Lap. Appy

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Where Am I?

I'm in pain.

Ha, ha. Seriously...where am I?

I'm in the ER

Where's E?

She's on a boat in the Mediterranean

Where are the kids?

They're at MB's cookout. It ends in a few hours.

Will I make it back in time?

No. You're not going home tonight. They're going to be operating on you in about an hour.

I gotta call MB...

Damn right.

---

It's 5pm on a Sunday, and - in the race between pain meds and pain - pain is clearly pulling away. I call MB and level with him. "It's my appendix, I'm not going home until at least tomorrow. Can you get my kids?"

MB's all over it. His wife, K volunteers to take my kids home. They'll meet me to pick up my keys, get my car - and take my kids home. All things considered, I'm sure my kids will feel better sleeping in their own home.

I had a quick phone call with the kids to lay out what's going to happen. I tell them dad's going to have the same thing Madeline had. Little E wants to know if I'll have a scar. The Boy promises to be good.

Shortly afterwards, MB walks around the curtain and I'm giving him my keys. Jen's heading down from the cabin as backup. She'll head to my house and spell K.

Car is handled. Kids are handled through tomorrow.

I'm on the phone with Jen. She's inbound, should be arriving closer to 11pm. The surgical kickoff keeps moving back, but I'm on morphine - so I'm not tracking time anymore. The upshot I get is - she'll show up at the hospital at some time. Then she'll go over to my house and tap on the window until K lets her in.

MB and K have totally saved the day. All's I have to do is sit and wait.

Oh, and strip.

Because hospitals like that sort of thing. The orderly/nurse/guy-in-scrubs looks like Don Reese. Exactly the type you are comfortable disrobing for. Another guy in scrubs shows up and they get into a big discussion of what has to be done with my wedding band.

Another guy: It must come off.

Don Reese: I thought a single ring was okay.

Another guy: It must come off.

Don Reese: You'll need to run it up to the safe (subtext: you want it gone? Then it's your problem.)

Another guy: We can keep it with his clothes. (subtext: Nice try, but I'm willing to risk his stuff.)

Don Reese: That'll work (subtext: Neither of us does extra work? I like how you think.)

To my great shame, I'm more worried about my iPhone - It's going to be my lifeline for the next few days. I have bills to pay, work to notify, business time to track, and a bazillion other things that will require phone and internet. My phone disappears or (worse) gets dropped - and I'm useless and incommunicado.

Speaking of which, there's the matter of E.

My immediate reaction once I heard my diagnosis was Don't tell E. I have since gotten visceral reactions out of associates who believe this was unconscionable, unthinkable. How could you not tell your wife???!!!.

I mean, there's a certain amount of deception there, but really. I'm not in any dire peril - and there's F$%*-all she can do for me. And, if I know my wife, it would alter her behavior on a trip that'd she'd been looking forward to for months. The airlines had already lost her baggage, I'm thinking she doesn't need another distraction. Barring a freak occurrence in surgery - all that's going to happen is that I'm going to be laid up and logistically hosed for a few days. Like that's worth interrupting E's vacation for.

Besides, there's the not insignificant matter of international communication. They're on a boat. I could call and not get them, which means I'd get their voicemail. Which could (as has happened in the past) sit on a US server awaiting their phone's return before advertising its existence. You have a voicemail from...Two Weeks Ago. Then there's text. I've had international text take days. Or seconds. You never can tell. And this is not the kind of thing that summarizes well in 140 characters.

Hi hon. Don't worry, but I'm going in to have my appendix removed. Kids are fine. How are you?

No, that's suckage nobody needs. And distance makes any scenario worse.

I stuff my phone into the most secure and padded shorts pocket - then stuff them into the hefty bags the orderly gave me.

Belongings. Done.

I'm in one of those Godforsaken hospital robes, waiting for the inevitable.

I've been up for 36 hours and the pain is really starting to get to the jeezus-effing-christ stage - and the orderly's telling me it could be awhile.

I'm visited by the insurance person. The administrative person. The allergist. The person with still more forms. And somebody who claims to be my future surgeon. He looks like a skinny David Duchovny. He tells me that the CT wasn't as clear as all that - I might have any number of things (each more horrible than that last) but that he thinks it's most likely my appendix, he is obligated to tell me there is a small chance that I might have to have an appliance attached to my body for the rest of my life.

But he's pretty sure that won't happen. He just needed to tell me.

Because some lawyer thought it was necessary.

