The One With The Pain, The Stupid Doctor, And The Beans

Tuesday night I went to bed with some pain in my abdomen, thinking it was just a little gas. Every time I began to doze, the pain awakened me. By the time my alarm went off in the morning, I was wide awake, in horrible pain, running a fever, and fully aware that I was suffering from another bout of diverticulitis. My sixth bout of diverticulitis.

Still, I like to live in complete denial of medical issues so I waited a few hours, convinced that, through sheer willpower, I could stave off an infection. My rising temperature and my inability to stand up straight said otherwise, so around 1:00, I headed to the hospital. Because I believe the medical care down here will kill you is subpar like I wrote in my blog post HERE, I debated where to go. There's only one hospital in Central Florida that I've visited and have not hated with a burning passion, so one would think that I would go to that hospital. But I did not.

Now, I have a reason for this! A perfectly good reason! And that reason makes total sense! Hear me out! I didn't go to the not-horrible good hospital because the emergency department in Winter Garden doesn't have any rooms; it's just an emergency facility. So I came up with the brilliant plan of going there because I knew they couldn't admit me; they'd have to send me on my merry way with a couple prescriptions for antibiotics! That idea was foolproof! Only I didn't take into account the possibility that they'd transfer me to another Florida Hospital.


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A white cell count over 20,000, a fever, and a CT scan showing extensive inflammation earned me a fun little ambulance ride to a larger hospital. The paramedics who transported me were all nice and friendly, but none of them looked like this:

When the hospital sends me a survey about my experience, I have some things to say about that.

A surgeon was called in for consultation. His assessment is that I will continue to have attacks and if I do nothing, it's just a game of Russian roulette until my intestines explode and I need emergency surgery. Although they could have done the surgery while I was in the hospital, the surgeon said I'd be better off waiting 4 to 6 weeks until the infection and inflammation were under control. By waiting, according the surgeon, there's less of a chance of needing a colostomy. I thought that was a great suggestion because it combines two things I love: procrastinating and not pooping in a bag.

I will say that everyone, from the ladies who registered me to the nurses and the CT tech, in the Florida Hospital in Winter Garden was nice. They were concerned with keeping my pain and nausea controlled, and making sure I was comfortable. The doctor was friendly, compassionate, had a sense of humor, and checked on me more than once while I waited.  And I will say that the Florida Hospital in Apopka where I was transferred was nice. My room was big and clean. But seriously, with all the advances in hospitals, you'd think they would've realized the beds suck! You'd think that maybe they could've come up with something a little more comfortable. Like a slab of concrete. Or a bed of nails. But the nurses who cared for me were nice and compassionate. They always asked if there was anything they could do for me.

However . . .

Late Wednesday night they took me for an MRI. I asked why they needed it since the CT scan had shown them what they needed to know. I was told, "Just to get a better look." Okay. As it turns out, I learned the next day, they wanted a better look at a mass they'd seen on my liver in the CT. If anyone had bothered to tell me this, I could've let them know that I was already aware of the mass and had already had an MRI like a year ago, and already knew it was a benign hemangioma. But thanks for bumping up my bill, guys. Appreciate it.

On Thursday evening, I was allowed some clear liquids. The surgeon takes a look at the clear liquid diet sitting mostly untouched on my tray and says that I shouldn't be eating or drinking anything at all for another couple days. Okay. TMI alert - Infection in your colon + strong antibiotics = massive diarrhea. Or well, I guess not massive exactly if you haven't eaten for 2 days, but still. In the middle of the night I had a little um, accident. (It takes a while to get out of bed when you're hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV!) I cleaned up and was changing into a new pair of underwear when a male tech walked in. Yeah. I have super-lucky timing that way. He was concerned my heart monitor had come off, so in the dark, before I had even finished pulling up my undies with one hand because my other hand had a death grip on my IV pole so I didn't fall over from overwhelming dizziness, he grabbed my hospital gown, pulling it out from my neck as he messed around with the leads on my chest. Awkward. He didn't even buy me dinner. 

On Friday, the PA from surgery told me I could try a liquid diet. About 2 seconds after she left my room, someone came in with a tray of spaghetti and meatballs, grapes, and milk. I told her I couldn't eat that because I was on clear liquids. She argued with me that no, I'm on a regular diet. Ummm no. I literally just talked to the doctor! She didn't believe me, but agreed to bring me a new tray with vegetable broth and tea anyway. No sooner did she bring me a new tray than the nurse came in telling me I'm on a regular diet and I'm ready to be discharged.


