A week ago Sunday, I had Grantley out. P was way outta town and I was thinking about what I might have for dinner. Maybe like something he hates. I don't know what that is-off the top of my head, so, I was thinking about it.
I came around the corner and my whole innermost being was filled with pain. I don't mean like 'hey, is it time for another pain killer?' kind of pain. I mean like HOLYMUTHAOFJAYZUZIMGOINGTODIERIGHTNOW pain which is an entirely different thing. There was nobody out on my block. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
I got home, up the three flights of stairs with Grantley and as I tried to open the front door, I began to explode.
Two days later, I'm in complete internal demolition mode. If something was not shooting out of my mouth-there was something else flying out of some other orifice. P was set to go out and do his day stuff and-for the first time in this final set of surgical olympics-I had to ask him to stay home.
I emailed the surgeon thinking all of this was a result of the pain killers. My second night sharing a room in the hospital with the nurse who was my roommate and who pointed out the following details:A) The young nurses could not draw blood. B)They never cleaned the bathroom. was when I started throwing up but I just took that as a sign that these were big strong pills and they were kicking my ass to New Jersey, so I sez to the surgeon, hey is there something else I can take? Pepto Bismol? Rolaids?
He gets back to me about 10 hours later. This cannot be related to the surgery. It's possibly a colon infection. Go to the ER or Urgent Care.
A trip to the ER for me STARTS at $500 bucks. Not happening.
We set off for the Urgent Care. Well, sort of. P handcrafted a secret spy bag. It was a big white plastic bag and inside he had several big towels and some smaller ones and one of my blue plastic buckets which was lined with 2 smaller trash bags. He said,"Don't worry, nobody's gonna know." Which I didn't understand. I don't understand a lot of things people said to me this week but that's a story for another day.
I didn't want to leave the condo. I'm still seriously heaving in all directions here-in fact I was trying to brush my teeth to appear somewhat presentable(funny what your mother insisted upon that is glued in your head) for the doctor and I started heaving again. As I am brushing my teeth.
I had to run back to the bathroom once more but after a stern "You need medical attention" talking to from P, I shoved my seriously sorry ass out the door and if anymore mentions fighting cancer to me-that's the kind of thing I'm going to think of. In fact, I wonder how many people die from hospital infections as opposed to actual cancer. Never mind. I don't even wanna know.
Got there. Threw up four times when the car stopped moving. Got inside and tried to negotiate waiting in the parking lot but they weren't having it. They gave me a teal bucket sort of a thing and told me to have a seat.
I tried to look like Linda Blair. I didn't want anyone coming near me. That didn't seem to be a problem. Go figya.
Could not pee for the urine sample because I'd used up all my juices for other things. The doctor-here played by Glen Close-came in. I did my Linda Blair for her. A little poking and she determined I had gastroenteritis. Had I eaten something strange?
See this lady? She ate something strange. Maybe some bad encased meat at the Cubs game or something. This was different. A) It was me. and B) I was dying.
I was useless at doctor conversation except to say that I would never take off the anti-nausea patch that was stuck behind my ear. Ever.
Gatorade, she said, was my new best friend. (I voted for blue which P interpreted as 'berry'. FYI: You should probably know your Gatorade flavor ahead of time.) Working my way up to saltines. And they were going to give me some sort of an under the tongue melty pill thing-right there in the office and we'd all wait 15 minutes to see what happened.
I was cold. I wanted to go home. When she checked back in, she said yet another thing about this infection was that P might get it as well.
I think the Very Worst Thing was that I was only permitted to have small sips of Gatorade and I'd lay there and try to not to think about how much I missed actually swallowing a delicious beverage. Like not sipping. Drinking. Like not scotch. Water.
Makes me wonder if I was operating too low on the grateful scale or something.
It's 5 days since I saw Glen Close. We have new toothbrushes.