“What is your name?”
“David Jennings.”
“What month and year is it?”
“September, 2026.”
“Why are you in the hospital?”
“Appendicitis.”
The questions were asked on two occasions. The first time was on Thursday, by a nurse who had just given me shot of morphine (whee!). The second time was by a different nurse. This happened on Friday, before I knew if I would be coming home that day or not. I understand that the questions were a quick lucidity test. Neither nurse was surprised that I answered the questions correctly, even though I was on the elder-care floor of the hospital. I guess I should be glad the questions are not dialed down to toddler level and at a much louder volume than necessary.
Still, I was a little cranky on Friday. My release from the hospital that day was likely but not certain. The only reason I had to stay this long was my CT scan showed my appendix was ruptured/perforated, and they had to make sure it did not start spewing feces and pathogens like a Water Wiggle. As long no alarms were raised, I told myself, it would be smooth sailing. Then I got my blood pressure checked.
It was high with a systolic in the 160s. This did not concern me terribly. It had been days since I last took my BP meds, and the doctor with the down-to-earth bedside manner assured me that it was no big deal.
However, the person who checked my blood pressure early Friday apparently did not get the memo. She paged the main nurse and reported the findings with code-blue urgency. When the nurse arrived, I told her about not taking my BP meds, what the doctor said, and whatever else I could think of to convince them that I really was fine.
Maybe my reasoning was sound, but here’s the thing. A patient arguing with a nurse works about as well as an airline passenger arguing with a flight attendant. In the end, being right doesn’t mean squat.
My biggest worry was that the matter might get escalated to some doctor who did not have all the details. He or she might eschew asking around and unilaterally decide that I was not going anywhere for at least another day.
Was I being paranoid? Probably, but my problems with authority often send me on a collision course with the worst-case scenario.
It all worked out in the end. They did release me though two hours later than planned. One of the doctors whose blessing was required did not bother to respond for a while because, you know, fuck it.
After we got home, Becca went to Walgreens to pick up my antibiotics, Levaquin and Flagyl. Booze is a major no-no with the latter, so I had one last martini before starting 12 days of cursed abstinence the next morning. I have to say the drink was quite good and potent enough for me to enjoy watching the MST3K version of Laserblast.
So that is where I am now. I have nine more days of experiencing all the side effects that Flagyl has to offer. During this time, the plan is to connect with a surgeon and get this thing inside me aborted.