Wednesday, May 15, 2013

A Week in the Life of an Organ Hoarder

Sometimes the best part is to start in the middle of the story. So let's do that.

I figure the pain isn't going away and go see Dr #1.

I tell her this is what's wrong with me, here's a simple fix, please let's fix this today.

She does some tests and shrugs and asks why do you think THAT is wrong with you? Let's get you to an ultrasound, stat. I need you there in 10 minutes.

Out I go.

 I feel rotten and I don't want to be poked and prodded. I want relief NOW and I'm grieving a quick fix and cursing traffic but I get myself to the ultrasound.

It's empty and clean and it smells good. This is a nice sign. The man behind the desk introduces himself warmly and I feel like I found a concierge until he mentions he's in my online class. I straighten up and smile. Yes, the online class that starts this week. We talk about the book he needs and what's due the first week then I sit in a quiet chair and hold my sweatshirt like a teddy bear.

The ultrasound is quick, the most painful part being that it was administered by a Gator fan with a large but tasteful Gator statue prominently placed. 

The next morning the nurse calls.  My X looks fine, my Y looks fine, there seems nothing wrong with my Z either, but I should go see Dr 2 because maybe, just maybe...

So make the appointment. Part of me says no, let it be, but the other part says this HURTS and I'm tired, and I cannot live with this pain, no way.

The week passes. The appointment comes.

He is a nice man, one I've known for the better part of 15 years.

I saw him last year for a pain like this, one that wouldn't go away forever and he offered to take the pain away by removing the offending organ(s).

He spoke of it like it was an inevitable part of the aging process, give into it, get it over with.

I didn't.

Now I'm back. He goes over the new ultrasound.

There is nothing wrong with my X. Nothing wrong with my Y and Z either. Nothing at all.  But still, he agrees that MUST be where the pain is coming from and offers to put me on pills.

Pills? No. I don't want pills. I took a long stroll down pill road and don't want to live there again.

Then you know what the next option is, he says, throwing it out there, then sitting back, fingers laced.


He nods.

I ask if it would be the small surgery he offered last August, the surgery that I never scheduled.

No, this time it would be XYZ. The only option considering my age and my level of pain.

I shake my head but don't say no.  This would be elective because I'm not diseased, right? This isn't urgent, I'm not in harms way.

He agrees, then brings up my age and the inevitable demise of unused organs.

I tell him I'm still using all my organs and they all look good. But I can't live in this pain.

He nods and says try the pills, give it a few months, if you're not better we should schedule.

I leave quickly, more in shock than anything. I don't want to have my organs harvested. They haven't been found guilty of any offense, and it seems wrong to indict them for this without a shred of evidence.

I don't cry, I don't get mad. I also don't pick up the pills.

I decide I'm going to live with this pain, even though its growing, because it's just pain and I'm not sick. By this point the most I can do is sit on the sofa under a heating pad, wondering if I'm a closet organ hoarder, a crazy lady who keeps harmful rotting things inside her. I shake off the thought.

Then I check my voicemail.

It's Dr #1.

They got more results.

 I was right it was what I'd said.

It wasn't my XYZ and I don't have any problems with my XYZ it was DEFINITELY something else entirely.

They prescribed me the pill I asked for over a week earlier, and I picked it up, happily.