My life has changed drastically in the last four months, and I think I'm finally ready to tell the story. You know that well-worn phrase, "facing your own mortality?" I can't get that phrase out of my mind, because it so well describes what I've been feeling.
Back in September I was busy with five hours a day of Thai classes, getting kids to and from school and activities, and generally trying to settle in to a new home and routine. I had a dull pain in my upper belly, below my rib cage and just to the left of my solar plexus ("Solar plexus" always reminds me of a ridiculous song I learned in elementary school about Senor Don Gato, but that's another story.) I tried to ignore the pain, chalking it up to lack of sleep or an overabundance of stress or whatever other explanation came to mind. It got steadily worse, though, and I started to worry that it might be my gall bladder, so I figured I'd better get it checked.
The first doctor I saw ran into the exam room, asked a question or two, told me it was acid reflux, waved off my comment that I've had reflux and that's not what this felt like, and then ran back out of the room (forgetting that I'd also had questions about my knee). Then the nurse gave me a quick flu shot and sent me on my way. I've not been back to that office.
Still, it gave me another explanation for the pain, even though I was pretty sure it was the wrong explanation. Reflux is nothing too serious. The giant, painful lymph node that developed on my collar bone, however, scared me into going to another doctor, who said I was having a reaction to the flu shot. I've had countless immunizations in my life and have NEVER had something like this happen. This doctor listened well when I talked about the pain in my abdomen, though, and ordered an ultrasound. I figured I'd get that done in the next week or two.
A couple of days later, my mother-in-law, Sarah (who was staying with us to help out while I was in Thai classes), and Evie and I walked to the farmer's market in downtown Falls Church. My pain was steadily increasing, and (to make a long story short) I ended the morning vomiting in the community center bathroom. By this time the pain was severe, and I also had a horrible headache.
Back to the doctor, who said the ibuprofen I'd been taking for my shoulder had inflamed my stomach or some such explanation. That evening, though, my headache was so bad I was starting to worry I might have a stroke. It was just unbearable and very hard to explain. I could barely talk and I couldn't stop crying.
John took me to the emergency room, where the admitting doctors and nurses were fascinated by my weird range of symptoms. By the time we'd listed everything that seemed to be wrong with me, there was a little crowd of white-coated and very enthusiastic people standing around, staring intently at me, and saying things like "That's odd" and "What a strange mix of symptoms." The only thing that broke it up was a woman screaming from the waiting room that she was in serious pain and somebody'd better come this INSTANT to help her.
By the way, emergency rooms have got to be the most accurate representation of hell on earth. We were there for HOURS watching people come and go with all sorts of ailments, real and imaginary. On the horrible end, ambulance crews were wheeling in kids who'd fallen from balconies and people who'd been in awful car accidents. There was a woman sitting in a wheelchair whose body was bloated and yellow. I sat there thinking, "At least all I've got is a headache." On the more ridiculous end, some guy came in because he had a hangnail. The admitting nurse asked if he actually wanted to see a doctor. Yes. There were several people who clearly had mental disabilities masquerading as physical complaints. And then there was the guy in handcuffs who was escorted by a burly police officer. It's really no wonder TV dramas are set in emergency rooms.
I realize this is getting very long. Feel free to skim or skip, but I feel compelled to keep going in all the gory detail.
I finally saw a doctor, who looked like the evil twin of a guy John worked with in Chennai. Or maybe Daniel is the evil one and the doctor the good. Anyway, the doctor ignored the headache and went straight for the abdominal pain, ordering an immediate ultrasound. In an emergency room, "immediate" is relative and depends entirely on what sorts of life-threatening horrors other patients have brought with them. John and I passed the time by giggling about the guy down the hall who kept moaning and heaving REALLY loudly and about the woman sitting right outside our door who suddenly yelled, "Oh my gosh, get me OUT OF HERE!"
