I'm gonna keep this short. Thursday morning I went to the blood draw place, Quest, to make sure my numbers were ok between the 11 days, especially as we thought I seemed a little anemic.
Quest's results were not top of the line. They said. That there. Was too much FAT in my blood to get clean readings.
By time we get this info Quest is, voilà, closed.
So we just hied ourselves up to the CityState, and got the same tests again, and...
[do you want to be Lo or Behold?]
There was too much fat in my blood to get good readings for a lot of what they would like to know.
One Dr saunters by and says "heh, you know your blood isn't supposed to look like milk!"
Ha ha, fuck you very much for the insight.
I lie on my back for a while in an exam room. N watches me. This part's pretty de rigeur.
Then one of the main Drs connects the somewhat universal shittitude of Peg Aspargase to lard-blood-osis or whatever I have, and all of sudden not only do I probably have pancreatitis, but they are admitting me. Which means admitting us.
Yay?
I ate a granola bar at 11am Friday. It is 3pm Saturday. Slide last night into the not fun category.
Then slide it in further. Drive it in with a hammer. A big, rusty hammer with splinters in the shaft.
Pacreatitis is simply inflammation of the pancreas, which works with the liver and gallbladder to create fats and bile and enzymes that get dumped onto your food as it starts that long and bumpy road towards poop. The main symptomic evidence of pancreatitis is, how should I say? Excruciating pain. Pain like someone is holding a blowtorch to your navel, then swinging it back and forth across your belly. Slowly. All night.
Because of Peg A, the bitch, my pancreas is just plain beat to hell.
But wait, there is a fantastic and highly modern way to cure this disease.
Wait for it...
Bowel rest.
Seriously. Bowel rest. Sounds like a death-metal band.
What this means for me is that every three hours or so all night I will be visited by the ghost of 'there are three blowfish on PCP fighting over a Gameboy Wii in your stomach.
You know that whole 'how much does it hurt, one to ten?" thing? I very honestly opened with 2. I found 6 without a map. Eight was actually polite enough to introduce itself, and 9, well, I don't really wanna talk about 9.
...except to say that he came with a half cup of the finest House Bile, and as piece de resistance, a bunch of bile snot got backed up in my oxygen tube.
Did I mention I was on oxygen?
And that I haven't eaten?
And that a surgical fellow in a snappy skiing fleece stuck a q-tip up my ass?
Anyway, not the shortest night. Especially for for N, who spent a lot of the evening and today tracking down the dilauded I so badly need .5 of when the stomach pains start.
We learned very recently that, on a two-day fast, it is best not to just push the dilauded syringe home all once-- that's a free pass to hearty throatfuls of bile filling the pink plastic bucket; which, oddly enough, they are more than happy to let you keep.
A new Dr just visited with the peachy keen suggestion that maybe I am going to have a form of dialysis to strip the fat out of my blood. Neat!
We have not slackened one bit in terms of fighting and doing what needs doing, we just have a lot more to ponder as the post-hurricanic afternoon sweats over the east side. Now I am gonna have an ice chip.
