Hospital for Days

Weekend hospitalists. Those in the know...KNOW! They don't understand your personal case, and they don't bother, so they give orders to take the most random junk meds that cause more harm than good. 

This time the hospitalist had a genius idea. I was anemic, so he ordered iron pills. Pills. Recall my visit with Dr. H, before all this started, was for an iron infusion. Well, I was stupid and took them knowing exactly what would happen. Stomach cramps, metal mouth, and because everything tastes like metal I loose my appetite. 

After three doses, I refuse to take anymore iron, but my appetite is already dead. And then the hospitalist freaks out because I'm not eating, so genius orders Ensure & sends in the hospital nutritionist. 

Ensure. Not sure if you've ever tried Ensure, I myself have only attempted the "juice" version. They should have named it Liquid Sand. It sucks all the moisture from your mouth and leaves behind a delicious gritty feeling. Lovely, right? Refused that asinine order without batting an eyelash. 

Oh, the poor nutritionist...

Before this tale you need to fully understand my mindset. I was admitted into the semi-ICU. At Gwinnett Medical Duluth, that means a room with windows for a door and a privacy curtain that no one fully closes when they exit. Basically an introvert's version of Hell. The drain tube made it terribly painful to move, so simply getting up and closing the curtain wasn't so simple (especially when attached to an IV pole). Hell I tell you. Visitors walking by looking into your room like you're a caged monkey. Pure Hell. Add in some nutty hospitalist's orders, and now the scene is fully set. 

I was not wearing my wig, so even if she hadn't reviewed my chart, it's pretty clear I've been on chemo. She asks why I'm not eating. Because everything tastes like metal. Because doc ordered iron pills that my personal doc wouldn't even think to prescribe. Oh boy, I gave her some attitude. She asks if I've lost weight recently. I'm not sure how I didn't bust out laughing, but I do turn and give Fred the "bitch lost her damn mind" look. (Sorry. That's what it's called. And you know that look because you have one yourself!) Eventually she leaves, probably thinking I'm pretty much the rudest person. Ever. Grace hit the escape button that day. 

Monday comes. Monday I'm told I'll get out Tuesday. Tuesday I'm told Wednesday. I'm getting frustrated. Stuck in a gerbil cage of a room with zero privacy loosing my mind. Tuesday night the social worker comes in and tells me Dr. H's office told her Friday. TEARS! Fred fills her in on why I'm crying. 

[We later find out the social worker flat out lied, and Dr. H's office never said Friday. In fact, she told them Friday because of paperwork she would need to file.]

Wednesday comes. Dr. H says it's up to the Russian (Dr. V, the infectious disease doctor). The Russian says I'm good to go, but wanted me to try a new antibiotic. One he wanted me to be using for several days, but never put in the order. 

My Aunt comes in for a visit, I get one IV bag in, the drain tube gets removed, and I'm out the door within maybe forty-five minutes. I'm scheduled to visit the Russian's office the next morning to pick up supplies, and learn the IV routine. 

Abscess Treatment Plan:  

IV antibiotic, 3 times/day, every 8 hours for four weeks. 

Meaning no chemo for at least six weeks. Meaning while I had everything perfectly scheduled, and my 12 rounds of chemo & reversal surgery would have been completed by year-end, that perfect schedule just blew up in my face. I wanted so desperately to start 2016 fresh. And more importantly, before our insurance deductible reset. So, after some tears, I edit my thought process:  I'll get my 12 rounds in & start 2016 chemo free!