A friendly technician gave me the ultrasound. It's incredible to me that everyone was friendly, from the nurses and doctors to the guy who wheeled me around in my hospital bed, considering how stressful it must be to work in an emergency room. La la la, having an ultrasound, done this before, when the technician suddenly starts taking a lot of pictures right over the spot where I've been having pain. Then she (still smiling) starts asking things like, "Are you diagnosed with anything?" Well no, not yet anyway. "I'm just going to speak to the doctor for a second." And off she goes, leaving me lying next to the ultrasound machine, terrorized.
When she came back she told me the doctor wanted to do a few more tests, and I was wheeled back to John. Less than five minutes later someone showed up to wheel me off to get a CT scan, and that quick turnaround told me I was in real trouble. A CT scan, by the way, is no picnic. They pumped some kind of chemical into me that made me feel like I was wetting my pants (I wasn't) and then shoved me into a tiny tube and told me when to breathe and when to hold my breath. Everyone was very nice about it, though.
After some more waiting around with John (this time with considerably less giggling), a nurse and Dr. not-Daniel came into the room and shut the door. The doctor leaned against the counter, folded his arms, and gave me a serious look. I don't think I'll ever forget that -- what he looked like and how my mind started reeling even before he told me there was a possibility that I had pancreatic cancer. The moment will forever be a turning point for me, the end of one life and the beginning of another.
I was admitted to the hospital because the tumor was causing blood clotting in my splenic vein and because Daniel's twin wanted to get a biopsy done as soon as possible. John went home to check on the kids and fill his mom in on what was happening, and I was wheeled out of the ER and into a quieter corner to wait for an open room upstairs. I made some phone calls and then spent much of the night alternating between absolute panic and just plain annoyance. My aunt died of pancreatic cancer at a fairly young age, so of course I couldn't get that out of my mind. I knew I would have to drop out of Thai classes. I knew my medical clearance was going to change. I worried about what to tell the kids. And my bed was doing this weird thing where it automatically shifted the mattress every time I moved a muscle.
I'll stop there for now. Cliffhanger! Don't worry, I survive to tell the tale.
Back in September I was busy with five hours a day of Thai classes, getting kids to and from school and activities, and generally trying to settle in to a new home and routine. I had a dull pain in my upper belly, below my rib cage and just to the left of my solar plexus ("Solar plexus" always reminds me of a ridiculous song I learned in elementary school about Senor Don Gato, but that's another story.) I tried to ignore the pain, chalking it up to lack of sleep or an overabundance of stress or whatever other explanation came to mind. It got steadily worse, though, and I started to worry that it might be my gall bladder, so I figured I'd better get it checked.
The first doctor I saw ran into the exam room, asked a question or two, told me it was acid reflux, waved off my comment that I've had reflux and that's not what this felt like, and then ran back out of the room (forgetting that I'd also had questions about my knee). Then the nurse gave me a quick flu shot and sent me on my way. I've not been back to that office.
Still, it gave me another explanation for the pain, even though I was pretty sure it was the wrong explanation. Reflux is nothing too serious. The giant, painful lymph node that developed on my collar bone, however, scared me into going to another doctor, who said I was having a reaction to the flu shot. I've had countless immunizations in my life and have NEVER had something like this happen. This doctor listened well when I talked about the pain in my abdomen, though, and ordered an ultrasound. I figured I'd get that done in the next week or two.
A couple of days later, my mother-in-law, Sarah (who was staying with us to help out while I was in Thai classes), and Evie and I walked to the farmer's market in downtown Falls Church. My pain was steadily increasing, and (to make a long story short) I ended the morning vomiting in the community center bathroom. By this time the pain was severe, and I also had a horrible headache.
Back to the doctor, who said the ibuprofen I'd been taking for my shoulder had inflamed my stomach or some such explanation. That evening, though, my headache was so bad I was starting to worry I might have a stroke. It was just unbearable and very hard to explain. I could barely talk and I couldn't stop crying.
