As many of you have heard, I had my gall bladder removed yesterday. This was after a week of extreme pain, nausea, vomiting, and inability to eat. Oh, and my blood pressure went SKY high as well. The first visit to the ER resulted with a diagnosis of food poisoning, from a young handsome doctor who must have wanted to see the last of my fat behind. He did give me the “come back if it gets worse” mantra, of course, so a week later, back I was.

This time, I immediately got an experienced trauma nurse, and they put me in a “triage” room. It was a LITTLE frightening, because there was room for me and 44 doctors in there. All the “emergency” equipment was right in view, and it was right by the nurse’s station. When my cute nurse came back in, I assured her I was not going to stroke out at any minute, no matter HOW I looked. She laughed.

My biggest fear, to be honest, was that someone would come in who really needed the room, and I’d be in the way. She told me that should that happen, they would move me. The other rooms were just full.

Before they gave me a room, I surveyed the waiting area.

I saw four young (8-10 year old) football players, all of them holding onto an arm and fighting back tears. I talked to one of them, and he turned his head as the tears rolled down his cheeks. His mom told me that he had JUST scored a touch down, the very first of a game, and then he was tackled. The indignity. I spotted him later walking out with a lowered head, and a wrapped arm, and I thought of Will the Thrill, Karin.

Apparently, Little League football started Saturday in Utah. For some, it was the beginning of the end.

The triage LPN who led me back to my room was killing two patients with one syringe (ha ha, medical humor) and also led back a rather tall, attractive but overly-made up hispanic girl. She had on cute pajamas, and bright red slippers, and was carrying what looked like a sleep-over bag. I made a joke about having a roommate. He assured me we were not. She just glared at me.

Is this a new ploy to meet single doctors? Just curious. Note to pajama girl. YHD was indeed, cute, but not overly thorough. I see malpractice in his future.

My own experience, this time, was a lot longer and a lot more thorough. Wayne Werewolf was my doctor. The man had more chest hair than any human being alive. I think you could have braided it, as it was trying to escape out his scrubs and up his neck. He was followed by a WW Mini Me, a resident who was “shadowing” him. He didn’t have as much chest hair, but his head hair was very similar. Doctor WW was very nice and thorough, other than the fact I could see his breakfast on his lower chin, and he determined that since the ultrasound had been done with no result, he was going to order a hidescan.

Now this test probably cost me about $15 billion. Good thing I have insurance and will only have to pay about $5 billion. It’s a very elaborate machine that looks like a kinder, gentler version of that robotic thing Signourney Weaver used to attack the momma monster in Alien. This test took 2 1/2 hours. No lie. I was glad they had given me toradol or some other mild drug, and not the wicked vicodin, or you might have heard screams and seen a short, chubby woman, ass flashing, running down the hallway to escape the monster.

The test actually looks INSIDE you, compliments of some “nuclear material” that they didn’t delve into too deeply, and sees how things are functioning. The gall bladder? Not functioning at all. They returned me to my room–at which time I realized my fears HAD come true, and someone else was in there, who needed it a whole lot more than me. But they had found me another room, so I was not going to have to hang out in a corner and feel like an imposter.

They called a surgeon, who came in to chat (what a nice Man, on a Saturday afternoon even!) and he scheduled the test for Monday. I asked him about the “nuclear” materials and he said as far as he knew, I would not glow at night, and my hopes and dreams of being popular at parties for the next little while were for naught.

I saw said YHD, and he gave me a funny look, but didn’t come in. Frankly, I’m surprised he recognized me at all. All the faces they see go through the rooms. My new room was next to a woman around my age who had been thrown off a horse. She screamed and cried, and at that point, I started giving my mom the “get me out of here, look.” After all, the diagnosis had been made, the surgery scheduled, and there was nothing more to do until Monday.

My cute and very thorough nurse–my mother and I watched HER take charge, instead of waiting for doctor’s orders, like the others–found my room reassignment, and expressed her fear for me, since I had been taken away to a “nuclear” unit and not seen again for more than two hours! That sort of thing can strike fear into the hearts of anyone. My mom was pretty worried herself. My nurse found my ER doctor, had him give orders for a strong narcotic shot, dilau… something? And then they talked about pain killers to take home. And here, now, I share with you, the Percocet vs. Vicodin story.

I may have mentioned I am living with my parents right now. And my dad likes “things.” He collects models of old ships, and they are everywhere. He likes eagles, too, and has busts and statues and replicas of all kinds. There are statues of Mormon Church Prophet Joseph Smith, Jr., and of course, Jesus is everywhere in their house.

In the room where I was staying, there was a bust of Abraham Lincoln. In the middle of the night, the pain took over and I rose to get my pain pills and water, which sat on an old vanity that used to belong to my grandmother. I opened the pills and took one out, put my water to my lips, turned and SCREAMED at the top of my lungs, threw water everywhere, woke my children up, and stopped my heart.

It looked like a man, but of course, it was just Abe. BAD ABE. This was during the FIRST go round to the ER, and the pills–vicodin–are nasty. No thank you. I also dreamed of Joseph Smith, who had a lot in common with Simon Cowell, and wanted Bill Clinton’s phone number. I had numerous dreams of spiders who were after my fat ass, and there were a few drive-by shootings.

When I went back to the ER, I requested that I NOT be given Evil Vicodin, and so, they gave me the Lovely Percocet. LP and I are doing just fine. Last night I dreamed that Mel Gibson was buying an ice cream cone at a local shop, and offered to get me one, as well. (I know, I know, Mel has seen better days, but the man is still tops in my book.)

So there you have it. Your own personal Percocet Posting. Now, back to bed… Mel awaits….

© 2007 – 2009, Natalie R. Collins. All rights reserved.