March 8, 2008: Donutbuzz Goes To The Doctor (Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying As Much As I Used To And Love The Phlebotomist)

[Note: I’m breaking from my tradition with a very long post about something frightening that happened to me last month. The crisis has passed, everything’s ok, and I am fine now. I just don’t want to alarm anyone who may read this, and I really appreciate everyone who has expressed concern about what happened. Thanks! -H.G.]

I need to post this. Remember when my sister wrote her “ramble” for me last month? I didn’t share what prompted it, but I’ve experienced an incredibly harrowing health scare. Let me elaborate.

It started with a rash. I figured it was stress. I tend to get stressed about things, and I figured that this was my body’s way of telling me that it’s as mad as hell and it’s not going to take this anymore. My wife, on the other hand, figured it was the medication I was taking for my sinus infection--you know, the one that everyone’s had this season and the one that caused me to seek medical attention in the first place? And did I mention that I rarely, if ever, visit the doctor?

It’s a long-standing fear of mine to visit the doctor. Since I’ve been married, my wife has encouraged me to get one. I kept telling her I would, and as the years passed and we had children and they grew, I kept repeating my mantra that “I will go to the doctor.” And, of course, I never did. Let me correct that: I did consult a urologist (“The Launch Process”) and a dermatologist (hmm...I have never posted about that one--need to do that sometime). But that was it. I never obtained a treating physician.

Last summer, my son noticed my reluctance to see a doctor. Ever since then, my family’s pressure on me to see one had increased, and, so, when my sinus infection worsened to the point that two of my top teeth hurt, I decided it was time to make a medical appointment.

My mid-January visit with a doctor was brief. He prescribed me a sulfa antibiotic for my sinus infection and gave me a flu shot. As he left the examining room, I remember his telling me that it might be a good idea to make a “regular appointment” with someone. “Right,” I told him. But I had no intention of making one as soon as I picked up my prescription.

After a couple days, my sinus infection subsided and my fever and chills vanished. But somehow, I didn’t feel right. I can’t explain it, but I didn’t feel like myself. No matter, I thought, I’m recovering from a sinus infection.

Then I got those hives. My wife wanted to take a picture of them, but I insisted she not. She doubted that my stress caused them, and suspected that it might be the medication I took for my sinus infection. So she called the pharmacy and asked if the drug I took might cause my rash--to which the druggist replied “No.” But my wife and I both agreed I should not take the remaining couple sinus medication pills.

Now because I blog, I know for certain that my rash first occurred the weekend of January 26. I also remember that during the week that followed, I experienced chills. In our house, when my wife asks if I’m cold, I’m usually the one who replies “No,” and I prefer a cool house. But whether I was at work or at home, I constantly felt chills. I figured I was imagining it, though, because I never ran a temperature.

When the first week of February arrived, my appetite began to wane. I would eat a regular lunch, but I did not want to eat much dinner. And when I sat down to eat, my chills became worse. This continued for several days.

On February 6, things really got strange. That’s the day I watched Juno, which I later reviewed for my friend, Film Geek. Earlier that day, I had attended several hearings and noticed that I felt nauseous after drinking some chocolate milk and eating some beef jerky. Who wouldn’t feel nauseous after that, right? And then there was the matter of. . . . OK. . . I think we need a disclaimer here. . . .

GRAPHIC DETAILS OF MY HEALTH FOLLOW. PLEASE STOP READING IF SUCH CONTENT UPSETS YOUR STOMACH OR DISTURBS YOU. PLEASE. YOU’RE WELCOME.

And then the bartender says, “Hey, all three of you. . . get out, now!”

But, seriously. Are you really sure you want to read this?

Ok.

I have to admit this is not easy to write, but I must because I don’t want to forget it.

Have you ever seen dark, bright yellow urine? You know, the kind of pee that’s neon? Well, trust me, I have and you don’t want to. And if you do, and it’s yours, it’s a good idea to see your doctor. Of course, I didn’t have one at the time, so I simply went ahead and grabbed me some popcorn when I caught the Juno matinee.

It was the worst tasting popcorn I’d ever had. I could barely stomach the few bites I ate. It wasn’t the theater’s fault, either. That night my wife made her amazing chili and I barely touched it. I had no appetite.

You’ve been warned, so I’m not going to feel guilty detailing how on Thursday morning I violently yarped the entire contents of what I’d eaten on Wednesday. But I had more hearings to cover upstate and I went about my business because that’s how I roll. My chills had worsened, I felt sleepy on the entire drive, and I had absolutely no desire to eat or drink. Somehow, I managed to settle a case successfully and meet with several clients.

When Friday, February 8 arrived, I had not eaten anything since a few bites of chili on Wednesday and several swigs of Gatorade. On my drive to Wayne, I felt sleepy again. Oh yeah, my chills continued as did my aversion to all things related to nourishment. But I had a card game scheduled with friends on Saturday, and there was no way I was going to miss it. My friends asked if I were going to be well enough to play, and I assured them I would be.

I left work early on Friday after my friend, Barbie Girl told me, “You look green!” To be technical, I was jaundiced. Here’s an artist’s rendering of how I looked:

I kid. This is really not an accurate depiction of me because:

1) There were no whites in my eyes, which were much yellower than my face;

2) I wasn’t smiling; and

3) I don’t own a v-neck black shirt.

Saturday arrived. I still hadn’t eaten more than a cup of soup since Wednesday, but I focused on having fun and everything seemed better. Then during the card game, one of my friends mentioned that he felt hot and that’s when I knew something was definitely wrong. I was cold. SO COLD.