John took me to the emergency room, where the admitting doctors and nurses were fascinated by my weird range of symptoms. By the time we'd listed everything that seemed to be wrong with me, there was a little crowd of white-coated and very enthusiastic people standing around, staring intently at me, and saying things like "That's odd" and "What a strange mix of symptoms." The only thing that broke it up was a woman screaming from the waiting room that she was in serious pain and somebody'd better come this INSTANT to help her.
By the way, emergency rooms have got to be the most accurate representation of hell on earth. We were there for HOURS watching people come and go with all sorts of ailments, real and imaginary. On the horrible end, ambulance crews were wheeling in kids who'd fallen from balconies and people who'd been in awful car accidents. There was a woman sitting in a wheelchair whose body was bloated and yellow. I sat there thinking, "At least all I've got is a headache." On the more ridiculous end, some guy came in because he had a hangnail. The admitting nurse asked if he actually wanted to see a doctor. Yes. There were several people who clearly had mental disabilities masquerading as physical complaints. And then there was the guy in handcuffs who was escorted by a burly police officer. It's really no wonder TV dramas are set in emergency rooms.
I realize this is getting very long. Feel free to skim or skip, but I feel compelled to keep going in all the gory detail.
I finally saw a doctor, who looked like the evil twin of a guy John worked with in Chennai. Or maybe Daniel is the evil one and the doctor the good. Anyway, the doctor ignored the headache and went straight for the abdominal pain, ordering an immediate ultrasound. In an emergency room, "immediate" is relative and depends entirely on what sorts of life-threatening horrors other patients have brought with them. John and I passed the time by giggling about the guy down the hall who kept moaning and heaving REALLY loudly and about the woman sitting right outside our door who suddenly yelled, "Oh my gosh, get me OUT OF HERE!"
A friendly technician gave me the ultrasound. It's incredible to me that everyone was friendly, from the nurses and doctors to the guy who wheeled me around in my hospital bed, considering how stressful it must be to work in an emergency room. La la la, having an ultrasound, done this before, when the technician suddenly starts taking a lot of pictures right over the spot where I've been having pain. Then she (still smiling) starts asking things like, "Are you diagnosed with anything?" Well no, not yet anyway. "I'm just going to speak to the doctor for a second." And off she goes, leaving me lying next to the ultrasound machine, terrorized.
When she came back she told me the doctor wanted to do a few more tests, and I was wheeled back to John. Less than five minutes later someone showed up to wheel me off to get a CT scan, and that quick turnaround told me I was in real trouble. A CT scan, by the way, is no picnic. They pumped some kind of chemical into me that made me feel like I was wetting my pants (I wasn't) and then shoved me into a tiny tube and told me when to breathe and when to hold my breath. Everyone was very nice about it, though.
After some more waiting around with John (this time with considerably less giggling), a nurse and Dr. not-Daniel came into the room and shut the door. The doctor leaned against the counter, folded his arms, and gave me a serious look. I don't think I'll ever forget that -- what he looked like and how my mind started reeling even before he told me there was a possibility that I had pancreatic cancer. The moment will forever be a turning point for me, the end of one life and the beginning of another.
I was admitted to the hospital because the tumor was causing blood clotting in my splenic vein and because Daniel's twin wanted to get a biopsy done as soon as possible. John went home to check on the kids and fill his mom in on what was happening, and I was wheeled out of the ER and into a quieter corner to wait for an open room upstairs. I made some phone calls and then spent much of the night alternating between absolute panic and just plain annoyance. My aunt died of pancreatic cancer at a fairly young age, so of course I couldn't get that out of my mind. I knew I would have to drop out of Thai classes. I knew my medical clearance was going to change. I worried about what to tell the kids. And my bed was doing this weird thing where it automatically shifted the mattress every time I moved a muscle.
I'll stop there for now. Cliffhanger! Don't worry, I survive to tell the tale.
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