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Then a person, who I can only surmise was Frank Abagnale Jr. impersonating a doctor, came in and told me I couldn't leave until I could eat a regular diet. When I asked him, "Why?" he didn't have an answer. Since he had apparently never encountered someone with diverticulitis, even though it's a very common problem, I enlightened him a bit. "Listen buddy! I have had this SIX times. And EVERY time, I have been discharged from the hospital on a clear liquid or perhaps a bland brat diet. I will not be able to eat SPAGHETTI AND MEATBALLS for some time!" (There is much debate on what kind of diet can prevent diverticular disease and/or flare-ups of diverticulitis, but everyone agrees that when you're healing from an infection, you need a bland, low-fiber diet for a couple weeks.)

He left and I burst into tears because that's what I do. I missed Clay's band concert on Thursday night and I was stuck there missing his 8th grade dance. I felt awful that my Littles had been left to their own devices for what felt like a week and a half. I felt sorry for myself because being a single mom when you're sick sucks. No one to take care of me. No one to take care of my kids. But I've got to say that Lexi is the awesomest! She took care of Clay and Brooklyn. She bought them dinner and made them go to bed before 2:00AM. She brought me clothes and toiletries and came to visit me every day. I'm so grateful for her help!

Anyway, while I was bawling, the nurse supervisor person came in and talked to me. I expressed my frustration that no one seemed to be on the same page, and I just want to go home. I shouldn't be expected to eat a regular diet in order to leave. I asked why on earth would they bring me spaghetti and meatballs. Why not just plain noodles or mashed potatoes or white rice or a piece of bread? She was sympathetic and said she'd do her best to get me discharged that night. She came back in with some mashed potatoes and said if I tolerated my dinner I could go home. Those were the best mashed potatoes ever!

Want to know what they brought me for dinner?

Corn. And black beans. Because everyone knows how easy it is to digest corn and beans. The perfect food for a person healing from a vicious intestinal infection.


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I didn't eat it, of course. I left anyway. (Thank you Austin and Codi for picking me up!) I'm home and the pain is much, much better, however the nausea and dizziness from the evil antibiotics is in full force. And I guess I'll be scheduling surgery for this summer which is good timing since I won't have to take time off from the school at least. But I'm still not looking forward to it for oh, so many reasons, not the least of which is the colonoscopy-like prep.

I Bet Doogie's on Team Edward

So, my divorce was final on Tuesday. I lost my insurance on Tuesday. I can't afford Cobra coverage and was going to start making phone calls for a cheap, high deductible plan that would at least cover hospitalizations and/or surgery. However, Murphy's Law came into play before I obtained insurance. On Friday, I started having some pretty horrific pain in my abdomen. But I've got six kids to care for and no insurance, so I dealt with it and thought - Eh, it'll be better tomorrow. I woke up Saturday and my tummy wasn't better. It was worse, in fact. I walked around, doubled over in pain as I cleaned up, made dinner, drove the kids here and there. I lay awake all night, crying on Saturday because it hurt so bad. I would have run to the emergency room if I'd had insurance, but I just couldn't bring myself to get help when my brain was virtually adding up medical bills.

Sunday came and went much the same. Constant pain that got a little better, then worse, then better, then worse. Finally, today, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I knew something was wrong. I called my ex's employer to check out the Cobra plan. Turns out I have until October 10th to pay the nearly $800 and I'll have retro-active coverage back to August 11. Good. I can handle one month of insurance, I decide, then I speed to my local ER.

So, I walk in, answer the basic questions, bp, temp, blah blah blah. I sit and wait. Then they tell me to pee in a cup. I'd just gone before I left the house because I'm an adult and I know to do that, unlike my kids, but thankfully, I can pee on demand (six kids and all...) (Actually, sometimes I even pee accidentally. Hmmm, I hope I remembered to write something in my pregnancy book about involuntary peeing while laughing after you've given birth to six kids. Anyway...)

