Dx: Grilled Cheese
I haven’t been under anesthesia since 2003, and I was certain to tell that to the anesthesiologist. I also went over every little issue in my body, and he listened for quite a while before he finally said, “You’re not going to convince me to be nervous about this.”
Then, he tripped over the edge of my bed.
I prepared to die.
——
Most people just need their gallbladder out – but I needed my bile duct cleared as well. (Overachiever.) That means I needed two surgeries. The first one was done Monday - an ERCP – not exactly surgery but they put you all the way under and put a scope down your throat. TMI – I KNOW. Then next week, I get my gallbladder out.
But, let me tell you about Phase 1…
Once the anesthesia was talked through, I had to get my IV in. Which took heroic efforts involving a doctor and a nurse.
What was so hard about mine? Well, I was dehydrated for one (as instructed), and the doc said that “young people” have arteries that constrict when they are poked.
YOUNG? Who was the one on the drugs around here? I could only hope that he would soon share.
On the third try, this time in the back of my hand – tears sprang forth. This was painful, indeed. The nurse said, “Hey, someone talk to her so she’s distracted.” LIKE I WASN’T THERE.
The doc didn’t miss a beat: “So, where are you from?”
To prove to them that I was no idiot, I replied, “The moon.”
Wrong thing to say. They started asking me about the moon.
Finally, they got the IV in, and wheeled me down the hallway…someone put a mask over my nose, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in recovery.
I was shocked to wake up alive! For now. Everything had gone perfectly! I was going home! And I don’t mean to the moon.
But - my relief was short-lived.
I went home and ate – per instructions – a normal diet. But about a half hour later, a pain started in my upper abdomen. Gnawing, then barking, then flat-out HOWLING. Tim, meanwhile, had put me in bed and gone out to the pole barn to do stuff. I finally texted him two hours later – I THINK THIS IS BAD.
Another hour later, we were on our way to the hospital, and I was whimpering, hunched over a puke bucket in the car, more tears springing forth.
My friend, Shannon, who works in ER, met us in the lobby. She took one look at me and said, “Can you Chapples keep ANY of your organs in your body?” (She had already seen our family through two appendectomies.)
But it wasn’t my gallbladder (which does, in fact, come out next week) – it was something else, higher, up in my abdomen.
Shannon set me up with a chair in a hallway, and I went through the joy of getting an IV put in yet again. Then, she shuttled some very good drugs into my IV, and I felt a warmth take over my body. I fell back into the chair, and she looked at me.
“Well?”
“I’m cured!” I said. And lolled around in the recliner for an hour as they did an ultrasound and bloodwork.
All of which showed nothing. I was the mystery patient.
“Of course you are,” Shannon said.
About then, a doc showed up to ask me a few more questions.
“What did you eat when you got home?” he asked.
“A grilled cheese,” I said
His chicken scratch stopped on his notepad.
“A GRILLED CHEESE?”
“It was tiny… and they told me a normal diet!” I insisted.
“Yes, yes,” he murmured. “However…”
It could be that my pancreas was agitated from surgery, and I had funneled ciabatta and mozzarella into it – causing it to revolt. One of the rare side effects of an ERCP is pancreatitis - an inflamed pancreas. The doc said I had a 3-5% chance of it happening. (Another lotto win for me!) Everyone suspected this was the case, even if my tests were now coming back “normal.”
“As soon as you eat, the pancreas goes to work,” the doc said. “And it didn’t like the cheese.”
Word soon got around the ward. Everyone was talking about the woman felled by Velveeta. I was a marvel.
But it didn’t bug me. In fact, the more they talked about grilled cheese, the more I wanted another one.
Then, about midnight, Shannon delivered the blow - the doc wanted to admit me for the night. The pancreas was nothing to mess with, and they wanted to observe me. I would be transferred to the fourth floor – in 3-4 hours.
Next, they moved me into a tiny ER bed, and a nurse asked if I wanted the side rails up. But I was still trying to beat the grilled cheese rap and wanted to look smart enough to handle a bed.
“No thanks,” I said, reaching behind me to make sure I was, in fact, centered on the bed.
I looked at Tim and insisted he go home. It was 1 am.
Every half hour, there on that tiny bed, someone new came in to take something from me or give something to me. I had to repeat my birthdate so many times that I started to forget what it was. I woke up once with a jolt BECAUSE no one was poking me.
I had started the day in outpatient, but was now in the underbelly of humanity, thanks to some cheese.
Finally, a guy showed up at 4 am to take me “upstairs” – he kicked off the brakes on my bed and wheeled me out the door. Even in my drugged state, I didn’t think it was smart to be alone with a strange man after dark in an empty hallway IN A BED. But I had no choice. I was hooked up to an IV and a prisoner of ER.
Up we went, into dark elevators and darker hallways, all eerily quiet. I finally had to say it: “This is like a Michael Myers movie.”
My serial killer agreed.
Finally, I was in my own room, in a new, bigger bed – with side rails. My IV was still in, and I was closing in on hysteria. Another nurse soon showed up to ask me my birthdate and about the grilled cheese.
But, by then, the jokes were starting to arrive. My pain was gone, it was almost dawn, and I felt that I would live to eat another day.
I took pleasure in telling her how excellent that grilled cheese had been.
Tim showed up a few hours later, and we spent the day “observing” me. Before it was over, I had him fix my hair for me – the guy has literally never touched a hair clip, or so it appears, and we did a photoshoot. “At least I can get an essay out of this,” I said.
The doc released me with directions for lots of fluids, rest and a low-fat diet, and, finally, at 4 pm, we were on our way (again) – exactly 24 hours since our last ride home.
“What do you want me to fix you for dinner?” Tim asked, as we pulled into the drive.
As I collected my various paperwork and hospital socks to go inside, I said the only thing I had been wanting since this all started.
“A grilled cheese.”
Well, all that was Monday and Tuesday. It’s now Thursday, and I’m feeling ok. The ol’ GB comes out next Wednesday. I hope I have absolutely nothing exciting to report at that time.
Awww! What a trip! 🥹