Why I left the ER
emasc...@my-dejanews.com
In 1986, liquid fasting was all the rage. I, and
thousands of crazy overweight people, began
systematically starving ourselves for the sake of
so-called beauty. The liquid fast (called Optifast
or Medifast) limited caloric intake to
approximately 600 calories per day, which, by
technical terms, is a starvation diet. It is
administered under the guise of medical
monitoring. The medical professionals involved,
however, refused to prescribe the vile protein
powder unless I waived any right to sue for
whatever might happen to me. The disclaimer
form listed every horrendous thing that could
happen to me, from hair loss to ingrown
toenails. The list was several pages long.
Stupidly, rather than run screaming into the
night at the prospect of being a laboratory rat, I
furiously signed all the myriad forms, in hopes
that I could begin to slim down all the sooner.
I received the powder that I was instructed to
gag down thrice daily, and imbibed this vile,
viscous liquid with triple-strength coffee to
mask the grainy, hideous flavor. My weight
began to plummet. I looked amazing and I was
ecstatic. Looks aren't everything, though. I
didn't really feel all that good but I chalked it up
to my body adjusting to its new size.
Then it happened. One night while visiting a
friend in Maryland, I awoke in agonizing pain.
The pain wrapped around my midsection and I
felt the life ebbing out of my body. I swore that
there was a midget inside trying to push its way
out through my ribcage, and it felt like there was
another midget on the outside trying to force its
way back in. I writhed in pain for more than an
hour. By the time the emergency room doctor
saw me, though, I felt fine. As quickly as the
pain came, that's how quickly it went away,
leaving me sweaty and tired. The doctor at the
emergency room discharged me without any
indication as to why I had just finished
recreating a Linda Blair Exorcist scene.
Months later, back in law school in Boston, I
had a day where I didn't feel quite right. I wasn't
sure why, but that nagging pain was starting to
return. I started doing anything I could to try to
make the pain go away. I chewed antacids, I
drank quarts of water, I tried making myself
throw up. But the pain just kept increasing over
the course of hours to a level that soon became
unbearable. I called a taxi and took myself to
Massachusetts General Hospital's emergency
room.
Mass General is one of the country's most
famous medical facilities, and they do excellent
work there. However, I have since learned that
when you are not sure exactly what is wrong
with you, and it is something that is slightly
puzzling, DO NOT GO TO A TEACHING
HOSPITAL. Here's why:
After being admitted and going through the
degradation of donning a hospital gown, I was
placed on a gurney in the hallway. (It was
necessary for me to be in the hallway because
the hospital was so overcrowded. So the staff
pulled screens around my bed to give me some
semblance of privacy, God love 'em.) Then the
first doctor came and took my history and a
battery of tests: Blood, urine, temperature,
pressure, poking, prodding, and lots of
questions. "O.K.," I thought, "Nothing new
about any of this. Standard procedure."
The lab tests took a short while while I writhed
in pain on the gurney, certain that I would
celebrate my next birthday in the hospital before
I got any relief. The bloodwork showed an
outrageous liver function result that made all
the doctors buzz and whisper. Immediately, a
flurry of young doctors began asking me
unusual questions: "Have you eaten raw fish
lately?" "Do you like sushi?" "Have you had any
shellfish?" All they knew is that that liver
function test was something to be awed and
frightened of, and I didn't know why.
The first doctor returned, and said to me,
"There's one place we haven't examined yet, and
we need to." He pulled on a rubber glove.
"Please roll onto your side and breathe deeply."
"Christ!" I thought. "Aw shit, all right, let's just
get this over with," I said.
Then the sonofabitch tried to make jokes.
"Y'know what they tell us in med school," he
said, "If you don't stick your hand in it, you're
bound to step in it."
"Lovely sentiment," I said, "You should write for
Hallmark." He laughed hard and I laughed
nervously.
That humiliation over, I was again left alone to
writhe a while longer. Beyond the screens,
however, I heard whispers. Doctors' whispers. I
didn't like the sound of it. Several minutes later,
another doctor, probably an intern, came to
introduce himself to me, and said that because
of my liver function tests, he also wanted to
examine me. "O.K., that's fine," I said, "just
please make the pain go away." He took vital
signs again, questioned my history again, and
once more, I heard the snap of a rubber glove
and the direction, "Please roll over on your side
and breathe deeply."