So I wait. And wait. And wait. Then a guy comes along to draw my blood. Now, I don't like hospitals. And I don't like waiting. At all. I have this habit of acting goofy if I have to wait. It's either that or jump out of my skin. So, the guy's sticking the needle in my arm. I look at him and say, "So! I guess this (I pointedly eye the blood flowing from my arm to the tube) means you're on Team Edward, huh?" I don't think he got it. Or maybe (gasp!) he just didn't think I was funny. Nah, that can't be it. He just didn't get it.

Then I went back to waiting some more. After an hour and a half of waiting, they took me from the waiting room and moved me to a bed in the HALLWAY. I thought about faking a heart attack to be moved into an actual room, but decided not to since I didn't really want to be defibrillated, or you know, moved to the mental health unit.

I finally got in a room and got my standard issue hospital gown. A half an hour later, the doctor came in and introduced himself. I looked at him. I wondered when all doctors became younger than me. Then I asked, "Do you mind if I call you Doogie?" Of course, he was too young to have a clue what I was talking about, so he just gave me a puzzled, awkward look and started asking me questions.

"Where's your pain? When did it start? On a scale of 1-10, what's the pain like now? Do you have any other symptoms? Fever? Nausea? Blah blah blah.... What's the date of your last menstrual period?"

Okay, so I know I only have like two male readers, but it's time for you to leave the room now. Really. Close your eyes, stick your fingers in your ears and say, "LA LA LA LA LA LA LA" as loudly as you can. Trust me. You'll thank me later.

Okay, so I tell him, "Today." You know, because I'm just lucky like that. Then I gave him a look that said, "I swear I will hit you over the head with this bedpan if you tell me what I'm experiencing is menstrual cramps. I'm FORTY! I've had like 300 periods! I KNOW what it feels like!" To his credit, he didn't blame my pain on cramps. Still, after pushing on my abdomen and watching me wince in pain, he decides I need a pelvic exam. Lovely. As if those aren't bad enough, I get to have one in a curtained room by a cute young doctor while I have my period. Score!

Still, I've given birth to six kids. Modesty is kind of a thing of the past. So, I prop my butt up on a bedpan (yep, they've got a fancy set-up there in the ER) while Doogie puts the jack in and cranks it open. Now, I KNOW I wrote a whole section about pap smears in my new book! So, I'll just tell you this - I tend to ramble on and make stupid jokes when in this embarrassing position. So, I glanced at this poster on the wall...


and asked, "Sooo, how do I become an official member of the Clean Hands Club? Are there dues? Secret handshakes? Oh no, I guess there probably aren't any handshakes at all in that club. Unless you use hand sanitizer, that is. Do you get a free sample of hand sanitizer for joining?"

This is the point, he decided I was mentally, uh, challenged.

But did I stop there and just shut up? Oh no! I started telling him kid jokes. "What's the difference between roast beef and pea soup? Anyone can roast beef!"

"Whatcha eating under there?" The correct response to that joke is "Under where?" Underwear! Get it? Under where, underwear. Much hilarity ensues when my kids tell that joke. However, in hindsight, that was a really bad joke with really bad timing. Ahem. Doogie ran out of the room as soon as he was done. I thought to myself - Oh well, at least I have blog material.

Next on the agenda was a CT scan. I lay there and listened to the instructions. "Take a deep breath. Now hold your breath. Now breathe." I did that a couple times. But the final time lasted like 20 minutes. I couldn't hold my breath that long. I got dizzy. There was almost a code blue right there in the CT room. I finally breathed and hoped they wouldn't yell at me for it.

Back to my room to wait. And wait. And wait. And meanwhile, I'm getting a raging headache because I haven't eaten all day. I was finally able to flag someone down and ask for pain relief for my headache, but they never did give me anything. Anyway, Doogie came back and told me I had diverticulitis. I didn't know what that was, but I was pretty sure it was an "old person's" disease. In my head, I could just hear a couple of grandmas sitting around complaining about their bunions, arthritis and diverticulitis.

Long story short. Or well, long story not quite as long as I could make it - he wanted to keep me in the hospital overnight on IV antibiotics, but I played the "I have six kids at home" card and after consulting with my primary doctor, decided to let me go home. I have to take two antibiotics that cost me $350! Yikes! And I have to go 48 more hours without eating. I can have clear liquids. Yum. And I have to rest. Yeah right! Snort! Sure, I'll rest with six kids at home. That's a good one!

I meet with my regular doctor in two days and hope that I don't need surgery. So, that was my fun-filled day at the ER.