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I have the pregnant lady waddle and could be an extra in a Sally Struthers commercial

May 4, 2012

I did not die. I did finally give in and all my doc Monday only to say I was on deadline and couldn’t come in until the afternoon. And then he poked my stomach and suggested admitting me to the hospital which made me panic because I didn’t know if they had wireless and again, DEADLINE, and he sent me for tests and home to await a CT scan.

Then they called to tell me to go to the hospital and to imaging but imaging sent me to admitting which made me panic AGAIN because I did not want to be admitted. And the lady in admitting was stroking out because I didn’t have a diagnosis and they had to have one to admit me even though they weren’t actually admitting me and HELLO, the whole reason I was there was to GET a diagnosis NOT to be admitted.

Whew. Apparently feeling poorly causes me to write run-on sentences.

But then admitting but not admitting me was taking FOREVER and I asked J if perhaps I should collapse on the floor and writhe in pain and he just told me to go for it. Fortunately, that was when the women called me over to ask me if I wanted a private or a semi-private room if I were admitted which totally confused me because I thought the whole hullabaloo indicated I WAS being admitted. It appears the difference is, insurance doesn’t cover private rooms. And I still don’t know if I was admitted or not.

Me:  It would seem I have to have a semi-private room. What if they put me with a crackhead?
J: Then we will use the little plastic divider.
Me: What if the crackhead goes crazy, rips DOWN the divider and kills me in the middle of the night?
J: Then I will sue the hospital and name a wing after you in my gun range estate that I build with the settlement.

Anyone else see why he is NOT helpful? He later told me, “I’m not giggling because I don’t care. I’m giggling because I’m an asshole.”

Because I am occasionally smart, I prepped for the occasion by wearing yoga pants, a tank with a bra and a t-shirt–and, HOORAY, I got to keep my clothes on. After I drank icky stuff mixed with diet pepsi, I got to have radioactive iodine injected in my veins. Despite that I have had this particular test done several times, it still makes me giggle and holller, “YUP! I totally feel like I peed on myself,” which always seems to tickle the tech. On the inside, I am an 8-year-old boy.

My doc called me at the hospital after my tests were read to tell me I had an icky infection called Diverticulitis. Which is gross. I get to take two antibiotics for 10 days–one of which is used to treat anthrax poisoning so I am sure I will develop a tolerance and be screwed should people start mailing me anthrax laced letters.

The past couple days have been not fun because my stomach is so swollen I have the pregnant lady waddle AND I look like I should be cast in a Sally Struthers Save the Children commercial. I’m also paler than normal–and that’s tough to do. The next part is gross so I am going to put it in italics so if you want to SKIP the really gross part, just go down to where it’s not italicized anymore.

It would seem people that suffer from diverticulitis are not supposed to have peas and I now understand why. Yesterday, there were lots of peas in the, ahem, toilet and I had not eaten any for at least a week and a half. I am also so gassy I am offending the dog.

Okay, it wasn’t really THAT bad. I’m off to see if bratchild wants to help me spraytan so I can quit looking all sicklike and yellow…

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