Hey! What did I just say? You won't know what the hell is going on unless you read the first part of this story!
Damn. No one reads instructions anymore.
THE RUN AROUND
Now that I had a possibility of getting financial backing to cure my ripped stomach muscles, I again contacted my original surgeon, to see if he could put in some recommendations with other surgeons who would accept my CICP program.
Being the generous guy he was (did I mention he also liked metal? That's pretty cool on its own), he faxed my information to another surgeon he knew, at a hospital that would accept my vagrant faux-insurence.
As per usual in this adventure, I waited a good while, and heard nothing back. Maybe they just forgot to call me, right? A few more days passed, and I finally called the referred surgeon's office directly to see about the silence.
"It looks like you were declined," the secretary told me.
"What was the reason?" I asked.
"Well, it says here that it's not life threatening, so he passed on your case."
Wonderful. Thanks for the concern, guys.
God damn it! Now what?
Well, I suppose I could just try to get an appointment with a specialist at another CICP hospital on my own, yes?
Pehaps. But adding to the dense corn-maze that is the current medical system, I am apparently not allowed to jump right to a specialist. Oh no. I have to see a clinic doctor, THEN I can see a specialist.
Man, hospitals and their hoops!
Okay, fine. Let's do that then. I'll play your games. (Because I have a choice).
I waltzed right into the clinic fully prepared like mustard. After waiting around again just to see a doctor so that they could tell me what I already knew, I eventually got my referral for a specialist.
Okay. Checkmark. Slowly but surely, I was making my way to the goal of surgery.
I played phone tag with the appointment center for a bit, and in the end, got myself a calendar date to see a specialist. Nice. Finally. (I'll wear my nicest Tux).
NOW THAT'S CUSTOMER SERVICE
All was hunky dory for the next few weeks as I anxiously waited, albeit in broken form, for my upcoming appointment.
(My guess is that something negative will happen next, let's see...)
Two days before the scheduled date, I received a message on my cell phone, likely from the appointment center probably calling to remind me of my meeting (yes, I'm sure you believe that that's what it was).
I checked the message, and indeed it was them... but... wait... WHAT?!?... CANCELLED???!!!
What the flying scrotal shit fucks!?
Two days before the appointment I had been waiting almost a month for, I was told via voice mail that they had cancelled it because the surgeons needed some information about the previous surgery.
What, and you couldn't have told me that when I scheduled the appointment?! You had to wait until the last minute to tell me, and not even give me the option of having my surgeon fax you some info?!
DAMN YOUSE!!!
And you're damn right I was pissed.
So I followed instructions like a good little boy, and had my previous surgeon's secretary fax my information to the appointment center (that, in its self, only took 3 to 4 phone calls). Once the fax was finally sent (two weeks later... sigh), I hounded the appointment center every week with messages regarding my cancellation, if they had received the fax, and when I could reschedule.
After even more weeks of only getting voice mails, I got a hold of an actual human being (I guess they just started hiring those), and learned that just as they cancelled the appointment with my specialist ( the one that already took me forever to get), they had changed their policies.
Oh goody! Now what?
By now you should know the drill.
You see, now I had to go see another primary care physician (I already did that, remember?) before I could try to get back in line to see a surgeon.
They just make this a pleasure, don't they?
Well, life got busy again, and I dealt with my quarter-sized opening in my stomach, as I had no other choice ( I like options). In the back of my mind, I kept thinking "I need to schedule yet another doctor appointment," but just never seemed to remember due to all of the other things I had going on.
In fact, if the hernia was not causing me any intense pain, to the point where I could even forget about it for a while, that was a good thing!
Maybe I can just get used to it, and live my life.
Sure, you do that.
But in the meantime, I was about to get a big reminder of my condition.
HOSPITAL HIJINKS
At work, weeks later (see how I easily gloss over huge amounts of time with those two words?), I was suddenly overcome by a feeling enormous pressure and pain in my stomach. The pressure was so overwhelming it was almost equivalent to the nerve-crushing pain I felt during my life-threatening incarcerated hernia I endured in fall '08.
This was most likely a not-so-good thing.
Again I recalled the words of warning, "If you feel anything like what you felt before, come right into the ER."
Try as I might to grin and bear it, to stay at work and just "power through it" like a macho über-mensch, I no longer could function well enough to do any vague semblance of a job, and finally had to make the big call.
"I need to go to the emergency room," I said, feeling guilty for leaving work when they needed my help.
I think I may have some guilt complexes, now that I think of it.
Another time. On to the emergency room.
As per the usual routine, I undressed and put on the ever fashionable hosipital gown and clutched my stomach in pain.
"At least they will be able to see what's going on, and pehaps, even take me in now and get it over with," I reassured myself between pulses of pain.
As I waited (I do a lot of that), the nurses and doctors did the tradtional stuff: blood tests, urine tests, condescending feigned interest in my situation, etc.
Once the tests came back, I was ready for them to give me the bad new about my stomach exploding, or the new hernia becoming incarcerated like the last one, but instead I was told that I was free to go home, and they would simply issue me a prescription for pain medicine.
Yes, that's it.
Seriously? Nothing wrong with me? Impossible! What about all of this sudden pain?!
Still in extreme discomfort, I hobbled out defeated, no answers, no imporvements, no appointments.