I gave him a plaintive look of despair as I
woefully complied with his direction. When
through, he thanked me (making me wonder
why) and he left me to go whisper some more
with his colleagues past the screen. I wondered
to myself what the hell were they thinking--did
they realize that although I couldn't see them I
could hear them?
The whisperers were quickly joined by more
whisperers. Soon, a new face in a lab coat
appeared around the screen. "Mind if I have a
look?" he asked.
"Sure," I sighed, "I'm really in pain and I really
want to know why." For the third time, I was told
to roll over and breathe deeply. "Ok," I thought,
"Third time's a charm," but I began to feel like
these guys were practicing their bowling grips
on me.
Believe it or not, three times wasn't a charm.
Neither was the fourth, fifth, sixth or seventh. By
intern number eight, I was growling audibly.
When number nine came past the screen, I sat
bolt upright, one finger pointed menacingly at
him, and I seethed, "Look, buddy, the next guy
that puts his hand up my ass had better have a
diamond ring in the other hand! Can't you just
compare notes with your pals over there?" He
didn't know what hit him, poor shnook. I
hopped off the table, still in pain, with my now
famous ass hanging out of the hospital gown. I
found my clothes and walked out of the hospital
a free woman.
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Candy Coated Eucharists: Jesus Pieces!
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dk556
>a free woman.
So what the fuck was wrong with yer innards after all that? You left us at
the altar.
nanook_of_the_north
>Why I Left the E.R.
This is the first entry in atawrd99.txt--Things I'm Gonna Nominate.
Excellent real-life story. Brava!
Oh, and there's a Quote nomination in here, too....
>When number nine came past the screen, I sat
>bolt upright, one finger pointed menacingly at
>him, and I seethed, "Look, buddy, the next guy
>that puts his hand up my ass had better have a
>diamond ring in the other hand!
Again, well done!
ObT: Elizabeth, our two-year-old, has learned the joys of the neat
game called Making A Mess While You Drink. Especially when drinking
from a Big Girl's Cup (no lid, no straw), she'll drink a bit, then
spit it back into the cup, then sip, then spit, then sip, then
spit.... Fucking annoying. But the scary part is me yelling at her,
'Swallow, don't spit, dammit!'
Some day, some lucky guy's gonna owe me for that.... That's a scary
thought, big time.
Robert
From the messy desk of RobNorth 62 27 N 114 22 W (give or take) Politics
is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred and schizophrenia. (Orwell)
Man is that he might have joy--not guilt trips. (Elder Russell M. Nelson)
A flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. (Burgess, A Clockwork Orange)
emasc...@my-dejanews.com
> So what the fuck was wrong with yer innards after all that? You left us at
> the altar.
Ask, and ye shall receive....
Why I Left the E.R.--The Sequel
For years, I endured agonizing fits of pain that seemingly came without
provocation. After a few hours, these wild attacks left suddenly, leaving
me exhausted and relieved that the bout of pain was finished. I learned
that my liquid fasting caused me to create enough gall stones to build a
medieval fortress. Each and every doctor recommended surgery. I didn't
want to undergo surgery; historically, gall bladder removal required a
huge scar from sternum to abdomen and across the abdomen, which
meant a prolonged period of recuperation. Rather than have a huge
zipper scar, I was waiting for the new laproscopic procedures to be
perfected, and I thought I could hold out for a few more years. The
laproscopic cholystectomy meant a one to two inch scar and only a
weekend of recuperation. Sounded like it was worth the wait to me!
Then one day in November of 1990, as I was tidying my bedroom, I felt the
beginnings of another attack. I figured that if I was lucky, the pain would
leave in an hour or so. Two hours later, I decided to try to "walk it off,"
so I drove to Santa Monica to go window shopping. I walked and walked, but
two more hours later, the pain was merely intensifying. I went back home and
tried to relax, which is comical--the attack left me writhing, spinning on
the hardwood floor, wondering if I could remove my own gall bladder with a
butterknife.
Evening fell, and the pain was still intensifying. I reached a critical state
and somehow drove myself to Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles.
Cedars-Sinai is a phenominal medical facility and when the E.R. intake
personnel saw me, they processed me "Stat" and wheeled me
immediately into the E.R.