---

Once again, a bit of an aside here for people who think health care is analogous to other consumer goods. I came to this hospital because I could find it, and because I'd been here before. Were I the type to price shop for the only procedure I thought I would have - A CT scan - I could have spent an hour or so before deciding which of the three major hospitals in my area had the best deal on a CT. That is theoretically possible. Hospitals don't exactly have price lists and help lines for these things, but let's pretend I made calls and achieved a miraculous quintet, to wit:

1. I reached actual human beings on the phone; who
2. were helpful; and
3. knowledgeable; and
4. honest; and
5. permitted to disclose what they know..

The odds would be against me, but I can't say that it would have been impossible. I could have shopped around for a good deal.

But what WOULD have been impossible was my shopping around to find the best price and service for an appendectomy. Because I had no idea what procedure I would need. No idea at all. Fix in your mind how hard it would be to get a personalized price quote for a known procedure like a CT from multiple providers. Then imagine what kind of mind-shattering complexity would be involved in getting a price quote from those same hospitals for the possible treatments associated with "male, persistent abdominal pain."

Good.
    Effing.
        Luck.

---

Back to the ER - I get shifted from one bed to one more mobile, and Another Guy returns to drive me up to surgery.

Game time.

I lumber onto the new, sportier bed. And Another Guy starts his Trekkie routine. Asks me if I want sublight or warp speed.

No. Really. That's what he asks me.

I opt for warp speed. Because it will get this over with sooner; and also - I like rainbows.

So, enter the clichéd, yet completely unavoidable sequence where a drug-addled field of vision cycles through a seemingly endless pattern:

Ceiling tile, light...

Just like the movies.

Tile, tile, tile, light. Tile, tile, tile, light...

And the occasional bump, that re-ignites abdominal fires I'd almost forgotten.

Another Guy apologizes for the first few bumps, then gives up as we plow over what could only be a gravel road with chuckholes.

Tile, tile, tile, light. Tile, tile, tile, light...Turrrrrrrrrrrn

The bed caroms off the back of an elevator.

AG's apologizing again.

I'm drugged, I can get away with anything.

Damn you, Sulu...

AG laughs, then bangs the bed off the wall a few more times before the doors close.

He hands me off to somebody I can't see and wishes me well. I'm wheeled into a wide room lit like a cathedral. It's focal point is another bed with skinny extensions so your arms can rest while sticking out sideways.

I think They killed Sean Penn on one of these things...

and then,

These are really, really good drugs.

I feel like cracking wise about Susan Sarandon - but the two masked men don't seem like they've been properly primed for humor.

There's some polite chit chat - and then -

Tile, tile, tile, light. Tile, tile, tile, light...

I'm in a room with two orderlies. They're loud and annoying - complaining about work as if there's nobody in the world here.

But I'm here.

They talk about how they need to move me to another bed, and they need a hand, and how typical it is that they can't find anyone to help.

So I sit and listen.

And they go on and on about how they hate this duty - and their shift - and how they might go about moving me to another bed without the help they need.

Another bed slaps up next to the one I'm on.

Some guy comes by, and these orderlies latch on to him "Hey! Give us a hand here!"

Some Guy apparently meets their qualifications for moving post-operative patients. He's in the vicinity.

Of all the people I met in the hospital, these two orderlies and Some Guy were the only people who truly pissed me off (And I'm including the lady who catheterized me).

Rolled me over, and dragged me over to a new bed like they were slinging a pork belly. I'm confident I made several unpleasant noises and yelled "Hey!" but I was completely ignored. Their griping went on without missing a beat. Because to them - I wasn't there.

But I was there.

Another Guy returns and I'm actually glad to hear him. Suddenly, Jen's there in the hallway, too. And I'm rattling off a standup routine like it ain't no thang. Because it's Jen. And Jen's always a good crowd.

I'm wheeled into some room. Jen and I make some small talk and she basically leaps onto the logistics grenade.

She'll go over to my house tonight and spell K, then hang out with the kids on Memorial Day.

Memorial Day... Damn... No cookout. And I'm sure to be on a liquid diet for the foreseeable. Double damn.

Jen's saying she's set through the next two days - so that's a ton off my mind. She wants contact info for L and I fire it off, they can confab and sort things far better than I can. Surgery's the first sleep I've had in 40 plus hours, and I'm sure I'm going to black out soon.

My kids are good for the next two days. My friends are awesome. My sister is awesome.

They hook me up to the CPAP machine and before the rush of air slams up my nose I hear my nurse chuckle while reading my chart.

Whazzat?

She laughs. "Apparently you had a 'horrible' appendicitis. Usually we don't editorialize."

I don't get it, so she shows me my chart, and there it is:

 

Well, good, I say. No sense doing things halfway.

A short time later, sleep does everyone a favor - and shuts me up.