I'M BACK, BABY!!!

I’m back, baby!!

Did you miss me?

It’s been one hell of a month, let me tell you, and not a particularly pleasant one, either.

It all started on the 28^th of October.   I went to my beloved doctors in Seymour for some antibiotics, as the chill I caught at the Def Leppard concert went straight to my chest, and I was barking like fido the dog.

The next day, I picked up my medication from the pharmacy in Heathcote, and toodled off to Bendigo to do some shopping.

By the time I got home some three-four hours later, this pain had developed in my front, left abdomen area.  As the evening progressed, it slowly got worse and worse, until I reached a point where I realised that something was seriously wrong.

Much to Charlie’s pleasure, I dragged him out of bed to drive me to the Bendigo hospital.

Looking back, I think that was my first mistake.  The last couple of times I’ve ended up at Benders hospital, the waiting time has been absolutely ridiculous.  So, after an hours drive there (in horrendous pain because of bumpy roads and Charlie driving like it’s stolen) and a three and a half hour wait, during which time I was constantly throwing up and dehydrating, which is NOT good for a diabetic, I was finally admitted to emergency.

So after the nurse and doctor spend ½ an hour trying to find a usable vein in my right arm (can’t use my left, because I had a sentinel node biopsy – lymph nosed removed – back in 2004 when I had cancer.  So any application of pressure, like a tourniquet or blood pressure band could set off lymphedema), which resulted in several bruises, they finally pumped me full of morphine and maxillon. 

So Doogie Houser MD has a look at me and decides that I’ve got diverticulitis, which is an infection in these little sacs that have formed around my colon, for some reason. 

‘Do you want to do a CT scan or ultrasound or something to make sure?’ I asked, because I wasn’t 100% confident with his diagnosis.  This was my second mistake.  I should have insisted on a scan.

‘Nope.  We’re pretty confident.  Here’s a truck load of antibiotics to take home.  Rest up and you’ll be right.  Do a follow up with your GP in a week.’

Great.

So, we head home, and over the course of the next week, I fail to improve.  Sure, the pain in my side wasn’t present; that’s possibly because I was on so many friggin pain killers, but I was seriously not well.

So Thursday the 3^rd of November rolls around, and I leave work early, because I simply cannot handle it any more.  The following day, I find myself sitting in my GP’s office asking why the fuck I’m not improving.

My GP, who is about the only medical person I do trust, as I’ve known her for many years now, explained that she received the report from Bendigo Hospital, and doesn’t believe their diagnosis was correct.  She said that she gave me a script for antibiotics on the Friday, and the next day I’m in hospital?  She explained that 99% of people can take the medication she gave me, but I’m clearly in the 1% that cannot.  ‘It will upset your stomach and cause severe pain in your abdomen.  That’s what I believe has happened to you.’

I explained that I had taken my meds with me to the hospital (several visits to the hospital in the past has taught me that), but they weren’t concerned about it.  She just rolled her eyes, told me to stop taking everything except my diabetic meds, and we’ll see how I feel over the next few days.  She said that if I don’t improve, I’ll have to have some scans and tests done.

Fine by me.

Sunday the 6^th of November rolls around, and about 7pm at night, the pain returns with avengeance.  This time though, it’s in my back as well.  Hello kidneys…

So, by midnight, I’ve had enough.  The pain is not easing, and I’m beside myself.  Time to make a decision. 

I leave Charlie in bed, as in six hours’ time, he has to go to Daylesford to pick up a bull (would you believe), and I thank God for Iris, because she drove me down to John Fawkner Private in Coburg.  Sure, it’s further and cost me $250 for admission to emergency, but I wasn’t risking Bendigo Hospital any more.

On the way down to Coburg, Mum’s hooning along, and takes the Hume Highway on ramp at Wallan, and some bastard has left an empty suitcase in the middle of the road.  Mum slams into it at 100kmph.

So here we are, at 1am on Monday morning, stopped in the middle of the on ramp, in the cold and fog, me in my pyjamas, on my hands and knees, trying to pull a mangled suitcase out from underneath Mum’s new car.

A side note: yes, there was a bit of damage to the front of her car, but it was still drivable.  Later that week, a tow truck came from Heathcote and took it to the panel beaters, where it lived for the next week.  *sigh*

So, despite the numerous cars that were out and about at that hour of the morning, no fucker stopped to assist us, and we eventually got this fucken nightmare out from the car, and set off again.  If I wasn’t well before, I was half dead after all of that exertion.  Great.

2am, and we land on John Fawkner’s door step.  If anyone has ever been there before, they will know that parking at that place is non-existent.  Not at 2am though.

We rocked in and I was the only person in emergency.  The only one.  Within two hours, I’d been pee tested, blood tested and CT scanned, and had the doctor (who was a little closer to my age – which comforted me no end) standing at the foot of my bed telling me that I had a kidney stone in my urinary track.

‘You said you had a high threshold of pain, and I thought you were being blasé.’ She said.  ‘I apologise for that, because the stone is 10mm x 4mm, and would be complete agony.  We’ll pump you with some more morphine, and the surgeon will be along to see you soon.’

Surgeon?  WTF?

So Mum toodles off home, and I drift off into a morphine induced sleep until a lovely man comes along and tells me that he’s going to stick something up my urinary track and blast this stone, as it could take months to pass it, if I can, and it will be about at agonising as childbirth.

I explain to him that I’ve never had the honour of giving birth, so I have nothing to compare it to.  I will have to trust him on that, because I’m tipping he’s never experienced childbirth either. 

However, in saying that, I won’t feel a thing, because I’ll be right here at John Fawkner, smashed out on morphine until it passes.

He just smiled.  ‘I’ll see you in surgery around lunchtime.’

‘It’s a date.’