Trapped in a Wheelchair...and Other Ramblings

Nick and I are polar opposites. He's an extrovert; I'm an introvert. He shops; I purge. He wouldn't notice if there were 14 open bottles of ketchup in the fridge; I cringe at two open bottles of anything!

I've said before that he advocates seeking medical attention for a hangnail; I avoid medical professionals at all costs. Twice in our 20 years together, I've told him that I needed to go to the ER. This past weekend was one of those times.

I actually didn't tell him that I needed to go this past weekend; I told him that I would have time to go on Tuesday. He told me that you don't schedule times in the future to go to the ER. I told him that I just did!

Nick had been telling me to go for over a month, ever since the fevers, chest pain, coughing, and shortness of breath had started. I refused. Repeatedly. So, when I finally agreed to go, he knew it was time. His parents came up, and he took me in on Sunday evening.

One of the many reasons I didn't want to go to the hospital is because of the massive amount of weight I've gained over the past five or six years of living an almost completely sedentary life. Factor in emotional eating in response to stress, pain, and the ensuing depression, and the results aren't pretty. As I told the former blogger, Michelle, I have emotional scars as a result of almost getting permanently wedged into a wheelchair last year. I thought they were going to have to call a surgeon...or employ the jaws of life!

So, Nick, of course capitalized on my fears. He's good like that. He drove up to the ER, and dramatically showcased each wheelchair for me. I shook my head in response to each one, and stubbornly walked to the entrance. Later, he did his best overhead paging impression, saying that a doublewide wheelchair was needed in the ER, stat! I, of course, kept laughing, which led to another round of coughing, which led to more shortness of breath.

After blood tests, x-rays (which showed a "little bit" of pneumonia), a breathing treatment, and IV antibiotics, I still wasn't feeling any better. The doctor decided to test for a pulmonary embolism, since I had one in the past. She said that they'd do a blood test, and if it was positive, they'd do a CT scan.

Well, there's nothing normal about me, so of course the test wasn't positive, and it wasn't negative! It was abnormal. Story of my life. :)

So they ordered a CT scan...and then came the moment of truth. An orderly came in and asked if I'd be more comfortable riding in a wheelchair or on a gurney. I gave him a blank stare, while the thoughts raced through my mind: Which would be more mortifying, getting my ample buttocks wedged in a wheelchair, or not being able hoist my "big-as-an-apartment-complex, having-surpassed-big-as-a-house" body up onto a gurney? Honestly, it's hoisting my cement-filled lymphedema legs that's the problem, so after a long silence and a not-so-subtle nudge from Nick, I chose the wheelchair.

I'm sure the guy thought I was crazy. :)

While the orderly searched, Nick returned to his overhead paging tactics, pausing only to ask me if I wanted the "special lubricant" they use on the hips and outer thighs of patients to ensure that they slide easily into and out of their wheelchairs. Again, I went from laughing, trying not to laugh, not succeeding, coughing, and gasping. Lovely.

It was 3:00 AM by this time, we'd been there for eight hours, and we were both in rare form. As the guy finally returned with the wheelchair and was adjusting my foot rests, Nick said, "In case you were wondering, she's not European; she has lymphedema, and that's why she has hairy legs!!!"

At that point, I didn't even bother trying to suppress my laughter. Oh.my.liver! He's the crazy one!

So, we arrived at radiology,
and while the woman was verifying my information,
she read my weight OUT LOUD!!!
I screamed,
"NO!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT have you done???
He thinks I weigh 125!"

Now, I just have to pause for a moment here. We have HIPPA laws that state that I can't be on my cell phone while picking up my kid's prescription at the pharmacy drive-through window, but it's OKAY to utter my weight in front of my husband??? Sorry, but that is just wrong! As soon as I get better, I'm going to fight this injustice. Maybe scales should just be banned altogether. Back when I used to go to the doctor, it had gotten to the point where the nurse would gesture towards the scale, I'd just shake my head and say, "Nope," and we'd move on. Easy peasy.

I survived the CT scan (barely) and was told that we should have the results within the hour. Are you kidding me?? It's not like I was 15th in line; I was the only one there! We went back to the room, and I sat and waited, vowing to fight for TVs in all ER rooms. A nice little beverage and snack center would be much appreciated, too. My mouth was soooo dry and metallic-tasting from the contrast dye, and they didn't even want to give me any water.

Nick could tell that my mood was going south, so he attempted to entertain me by taking pictures of me with his app that added huge moose antlers to the top of my head. They were so funny! Um...and no, I won't be posting them here!

Pros: I don't have a pulmonary embolism, I don't have MRSA, and most importantly, I didn't have to be surgically removed from my wheelchair.

Cons: Nine hours in the ER, large doses of radiation, no health insurance. Oh, and five days of antibiotics later, I don't feel any better!

Shoulda stayed home! :)

************************************