My apologies for being lax


I haven’t posted in a few days. No one lost any sleep over it, but I feel compelled to explain.

First, Easter Sunday sucked hose water. I was in extreme pain all day. Monday was a fiasco between taking my wife to her doctor’s appointment and me rushing to get worked in with my own doctor. Rushing to get worked into the first place my doctor could find that would do an ultra-sound on me, the Women’s and Children’s hospital, didn’t make the pain any better.

An ultra-sound is an ultra-sound no matter where you get it done, only in my case there were butterflies painted on the ceiling. Yippie frickin’ kiyah. The immediate results? Go home. The real results? A call to my doctor saying, “What the hell? I’m at the women’s hospital in so much pain they think I’m going into labor.”

At this point my doc is still waiting on some blood test so I walk 10 blocks, doubled in pain looking for my wife. (If I ever meet my high school coach again I’ll punch him. Walk it off indeed.) I spot the car in her doctor’s office lot. She’s made it back to her doctor’s office after visiting the lab for some tests. I open the door to find my wife in a wheel chair being fed peanut butter crackers by the office staff. She had fallen as she left the office mostly due to hunger induced diabetic shock.  Her lab work took a really, really long time.

Now she needs x-rays to cover the doctor’s butt because she fell on his property. It’s convenient that he’s a doctor and can write a prescription for the x-rays, that way our insurance will have to pay for it. Sly, eh?

Meanwhile, my doctor is calling to say, “If you need more test go to the ER.” I can’t. I’ve got to get my wife down to the imaging center. Short story is, nothing on her is broken and I get a handful of pain pills called in by my doc while they set me up with specialist on Tuesday.

Several hours and much pain later, the specialist pokes me and says, “Gallbladder.” I mention the ultra-sound was clear. He takes one look at the ultra-sound results and says, “Pancreas.”

In layman’s terms, “I’m an old fat bastard with pancreatic inflammation and if I don’t change my evil ways, I’ll die.” Low fat diet and no alcohol for me unless I want my gut to explode.

So how was your Easter/Passover?

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3 Comments

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  1. Oh dear. Sympathies! I hope they can do something for you so you won’t hurt, at least.

  2. I’m sorry to hear all this; hope you both feel better. If it’s any consolation, there are a lot of us old fat bastards out here on the verge of gut explosions and we need to encourage each other to take care of ourselves. You are terrific at helping others on AC – think about taking care of YOURSELF, too!

  3. Randy, please take care of you… pancreatic inflammation CAN be treated and even cured if you treat yourself right – it can kill you if you don’t. I like a live Barefoot much better than a dead one, so please take care of you.

    I’m glad your wife was okay too… (HUGS TO YOU BOTH)

    Take care, literally.

    Love and stuff,
    Michy

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