Gloom, Doom, Agony On Me—Part 2

What fresh hell is this?—Dorothy Parker

Since being diagnosed, I’ve made a few trips to ER. Three I remember well. One I was totally out of it. In those events, I was seen immediately because it was obvious I needed immediate treatment. This time I walked in without assistance even though I was experiencing unbelievable pain. It was 4 am. The ER was busy. On one side were people in wheelchairs that seemed to be dozing. On the other side most of the chairs were full. Everyone seemed to be dozing

I went to the desk to check in. 

“What is your name? What is your reason for coming in?”

“I’m having terrible back pain and I can’t pee. I called my doctor’s night nurse and she told me I needed immediate care.” 

“On a scale from one to ten with one being no pain and ten being extreme pain, how would you rate your pain?”

A standard question all medical professionals ask. For some weird and stupid reason, I’ve always downplayed the answer to that question. Perhaps I want them to think I am Superwoman. Or perhaps I am trying to convince myself that admitting the truth will make me sound like a weak weenie.

“Oh, I’d say it’s around six.” I should have said 50.

She asked for my ID and jotted my name and symptoms on a notecard and placed it behind a stack of cards in a file box.

“Okay, take a seat. All these other people were here before you, so they will be seen first.”

I looked around again and estimated approximately thirty  or so were waiting. Maybe it would move along quicker than expected. I was so wrong. My lack of sleep, pain and exhaustion were getting the better of me. We found an unoccupied bench with a chair next to it. My husband sat in the chair and I tried to lie down. Pain spasms got me back up and pacing like I had done for the last week. 

There was a couple not far from us sleeping in chairs. At one point the man stood up to look at the monitor above the bench. I don’t recall looking at it or even noticing it was there. He grunted and complained about how long they had been waiting.

“We’ve been here since 9:30 last night!”

I mentally calculated that was around seven hours ago. Jeezopete, might as well go home and bury me in the backyard now.

I don’t know why he was there, but neither he or his partner seemed to be in any 

particular distress nor did anyone else in the waiting room. I was the only one that was moving around, albeit slowly. Everyone else was snoozing. 

Two hours later at the shift change, a nurse emerged with a stack of notecards pushing a blood pressure machine. He started going to each person taking vitals and noting it on the card. 

“Hi. How are you doing?”

“Awful.”

“I don’t usually work in the ER, but I’m helping clear the backlog.”

My vitals were taken and I don’t know what they were. At that point, I no longer cared if I had a pulse. 

Looking at my card, his eyes widened, “When was the last time you urinated?”

“Uh..I don’t remember. Sometime yesterday.”

Eyes bigger, “Hmmm. Okay. Let me see what I can do.”

He finished collecting vitals from others waiting and disappeared. A few minutes later, he came out and called my name. The guy that had been there for over eight hours was noticeably pissed. The nurse told me he wanted to do another vitals check in back. We followed him to a small cubicle in triage. My vitals were taken again. 

“If you were on my floor upstairs, I would be doing a bladder ultrasound on you immediately. I’m going to talk to the ER supervisor and try to get you back here asap. In the meantime, you will need to go back to the waiting room.”

Okay. Maybe I can muster up a convincing seizure to expedite the process. Hey, I am an actress after all!

Going back to the waiting room, the guy and his partner had left. Whatever reason they were there, I do hope they found a place where they were seen quicker.

A few minutes later the nurse returned and called my name. I was returned to the triage area. From there, someone came to take me for a CT scan. Then I was taken to a room in the ER. The bed must have been intended for a pediatric patient. It seemed so small. I removed my street clothes, changed into a gown and collapsed. I was there for sixteen hours before being admitted to a room in the hospital.

I had a bladder ultrasound. As my Dad would say,”Full as a tick.” A straight line catheter was inserted to get a urine sample and drain my bladder. The very young nurse was sweet and apologized that it would hurt. Let’s see, that means my pain level would go from 50 to 51? No problem. 

I could see the bag expanding. That did give me some small relief. Very small. She collected a sample. Some time later she returned apologizing that she had to insert a Foley catheter. She removed the straight line and the bag of pee. It was full as a tick. 

I asked repeatedly if there was anything they could give me for the pain. No. Not until some more tests had been completed. I’ve lost count how many CT scans (with and without contrast dye), X-rays, MRIs (brain and body) I’ve had. Sure! Why not? Shoot me up with poison! Radiate me! I can take it! Now, about that pain…

An ER doctor came to report the CT results.

“We are seeing some spots on your spine, which we suspect are cancerous.” 

In that moment, the world dissolved around me. My husband audibly gasped and shoulders slumped. His world was dissolving too. They said they were working to have me admitted.

Once they decide to admit you doesn’t mean you immediately check out of ER to a comfy bed upstairs. It can take hours. Kind of like being on stand-by for a canceled flight. You’re miserably hoping for a seat to become available on a crappy upgrade, but you have to wait in a holding area with other miserable souls until it does. 

In the meantime, no pain relief. Coupled with the pain and the knowledge that Cancer Bitch was back assembling her tools of torture once again, I was feeling hopeless.  This time CB was wearing her Dominatrix outfit with whips, chains and using a power tool to insert screws in my back. I asked again if there was anything they could give me? A lethal dose of something? No, we have to wait for the on-call supervising ER doctor to approve pain medication.

Now that I had a Foley, I couldn’t get up at all. I tried to find a more comfortable position clinging to the edge of the bed to keep from slipping off. The steel table for MRIs was more comfortable than this kiddie cot. 

Then the professional brigade started filing in. First were the Orthopedic guys. They looked at the CT, x-ray, body MRI scan and counted ten suspicious lesions on my spine. TEN?! They asked questions that I don’t remember now, but I knew none of them applied to my problem. They finally looked at each other and touched their noses indicating “Not me.”

Then the Neurosurgery guys came in. One of them was the neurosurgeon I saw shortly after I was diagnosed in 2020. I hadn’t seen him since then. He looked at the scans and conferred with his associate. Neuro guy said, “If this were just one or two lesions, I would consider surgically removing, but ten?” Finger to nose. “Not me.”

The only thing left now was to wait until I was admitted. It was close to 8 pm. Thirteen hours since I came to the ER.  At 8 pm, I told Larry to go home. He resisted, but there was nothing he could do for me. Unless, he found the drug closet and swiped something to put me out of my mystery. He relented and went home.

As I watched him leave, I melted into tears. This is it. I am done, I’m nothing more than a pile of cancerous goo. Pour me down the drain. Whenever someone came to ask if they could get me something, “SOMETHING FOR THE PAIN!!”

“We are still waiting for the on-call ER physician to authorize the medication.”

I found out later that there were several others in the ER were waiting for this one doctor’s permission. The scene from Terms of Endearment flashed. Where the hell is my Shirley MacLaine!

Every time the blood pressure cuff tightened, I watched the numbers. Each time, it was higher and higher. Mine is normally well below what is considered normal. Was I on the brink of exploding? 

At 9:30 pm, a nurse came in with a syringe. “We got the authorization for your pain med.” She injected it into my IV line. 

“Hey baby, miss me?”

I weakly replied, “George?”

George hugged me in his narcotic arms. “I’m here now. It’s going to be okay.”

I sighed weakly, “Welcome home.” 

For the first time in a week, I slept peacefully. I know how dangerous it is to become reliant on painkillers, but it felt so good. I fully understand how some folks have a difficult time leaving that embrace.

When I woke, I was being wheeled into a hospital room. George stayed with me and made sure I was comfortable for the rest of the night. 

Next chapter: A new treatment plan.