Monday, September 12, 2011

A Recap of the Past Week and a Half. With Medical Stuff and a Twist of Angst

Friday the fourth, I met with a new doctor at the Center for Pain Relief, expecting to limp out with a prescription for some excellent opiate to return to the game of waiting for my adrenal glands to recover. Or maybe get a we-really-have-no-idea diagnosis of fibromyalgia. With the drugs.

Instead, a very handsome doctor in the most expensive suit I have ever seen in person sat down and opened my file to the MRI report from the original scan in early June. He then very matter-of-factly told me I have moderate arthritis all over my spine and a herniated disk at L5. He rattled off the course of action, firing at me phrases like "month of rest," "simple outpatient procedure," and "discogram." He was looking at the report that my PCP had told me was normal.

N O R M A L.

I was in shock and infuriated and totally dumbfounded- yes, this is the perfect use of dumbfounded. I had a lot of questions, among them Is my PCP actually literate at all? Why didn't the spinal surgeon at WVU read this on the report? and Can I ignore the adrenal diet and go back to a vegetarian life now?
So, after a very graceful panic attack at the Pain Center and a day of crying to my assistant (The newly Mrs. Fuller- congratulationsiloveyouandyouareamazing), husband, and boss I sort of deflated and resigned and am now 8 days in to what we hope is the minimum month of rest.

This week I met with the PCP again, looked at the report, and saw that Dr. Armani-or-Whatever was guessing about the herniated disk. No mention of it anywhere. I had, by this time, hit the Google and learned that a discrogram is a medieval rarely used illegal in 30 states slightly painful test of the little cushions between vertebrae. It uses that contrast dye that I'm irrationally positive I'm allergic to and will die. It's used when the herniated (a.k.a. ruptured, a.k.a. slipped) disk hides from the alien torture chamber MRI report, but a very well-paid doctor has a hunch. Snark aside, several people recommend Dr. McSpendy very highly and my PCP, who is now a confirmed literate woman, thinks he's spot on. So: bed rest.

I buzzed my hair after looking like Bellatrix LeStrange for a few days. Now I'm very zen with the fact that my raison d'etre is to watch 7-8 hours of Netflix a day. I suck at drawing on my back, so my Sketchbook Project plan was pooped on a bit.

Tomorrow holds exciting preregistration at the hospital then on Friday I get to have my discogram, which as a Facebook friend suggests, sounds like the BeeGees are gonna show up with a mirror ball and a sweet greeting from a secret admirer. OH I wish.

At this point, do you really want to read about the icing on the shit cake? In case you eat angst for dinner, I had a trip to the ER Saturday morning for either an unholy stomach virus or a gall bladder attack. My entire arm looks very Trainspotting and people in scrubs now make me go into a fetal position. Which is a  lie, because my spine won't really do that. And this is all why my dear netizens invented three succinct letters:

FML.

No comments:

Post a Comment