So I learned that a) if you're diagnosed with appendicitis, don't take eight days to do something about it, and b) if you do wait eight days, don't drive yourself to the hospital, for Pete's sake, as you will run over the nice secretary who is SOCMOB.
I'm not a student or a doctor, so this is from personal experience... Long story, I'm afraid, I'm terrible at short ones.
About five years ago I woke up with abdominal pain, general malaise. I thought it was menstrual cramps - unusually severe, but no bigie. I didn't feel very keen on getting up, and was really pissed with my mom, who kept poking her head in my room when all I wanted to do was
curl up around a hot water bottle, wait it out, and be left alone.
Eventually she started nagging me to go to the ER, and after a few hours I figured I could be miserable in the ER just as much as at home, and consented to being driven out. Middle of the afternoon at this point. It was thirty or so degrees out (Celsius, no idea in Fahrenheit - hot anyways) but I insisted on wearing a coat, because I thought it was cold damnit.
confused
Triage asks me to rate my pain, and I figure "well, I haven't tried to kill myself because of it, so it can't possibly be a 10", and tell her a five or a six. (since apparently pts normally think the pain scale goes up to 11 or 100, I think I should re-evaluate how I use it...)
She takes my temperature, and I point out that my temp. is usually pretty low, I only break 98.5 F after physical exertion or standing around in the sun (I charted it every hour I was awake for a week for a school project). She gives me the hairy eyeball, and refuses to tell me, or my mother, what my actual temperature is.
Instead I'm rushed out of the waiting room into the cubicals, and actually see a doctor pretty quickly.
Pretty obvious at this point is that I have appendicitis, but the doctor wants to be sure, so orders a blood test. If my white blood cell count was elevated, I'd go for surgery, otherwise they'd keep trying to figure out what broke.
The 70s-ish old volunteer nurse with shaky hands and cokebottle glasses obviously had a wealth of knowledge and was very gentle, but she had zero luck getting anything. The tech she called in eventually had to drop it in the back of my hand.
I'd like to say a big thank you to ER techs, by the way, y'all are the only folks who can tap a vein on me, even with the wee little butterfly needles.
Apparently I'm one of those folks with tiny, deep veins that roll out from under the needle.
A big thank you to the anonymous tech, by the way, for listening to me and putting in a shunt in case I actually went to surgery.
I must have sounded (and by this point looked) like an IV drug abuser, but if it takes 14 or 15 tries to draw blood, and someone's eventually going to have to put me under for surgery, I'd rather have 15 holes, a shunt, and an appendix scar, rather than 30 holes
and an appendix scar.
Also a huge thankyou to whoever it was who gave me the unit of cold saline. When you have a fever of "I don't think I should tell you" and haven't had anything to drink for hours because you could be rushed into the OR at any minute, cold saline is like a bag full of heaven.
Of course, I was in when the ER was in overflow, observation was in overflow, and they were hiding patients in the hallways, in the Prayer Room, and basically anywhere else they could fit us. I was lucky and got to spend my 8 hrs post op in geriatric care with an overnight nurse who was thrilled to have a non-senile, continent patient.
She kept asking me if I needed any pain control, though, when all I really wanted was more ice chips. At that point, I think my ego would have strangled me if I'd accepted pain control for post-op pain, when all I took was 2 tylenol for the appendicitis itself...
I got a stern lecture from my family doctor about pain and what my body is trying to tell me with it. Lasted long enough that I kited myself off to the ER two months later for what turned out to be spasmodic esophagus
.
The lecture wore off before the
next summer, when a bad run of smog and two weeks of a mystery ailment that apparently was a creepily good symptom match for pulmonary thrombosis eventually sent me to the ER to frighten the triage nurse again. Lots of radioactive diagnostics later, conclusion was it wasn't thrombosis; second guess was "some kind of inflamation of your pleura or something" and recommended treatment was "take asprin, it will probably go away".
30m after taking two asprin, my breathing is unhindered, my blood oxygen is good, I feel like a confused idiot, and I get discharged with instructions to keep taking asprin as it's obviously working.
I still don't know WHAT that was. Ended up taking asprin for another two weeks and then the symptoms just went away. Cheapest, easiest treatment for "mysterious lung disease" I've ever heard of