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April 30, 2005
the pain in jane stays mainly plain
When I was a kid, I remember children's books about going to the hospital that were all about how much fun it was. Clearly propaganda designed to ease our fears, they did the job. I never had to have surgery until I was 14, but I was not afraid of it at all.
The books are bullshit, though. They leave out or gloss over the key thing that if you're ina hospital, you must first be injured or ill.
Here's the one immutable truth about hospital: Everyone you meet will ask you the exact same set of questions as the last person. They will write down the answers on yet another sheet of paper. You will probably meet ten of them the first day, and at least three per day thereafter. This may be a symptom of bureaucratic inefficiency, and probably is for the most part; also there could be an element of testing to ensure your story stays straight, and an element of distraction to keep you conscious.
I have heard, as have you most likely, that people in great pain pass out. I wished myself capable of that on Sunday. This was worse pain than testicular surgery recovery, worse than back tattooing, worse than the time I once poured salt in a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.
It may not have been measurably worse, if indeed there are objective units like decibels for pain. But in all the other cases I mentioned, there were ways of dealing. Ways to clutch the wound, ways to moderate breathing, ways to flail around that lessenned things a bit. This offered nothing. Nothing made it better. Vomiting made it feel a little better for about 30 seconds, and that was about it. And I refer to induced vomiting -- the only time I puked by accident was when one of the nurses asked if there was vomiting, and I somehow did so on cue. She continued her interrogations as I continued barfing up old Gatorade into the trash.
Anyone who knows me personally would have known something was seriously wrong with me, I think. I was speaking faintly and having trouble choosing my words. But I didn't have the energy to make a scene like the girl who had taken the wrong drugs and was flailing and crying and being strapped down across the way. She got something to knock her out quick.
I just had to keep meeting different people. Interns, nurses...finally got to the doctor, who said he'd get me some pain medication. But he can't produce the shit right there himself, of course; has to get the guy with the keys to the drug cabinet. And that guy was the sort of guy who'd stop to have a conversation with everyone in the hall on the way back.
I checked in around 11. It was maybe 5pm by the time I got a shot that reduced the agony to a typical stomachache. There was absolutely no sense of urgency on anyone's part to get me out of pain, which pissed me off and still does.
One of the questions they ask is if you've had any previous surgery. I had testicular surgery back in Ireland not long before I left. Unfortunately, saying this meant that the doctor's natural first assumption was to have my testes checked, despite their NOT HURTING.
So the first test was an ultrasound, as an old German woman fondled my nuts with Vaseline. As a test, it revealed nothing. As a way to lower my shame threshhold so that nothing subsequent could possibly embarass, it succeeded.
Then I had to do a CAT scan and an X-ray. As part of the CAT, you have to drink a radioactive milkshake (which ought to turn you into a superhero named SHAKEMAN!, but doesn't). Most people hate that part, but I was so dehydrated, and consciously not given anything in case I needed surgery, so it actually tasted good to me. For the CAT you have to hold your breath 20 seconds, though, and I couldn't. Hurt too much.
For the regular x-ray, I had to stand up straight, which was getting tough too. I was starting to need more painkillers.
A shaven-headed guy was wheeled in next to me -- his face was split open and bloodied, and as he saw me he made the sign of the beast with his fingers and banged his head. He'd been in a nightclub brawl ("with niggers" he whispered in my ear) and had gotten beaten up, though he proclaimed his innocence in starting it. "That girl, I heard her say she has a big welt mark on her chest from me punching her," he told the cops, "Can you have your CSI guys do a DNA test on that or something?"
"No sir, they don't really do that."
He talked metal bands with me, and said I should just let him take my organ out and we could go get tequila shots.
I overheard some talk of kidney stones by my doctor, but pretty soon it was unanimous -- my appendix was the problem, and it had to come out.
Surgery took all of 10 minutes, and when I came to, the pain was instantly 50% less at least. It was late at night.
Posted by LYT at April 30, 2005 2:15 PM [Message Board]