Okay… this is why I said to hell with them all a year or so ago and just gave up on the medical profession entirely. On Monday I had a bewildering, dehumanizing experience at the Cleveland Clinic– AGAIN. When will I learn?
To put this in context, here’s the timeline:
Oct., 2011, At a well woman check up, I confess to Nurse Practitioner that I’m having trouble swallowing. She orders a barium swallow.
Nov., Barium Swallow shows some issues, I get referred to Akron GI Doc.
Jan., 2012: Akron GI Doc does an endoscopy and says hiatal hernia, ulcer, paraesophageal hernia. Recommends surgery to repair.
Feb., I go to Cleveland Clinic for second opinion. Cute old Chinese GI doc orders some more tests to see if he agrees– radioactive eggs, another barium swallow.
March, I go to normal doctor near home to see about my anemia problem, and as an aside she says, “Don’t do the surgery– I wouldn’t! People live with that for years.”
April 2: Cute old GI doc at clinic says, YEP you need surgery to fix this mess. Or else the “serious complication” in which the paraesophageal hernia (some stomach coming up along side my esophagus) COULD get strangled, and die, and then, Sister, you’re in a world of hurt. Go see a surgeon.
Which brings us to… April 10, Monday, in which I went to see the surgeon.
First off, severe instinctual hatred of the whole place kicked in soon after I arrived on the surgical floor. Intense fight or flight response. Poor souls wandered the halls in their hospital gowns, pushing IVs. Apparently along with the laparoscopic abdominal stuff I was there for, they also do bariatric surgery in the same place. Too much… gross, upsetting imagery on all sides.
They parked me in a little room, and I found myself waiting there with no computer! If only I could have spent my time doing the trusty NYT crossword, a daily diversion for my brain, I would’ve probably fared a lot better. But no. I had NOTHING to do, and they made me wait… and wait… and wait…. I started reading brochures, but then stopped in revulsion. I looked at the innards on the posters on the wall. I paced around. I started actually reading something on my ancient flip phone, which hardly works as a browser, but these were desperate times. (I’m getting an iPhone soon!)
Then finally a young chipper resident came in, all cheerful, and cute and palsy-walsy. He started asking me questions, and I started answering them, and then none-too-gradually, I just began to emotionally unravel. I started crying, and once started, could not stop. There were no tissues, only scratchy paper towels, which he kept providing for me with a pitiful look of confusion and embarrassment and concern on his face. I can’t even tell why I lost it, but call it battle fatigue.
So eventually he left and went to talk to the real surgeon about the situation. (Probably adding: Danger! She’s hysterical!!) So they came in and the main guy started talking about this gruesome additional test he wanted. I couldn’t really follow it, but it involved putting me under, putting a tube down my nose, and implanting some sort of small piece of paper??? That would then broadcast to some little gadget I would then wear for two days??? As to how much acid coming up?? And so on. This he explained was to decide what to do about my inner parts and how to fix them.
Option A, which was what I thought was the only option, was the obvious fix. Get the stomach back down where it belongs, patch up the torn diaphragm, and then, go on your merry way.
OR Option B: Cut off large chunks of your stomach, reroute everything, and voila! Mini-bariatric surgery as a bonus, and a tiny remaining bulb of a stomach, and direct line to your small intestine, and basically a total revamp of the system.
Wha—?
He even added, “You’re not a candidate for bariatric surgery per se, but this would facilitate weight loss also!”
So I said at this point, “So I take it we’re way beyond whether or not to have surgery, and on to trying to figure out what kind?” (See above history.)
And this is where the whole thing took a turn for the weird. He goes, “Oh! No, not at all! you don’t HAVE to do any of this!”
And I’m like, “What???”
And he’s all, “No, people say there’s this “risk” or doing nothing, but it’s no problem! You’re a young woman! That necrosis thing only happens to the 80-year-olds!”
It’s all sort of a blur from there, but I can assure you that the crying faucet got bad again and I just could not get it together after that. The young resident just kept bringing me a steady supply of paper towels. Finally the doc gave me his card, said think about it for 3-6 months, and then call back. I left still openly weeping and continued to weep intermittently all the way to car, through the valet process, and much of the way home, and much of the day.
So, tally so far: GI doc # 1: you need surgery. Primary Care Provider: You don’t need surgery. GI doc #2, YES you do! Surgeon who’s supposed to do the surgery: Well, if you WANT to. … As if I “want” to. Holy shit!! If it’s optional I would never return to that place or any hospital ever!
So, I wash my hands of the whole ordeal.
I’m just going to try to forget about the whole thing for several months. Perhaps the Gods will send me a clear sign of some kind?
Meanwhile, all my heart stuff is on hold while I attempt to get over anemia. Whatever.
I will now write an entry about happier subjects.
Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2012 Catherine Park
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