Emergency rooms are rarely empty, and this evening Cedars-Sinai was
no exception to the rule. The only available space for me was to share an
E.R. room with two other patients. The room was equipped with two
gurneys, a chair, a countertop and cabinets, and a sink with a spray
nozzle. One gurney was occupied by a middle aged black man in
restraints, who was coming down off of a drug high. Gratefully, he was
quiet. I felt uneasy, not only because of the terrible pain I was in and the
waves of nausea that washed over me, but also because I'd never seen
anyone in restraints before. My sweaty face quickly glanced at his sweaty
face, but only for an instant as I quickly paced the floor hunched over in
pain. The other patient was a light complected black woman with an eye
infection who sat in the orange metal chair with her legs crossed and a
look of total indifference on her face.
No one spoke. Not a word. Not for the half hour that ensued whilst I
contorted and paced like a bad Groucho Marx impersonator reenacting
Monty Python's Bureau of Silly Walks sketch. The poor shmuck on the
gurney was shivering and shaking, the bitch in the chair didn't flinch, and
I could do absolutely nothing to help myself.
Just then, I felt panic. Terrible panic. I was going to puke, and I was going
to puke badly. Never before had my attacks been so violent as to cause
me to retch. My eyes darted around the room and I hurried to the hallway.
There wasn't a doctor or nurse in sight to help me. Frantically, wild-eyed, I
searched the room for a plastic basin to heave into. Not a pot to be found,
not a plastic container in sight, not a barf bag for miles, and with the bile
rapidly rising in my gut, I had no alternative but to loudly lose my lunch
into the sink.
Mortified that these two strangers saw me toss my cookies, I quickly tried
to clean up the mess. I turned on the water to full blast, in hopes of
washing it down the sink. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that there was no
faucet. The spray nozzle was the only outlet for the torrent of ice cold
water, and sadly for the poor shvartze strapped down to the gurney, the
nozzle was pointed directly at him. The freezing water hit his face and
torso full blast, and the poor shmuck was unable to move to avoid it. I
shrieked and turned it off, now feeling absolutely dreadful about what I
had done to this poor soul--it wasn't bad enough that he was shaking
violently from the drug withdrawal, but now he was shivering
uncontrollably from the ice water. I looked at him pathetically and blurted
out an apology as I tried to mop him up with a bedsheet. All he could say
was, "Do you feel better now, sweetheart?"
"No!" I cried as I barfed again. A few minutes later, a very pissed off nurse
saw what I did in the sink and bitched me out. I secretly wished that I had
something left in me to puke directly on her, but my luck, like the insides
of my digestive tract, ran dry.
I fell into a very light sleep on the gurney despite the horrific pain I was
still in. A young doctor eventually came in and his presence was enough
to wake me. He took me into the hallway and told me that my condition
was now chronic. He recommended I have surgery at once. I told him that
I couldn't have the surgery without making preparations at home. He then
offered me an experimental drug to alleviate some of the pain. I saw the
needle that might bring me some relief and without a word, I turned and
dropped trou in the hallway of Cedars-Sinai so that he could bring the
medicine home. My ass was now famous coast to coast, having made its
east coast debut years earlier and performing to a standing ovation on
the west coast in the hallway of Cedars-Sinai.
The surgery was conducted three weeks later. I haven't shown my ass in
public since.
emasc...@my-dejanews.com
> >Why I Left the E.R.
>
> Excellent real-life story. Brava!
>
> Oh, and there's a Quote nomination in here, too....
> >bolt upright, one finger pointed menacingly at
> >him, and I seethed, "Look, buddy, the next guy
> >that puts his hand up my ass had better have a
> >diamond ring in the other hand!
>
Thank you, Robert. I'm so excited to be recognized for something true and
truly tasteless.
--Ila a.k.a. Emasculator
ObT: This morning, my cat, napping on my computer monitor, woke with a start
and projected warm, drippy, lumpy vomit down my 17 inch screen and onto my
surge protector.
Duke Henry Plantagenet
<369c130a...@news.yellowknife.com>...
>>bolt upright, one finger pointed menacingly at
>>him, and I seethed, "Look, buddy, the next guy
>>that puts his hand up my ass had better have a
>>diamond ring in the other hand!
Seconded. We've started well this year.
ObAwards: Five of my nominations made it to awards. Invoices in the post,
folks. Ballot stuffing costs money. Ms.M.L. - I got you the A.T. Poster
Child award in now you stick to your side of the bargain. Dribble just one
bit down your dress and every last scrap of your clothing goes into the
stove, and you follow them hacked into small pieces. Got it, you dumb wench?
Cheers!
His Grace, Duke Henry Plantagenet
"Call to Arms" - The Historical Re-enactment Directory
If you want to email me - you can ROT I3n Hell !
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