess that’s right because all the while I haven’t experienced the merest symptom of appendicitis, so whatever, happy to cool my heels here in Toronto, y’all just take your time. When I finally get in, the WCH surgeon pokes at me a bit, scratches his head, and says we’d better do an ultrasound, because two sets of doctors have taken CT scans and seen something, but he’s damned if he knows what. Clearly, I don’t have a burst appendix. If I did, by now I’d be well and truly dead. Still, best to have a look anyway. Another week goes by, and then I’m with the ultrasound technician, who really digs into my guts with the emitter, yikes it’s uncomfortable, while she’s instructing me to hold my breath for periods so lengthy that I figure she must have mistaken me for a goddam porpoise. After about 20 minutes of this, she leaves the room, comes back, and says we have to do it all again. Yay! By the time we wrap that up, I’m about ready to scream, but she got her images. A phone appointment to consult with the surgeon about the results is set for a week later.
So now it’s the end of July, going on August, and the surgeon calls me to inform me that well, it’s the darndest thing, but there’s nothing to see on the scan. Diagnosis: nothing’s wrong. Further treatment: not indicated. It turns out that after all, there’s no such thing as an asymptomatic burst appendix. Not to claim I know better than the folks who went to med. school or anything, but, honest, I figured as much.
Two months of seaside summer down the crapper.
Now, what am I supposed to take away from this? Have I still got some sort of as yet undiagnosed problem? Did all those doctors actually see something? Or are they all just a bunch of incompetent quacks? Should I be worried? Relieved? Maybe just put it out of my mind and move on?
I guess I just won’t think about it. I’ll look at the ocean, and the famous three churches, we’ll stick around Mahone Bay until late Autumn, and with any luck nothing forces further interaction with the medical profession any time soon. My next routine CT is in November. I’m giddy with anticipation.
the needlefish 