A Medical (not pastoral) Interlude (with poem) #8

A Medical Interlude

Not a musical interlude…that would be too entertaining.

One dark night—it was not stormy—I was awakened with an incredibly sharp pain.  Sharp?  I should have written “excruciating!  I was able to drive the pain away, partially, by lying on my side in the fetal position.   I groaned, yelped, and, then, smothered the cries.  Susan woke up.  I mean she was right there; we don’t have separate bedrooms or beds.  She thought I might be having a heart attack but I convinced her that I was not.  It was like heart burn times ten!  After a while, the pain subsided and I was able to get back to sleep.

This happened, off and on, day and night, for a few days.  So, I called my PCP.  He squeezed me in that afternoon and, after intensive questioning, told me that I had gall bladder stones.  He referred me to a general surgeon whom I will not name—not because she didn’t do a good job (she did), but…

A New Doctor

Okay, I went to her office and, ahem, I had not been in pain for a few days.  She was a very interesting doctor:  about 4’ 11” tall, cute, had copies of Louisiana Wildlife and Sierra instead of Sports Illustrated or Better Homes and Gardens in her office, and seemed exceptionally bright.  After a brief discussion, I told her that I thought I was much better and probably did not need the surgery after all.  She palpated the area, recommended that I at least get a sonogram, and told me to call her when (not IF) I changed my mind.

That same evening, the pain returned.  If I had been referred to that little pain scale some doctors have in their offices these days, I would have shouted TEN!!!!!!!!!! 

Surgery

The next morning I called the surgeon again.  She told me my insurance company wouldn’t pay for another office visit but that she could combine an office visit with surgical prep in three hours.  Susan raced me to Northeast Baptist Hospital.  Doctor _______ chatted with me for a few minutes and asked me about my kidney surgery.  She was mostly interested in whether my urological surgeon had cut into the abdominal cavity or not.  I showed her the swelling in my side (from his cutting through the muscle) that continues to exist to this day and said no.  She said that was great because she could do the whole thing with laparoscopic procedures and that I could probably go home the next morning and have enchiladas the next night.

Some years later, writing about a different medical procedure, I used the jeweled team, a composite of them, in a poem:

Dopplering the Heart

So, I’m almost watching this monitor, see—

no, its not an EKG—a gorgeous techie

with too long fingernails, some kind

of clear jewel in the middle of each—

well, she leans over and rubs cool gunky

stuff all over my chest and neck.  She had

soft hands, a delicate, well-trained touch,

but I hardly notice cause I’m looking

at her fingers and not feeling much

of anything until her blouse falls open

slightly and black lace starts showing.

My eyes shift a few degrees north and

she jabs me with something, not a needle,

some hard device she rubs all over my chest

and neck and says look up at the screen.

I see my heart doesn’t look like much:

it’s swelling, retracting, tiny little lines

open and close on the monitor but that

gets boring.  After a few minutes she shifts

slightly and, well, I’m tempted to look back

at the heart display just to see if anything

significant in that area had also sped up,

but I’m kind of ticked about all these tests

anyway, missed teaching yet another class

and nothing’s shown up after these exams,

so I just enjoy the show—not the one

on the little  TV screen but the other display

the tech puts on—intentionally I suspect.

She puts the stuff away, wipes my chest

and neck with coarse tissue “just to get you

cleaned up,” she says and then she looks

down at me.  “You have a good heart”

she says and I laugh.  She waves one finger,

 turns around,  looks back at me and winks.

She purses her lips, says” have a good day”

and, shaking her bottom,  leaves the room.

The doc’s surgical team was all female and dazzlingly bejeweled, from the anesthesiologist to the scrub nurses and a tech.  I got on the table and they wheeled me to the OR where they cranked the table Down instead of Up so the doctor could operate.  After I woke up in the recovery room, she told me everything had gone well.

Susan took me home and I slept for several hours.