The next day, things turned really weird. They turned so weird and so horrible and so terrifying that I’m not even going to type the words because it’s too upsetting for me to describe what prompted me to go to the emergency room. Trust me. You don’t want to read it unless you’re a doctor, and I can’t imagine any doctor wanting to listen to me unless I’m his or her patient.

My wife and kids accompanied me to the ER. I told the staff what happened, then they took my blood pressure, which, had I not been freaking out at the time, was so high that it would have qualified me for medical care on that basis alone. When I explained my recent medical history to the resident physician, he took an immediate interest in my case. He suspected it might have been something I ate. Then he referred me for blood work.

The phlebotomist did a good job. I don’t remember the last time someone took blood from me. But this guy’s technique was quick and efficient. On a scale from one to ten, where one represents using a chainsaw to remove someone’s arm to obtain a blood sample and ten represents using a painless technique like Bones from Star Trek employs, I’d give this phlebotomist a 7.9.

After they took my blood, they sent me to one of the emergency rooms, where a nurse hooked me up to the drip. On the “Hurt Scale,” getting hooked up to the drip was slightly more painful than the blood draw. I’d give it a 6.5.

Then someone took some more blood from me. This phlebotomist’s draw rated a 6.0. Things were getting more painful, and I was starting to feel like someone’s chemistry set.

After a short wait in the emergency room, another nurse came in and explained that the doctor would be in to see me. I asked what was going to happen next.

“Oh, the doctor’s gonna come in, check you and then stick a finger up your butt,” said the nurse.

Maybe a blood draw isn’t one of the worst things in the world, I thought.

About this time, our friend stopped by to take care of our kids. That’s when the doctor arrived. Sitting in that hospital bed in the emergency room, I felt very frightened and vulnerable.

The nurse’s prediction about what the doctor was going to do to me also proved accurate. By the way, I don’t think you can ever have too many bloggers posting about their DRE’s. I mean, if you can’t blog about your DRE and your failing legislators, what good is there is really having a blog anyway?

The hospital suspected I had either one of two conditions: Hepatitis or a gallstone problem. I couldn’t imagine having either, but I suppose it was possible if I’d eaten something tainted, that Hepatitis A might be a plausible condition. As for the gallstones, that just didn’t make sense to me.

They sent me for an ultrasound. Now of all the procedures I’ve undergone, I have to say that the ultrasound’s the coolest. I’d seen my wife undergo over a dozen of them during her pregnancies. Now I was finally going to get to experience what it was like to have jelly slapped on my belly, so at least I had that going for me.

The sign at the entrance of the ultrasound room said to advise the technician if you were pregnant. At the time, I had no sense of humor, so I didn’t crack any jokes about that.

The ultrasound revealed no abnormalities.

Time for blood draw number two. This one hurt. I’d score it a 4.0 on the Hurt Scale.

The doctor suspected I had hepatitis, and referred me to a gastroenterologist. This is about the time that I realized that at forty years old, I needed no further convincing that I needed to have a regular physician.

On Monday, I called into work and let them know I was going to be out for awhile to take care of my medical situation. Because I still wasn’t certain what was occuring, I didn’t know what to tell them.

While all this was occurring, of course, I had no desire to do anything. The absence of my posts and comments on other blogs is telling and reveals that I was too scared to concentrate. There’s really no way to describe how awful I felt except to say that I would not wish what I went through on anyone. I missed almost a full week of work while I attended to my medical appointments, and I was  one freaked out dude.

I was able to meet with a doctor on Tuesday. I was still somewhat jaundiced.

Time for the CT scan. The CT scan was not as fun as the ultrasound, but its preparation involved more pain. I drank a chalky looking substance that tasted somewhat metallic. Then they had to prick me so that they could send the dye into my body for the scan. I’d give the pricking a 6 on my Hurt Scale.

The scan took about twenty minutes. The machine had two faces that would light up at certain times. The first represented an “inhale” and the second represented “exhale.” Why is it, I thought, that whenever there’s radiation exposure involved at a doctor’s or dentist’s office there’s a smiling face involved? As a child, I never understood why the covers at my dentist’s office had a big happy face on them. But I digress.

My CT scan revealed no abnormalities. That was great news. But I still needed to have more blood work.

Now the third phlebotomist who took my blood was the least skilled of them all in my opinion. This person had difficulty finding my vein, and after taking some blood from my left arm had to stop and poke my right arm. And both times it hurt. I wouldn’t say that it hurt as much as using a chainsaw, but it was the most painful of all the procedures I’d had--and that includes the procedure-that-must-not-be-named that I had in the ER. I’d give the third phlebotomist’s draws a 2.9. If you factor in the weakness and hurt in my left arm that followed for nearly a week after the draw, then it’s a 2.0. I mean, it felt like this person had struck a tendon or something in my left arm.

Fortunately, they saved the best phlebotomist for last. When I had blood taken for the fourth time in three weeks, it didn’t hurt much at all. “You’re good,” I told this phlebotomist, “And I’m going to ask for you next time I’m here.”

Finally, after the month of torment known as February, 2008, the doctors determined for certain what had happened. Based on my history, it was now clear what my diagnosis was:

Drug-induced hepatitis.

Or, in other words, the medicine I received from the doctor I never wanted to visit is what caused me to become incredibly sick and require an ER visit, several blood draws, an ultrasound, a CT scan, a referral to a gastroenterologist, and, ultimately, a regular treating physician. And, when you think about it, that’s really about what it finally took to get me to go to a regular doctor.

I’m going to visit him in six months--unless my pee turns neon yellow before then, of course.