Gut

I woke up yesterday to excrutiating back pain that shot from my coccyx to my neck that woke me up with a start, but rendered me immobile for several minutes. I managed to stir my body from semi-conscious purgatory to writhe and moan, finding no comfort in the foetal or stretching out. Dragging myself into the loungeroom, I bent myself backwards over the arm-rest of my bright purple sofa – CRACKCRACKCRACK! - the pain in my back immediately made its way into my stomach, and I called Jerkface – he needed to take The Kid to school and me to the hospital.

What is it about going to a medical centre or hospital that makes whatever agonising pain you were feeling go away that teeny-tiny bit so you feel like a guilty hypochondriac with neon arrow-lights shining down on you, screaming “IDIOT” in bright orange like an unholy, shameful aura? Whatever it is, I felt it. My heart felt heavier as I scanned Accident and Emergency; there were mangled men, wounded women, delirious delinquents, and most of them were alone. It was then that the doctor was called over, who decided to cut the shit and ask me relevant questions about my admission, rather than where I was born (I was asked twice) and if I was a citizen (twice). Yes Doctor, I’m in pain. Yes Doctor, I’ve pooped in the last 48 hours. Yes Doctor, I’ve eaten in the last 23 years. I think it was that last one that had me shown to a bed. With great urgency, at that.

I felt I had no business being there, wasting valuable resources in the way of staff and supply – my demand felt ridiculous. I felt someone else could’ve used my bed, my urine jar, my gown with one arse-tie that was missing a corresponding one so my back-end was feeling a draught from every which-way. I felt stupid and weak, until I doubled over in what felt like my stomach twisting.

Despite the tattoos and piercings I’ve had over the years, I have never had a good working relationship with needles for blood collection. While I have the utmost faith in both public and private healthcare systems and even more for those qualified to collect blood, it’s become apparent over the years that my veins have fear of their own – every time I’ve ever had to have a cannula inserted into my veins, they’ve hidden like cockroaches when the light goes on. This time, I was jabbed seven (7) times over two arms and the back of my right hand in an attempt to find a vein. All seven (7) times, their attempts were unsuccessful. The nurses and doctors did, however, manage to burst four (4) of my veins, leaving me to look like a jonesing smack addict writhing in agony and covered in bruises. Fantastic. Despite the glorified bliss of a horse-drawn (non)existence so loosely documented by William S. Burroughs, I knew there was another reason I didn’t pursue a junky life.

Later, I was wheeled into X-Ray, where I was left to wait alongside an elderly gentleman who occasionally forgot who he was, where he was, and who everyone was. Including his faithful and terrified wife, who never left his side. Before we found ourselves next to each other awaiting our turn with the x-rays, he drifted in and out of sleep, snoring like a tranquilised boar. Funnily enough, whenever he woke up and his wife had nodded off, he’d grab her head and shake it around a bit, just to ask who she/everyone was.

X-Ray in every hospital is a funny place to be. They ask you to remove all jewellery, as they say it could interfere with your health and/or scan. You say you have non-negotiable jewellery like piercings, they shrug. They say it’s a harmless procedure, but they run like the wind behind what looks like bulletproof glass windows to peek in at you laying there, pathetic, so they don’t get exposed to radiation. Important to note also – they’re always run by one x-ray “specialist” who’s got an over-inflated ego because he/she is surrounded by medical students who are nervous, clumsy, and so goddamned cute like an abandoned puppy in a skip bin that you can’t help but be sympathetic and help them out when they can’t figure out left from right.

Six hours later, I was well over it. As surprisingly efficient as this particular hospital was, I wasn’t prepared to lose any more time for inconclusive tests. I called for the doctor, who was tending to an emo kid who got some waterproof mascara in his eye. She said that was fine, my blood tests were all within normal limits, my x-rays were showing up fine, and all she had to do was draw up my discharge letter. She asked that I keep my robe on, as she had one more test her boss wanted her to perform – something about fingers and KY Jelly and making sure that nothing was blocking my innards…

Ultrasound? Yeah, she did mention that before. Sure, why not? I’d wait around for that.

She came in with a box of tissues, industrial-sized KY Jelly, and gloves on. I was to lay on the tissue she laid down at the edge of my bed with my knickers down and facing away from her. The rest was a bit of a blur, but it sounded eerily similar to a veteran cop reading Miranda Rights to a career criminal he’d arrested one too many times on Law & Order, whilst thinking about what to order for lunch. The words “non-invasive compared to” and “not as bad as you think” came up, but I was busy trying to channel ALF’s “No Problem!” attitude despite my bed’s obvious butt-overhang.

It wasn’t exactly an in-and-out procedure… more like an in-out-a-bit-pad-around-in-a-bit-more-out-a-bit-more-turn-in-as-far-as-I-can-without-looking-like-I-enjoy-it-then-all-the-way-out procedure. I’m not going to argue with a doctor when she’s closer to accessing my giblets than anybody has ever been, ever. It only took about a minute, and I was left with the box of tissues to wipe myself down like the scum I am.

Good news: I don’t have prostate cancer.

Bad news: I didn’t get so much as a kiss on the back of the neck, or an encouraging tap on the fanny for a colonic job well done. Team work makes the dream work, you know.

Good news: I think Doctor still respects me.

Bad news: I may have first-stage Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I’ve been ordered to do a C14 Urea Breath Test for Helicobacter Pylori, and get a referral to see a Gastroenterologist. Best case scenario is Coeliac Disease (gluten-free, aka DELICIOUS-FREE), worse case is IBS.

Despite the buzzwords, both are quite manageable and nowhere near as bad as they sound. It’s almost as if you have to become ill as a rite of passage to get well. My diet got its overhaul from crap to quite healthy when I started this job in November last year, preventative and conscious-driven (avoid She-Wang!), but it’s been headache after headache since I found out I was lactose intolerant and cut the dairy completely out of my diet (yay, Soy.) in April. Sorry, I digress.

I was ordered to have an ECG to double-check my heartstrings:

“Your heart rate’s a bit on the upper range, but your blood pressure’s fine. Maybe today was a bit of a scare. Hahaha!”

Well, Nurse. Not five minutes ago, I was made to wipe myself down after having your good doctor fist me when I thought I was going to have an ultrasound. I’d say that qualifies as a bit of a scare, ya.

Finally, Doctor came back with my discharge letter and four sachets of Movicol. Movicol is a hard-core diuretic to flush out my system. Yayyyy. I am to go on four days of this (anti)shit. She did the Miranda Rights-esque talk again, and said the Ultrasound will wait until I return if I should need to because that would have been too invasive, and I've been through enough.

... riiiight.


With that, I said my thanks and left.





I returned to work the next day where our kind Naturopaths decided to lovingly call me Lil’ Smacky for the bruises. I floated in and out of awareness (thanks, Endone), working toward the end of the day where I had the second round of Prolotherapy on my foot to go... surprise, I wasn’t really feeling fearful of needles this time around.