What the hell was wrong? This does not feel like "fine" to me.
LIGHT AT THE END OF THE CHUNNEL
The next day my stomach was back to normal, with no reasons or clues as to why.
I continued about on my daily routine, working on completing some personal projects, as well as less-interesting day-job obligations.
Then, out-of-the-blue about a month later, I got a voice message on my cell phone from a very business-looking number.
Listening to the message, I was absolutely shocked to learn that the appointment center actually remembered me, and had considerately scheduled me an appointment with a primary care physician within a week. (Isn't this the same appointment center that gave me the run around for months and would not return my calls?)
What the...
Where did this come from?
You mean I might actually be able to get this taken care of after all?
At this point, I'll believe it when it actually manifests.
HOW DOES MONDAY SOUND?
After jumping through the medical croquet hoops and seeing the primary care physician they had scheduled me for (I'll spare you the details of the observations I had on the people in the waiting room), I was told to re-call the appointment center the next week, and the doctor himself would put in a recommendation for me.
Nice!
Well...
In theory.
The next week came about (as they do), I called the number and got an appointment with a specialist the very next day.
Yes, the next day.
Were things suddenly working in my favor? (Don't answer that).
While waiting to see the specialist, I talked with a very nice intern who asked me some questions about my situation.
After giving her my long dramatic story, she looked a bit surprised and said, "why didn't you get in here sooner?"
I shook my head and smiled. "That's what I've been trying to do the whole time".
She smiled, acknowledging my struggle.
"Wow, you really have been given the run around, haven't you?"
Once the real surgeon did a quick examination of my broken stomach wall, he said, "well, I do my surgeries on mondays, so I think I could do the 28th. Does that work?"
The 28th? Really? That was only a few weeks from then. Damn that's... actually pretty fast.
I have to say, to my own surprise and disbelief, it looked like this was really going to be taken care of for good.
Honestly, I really felt that I would be living with this broken stomach wall my whole life. Dramatic as that may sound, I've said it before, the hopeless empty feeling that had been with me since discovering this well-funded abdominal sequel felt profoundly true.
And if I've learned anything in the course of studying myself and others, it's that our emotions are more powerful than any grounded logic or reason.
THE AB BONE'S CONNECTED TO THE... EVERYTHING
It's interesting how much we take our bodies for granted. As I slowly recover from this crazy adventure of the gut, I have no choice but to see how much my stomach muscles affect every little movement I do. Why? Because it hurts like a bitch.
The simplest task, like sitting up, standing, walking or laying down becomes a wince-inducing reminder of the body I rarely acknowledge.
And worse still, at least at this point of my healing, I can't even laugh without going into extreme pain. Something I do a decent amount of anyway, (yes, I like to laugh at things), I have to mentally condition myself against doing. So much for watching any movies I might find humorous.
Don't even get me started on coughing. Worst. Pain. Ever.
THE IMPACT
As I discussed in the last essay, The Depression Panacea, I closely link myself and my personal happiniess with what I do, more specifically, what I create.
Not being able to work, or get creative projects done makes me extremely restless and slightly (or exaggeratedly) depressed.
This very thing happened last time when I spent almost a week in the hospital for the emergency hernia. I recall getting very depressed, locked in my old people prison, having no access to my studio or the other creative tools I use daily. I felt worthless, all while healing my body after a near-death experience. Realistically, I should have been thankful that I was alive due to the advances in medical technology, and I was... for an hour or so. Then I began feeling worthless and guilty for not getting anything accomplished.
Which relates to where I am right now.
I'm restless, a bit depressed and even feeling slightly guilty due to my lack of accomplishements during my recovery.
Though my recorvery has taken longer than I had planned (how do you plan for physical healing anyway?), I have trouble allowing myself the emotional space to allot for the continual pushing back of my getting-things-accomplished. It make no difference to me whether I'm just wasting time playing a video game, or recovering from stomach surgery. If I'm not getting anything done, I feel guilty and beat myself up for it.
THE VIEW FROM HERE
Until I went through the ordeal of the last year, I never gave two shits about health care. And why would I? If it doesn't directly affect me, how can I feel a personal connection to it?
Well, personal connection solved!
Dealing with the emotional, physical and mental trials of the last year have placed new emphasis on my personal health and well being. Not to mention the access I can and cannot get to be treated, or just be seen by a health care provider.
Oddly, my adventures coincide nicely with the national debate on just such topic, though I have no interest in turning this into a political screaming match.
All I really want to know is am I actually done with this shit, once and for all?
Or will I find myself on a looping conveyor belt of stomach surgeries?
As with the first one, I'm hoping that this is finally behind me and I can move on, with my stomach now filled with high tech lasers and cybernetics.
But if you follow the movie industry, production companies love trilogies.
Related blogs:
Hernia 2: A Love Story part 1
Too Early For Suicide?
2008: The Worst Year Of My Life
Touching Death In The Crotch
Enjoy reading this blog? Please socially bookmark this page, or post it on your Facebook, and most of all comment with your personal stories, observations, or violent objections.
Visit the all new DeprecationWear online store! Sarcastic, self-deprecating and elitist merchandise. Click HERE to see my wares!
buy unique gifts at Zazzle
Tags: health healthcare hospital medical system reform surgery recovery sarcasm
