If you do know it, than you know more about gastroenterology than just about every medical expert in the emergency room of a highly-rated nearby hospital which shall remain nameless.
Here's what happened... On Sunday morning I was on the mat, relaxing in halasana pose.
That's when Betsy started hollering about a bellyache. Actually, she said it was the spawn of satan quintuplets trying to carve their way out of her stomach with rusty steak knives.
Let's call it a bad bellyache.
Charlie-the-husband drove her to the emergency room. That drive was a fool's errand, because if he drove carefully he got yelled at for going too slow and if he kicked it, he got yelled at for attempting murder by pothole.
Eventually, they got to the hospital.
The diagnosis was appendicitis, which was a little surprising, since she had had her appendix taken out 8 months earlier.
Turns out, there was a little nubbin of appendix left over after the first surgery, and the nubbin had gone rouge.
It was having it's very own attack of appendicitis.
If this had happened just a few days earlier, all her appendix-related medical emergencies would have been in the same calendar year.
But it was January. So they had to pay the giant insurance deductible. Again.
Meanwhile, Betsy was one sick puppy. The team wanted to hold off on doing the surgery. They said she was too hot– and not in a good way. They pumped her with IV fluids and Flagyl and waited for some improvement.
Not much happened.
At one point, her parish priest came in.
Turns out he didn't come to the hospital to give her the Last Rites. He just happened to run into Charlie-the-husband in the lobby, and stopped in to say hi.
Two more days went by without much improvement.
On the morning of day six, the infectious disease department said to bring out the big gun antibiotics. They hooked her up, and waited.
A few hours later, she turned the corner.
It could have been the Ertapenem, or it could have just taken a while for the other antibiotics to get ramped up. It could have been the serendipitous blessing from Father Mike.
However it happened, it was a good thing.
After she turned the corner, everyone relaxed.
Radiology put in a PICC line, and the docs sent her home that very night.
The things she carried: Five mini boxes of kleenex, some seriously ugly hospital socks and several pairs of one-size-fits-all hospital mesh underpants. (BTW, if you've never seen those, get hold of some; they're an engineering wonder.)
The next morning, a visiting nurse came to the house with the Ertapenem and lessons on how to work the IV, which should have been easy. But with Charlie-the-husband's giant sausage fingers, it wasn't. Note below, the actual relative sizes of the PICC caps, the alcohol wipes AND the giant sausage fingers.
Somehow, it all worked out.
Eight days later, a nurse removed the PICC line, which was about 17" long. (BTW, that's not a procedure you want to watch if you're a fainter.)
Finally– with the infection under control and Appendectomy, Round II penciled in on the calendar–the whole mishegas was almost over.
Betsy was grateful.
Apparently she keeps her gratitude buried way deep down inside.
The moral of the story: If you already had your appendix taken out, don't be fooled into thinking that the excruciating lower right quadrant abdominal pain you're feeling can't be appendicitis. The fact is, you might be one of those extraordinarily rare individuals who get to have his or her appendix taken out twice.
(If you do end up in the hospital, be sure to check out the standard-issue hospital mesh underpants, because they're an engineering wonder. They can also be used as hair nets.)
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