That's what I said to Chris when I called him around 8:30am Monday morning.
For days, my throat and my mouth have been in an uproar. I've lost my voice, I have sores on my cheeks and tongue. I'm full of phlegm that I can't seem to get out of my nose or out of my throat. And then Monday morning I felt like I was drowning in my own saliva.
When I woke up, I aimed to do "the routine." Brush my teeth - get the gunk off that builds up so quickly when your mouth is full of evil, swish with the Magic Mouthwash to kill the bacteria, take a Musinex and something for the pain. As I tried to start all the things that I thought would help, I could instantly tell I was not well. I felt like I couldn't swallow.
I could swallow. though. I was drinking small sips of water. But the thought of opening my mouth wide enough to get the tooth brush in was too much to bear. I would have died to take a Vicodin but the pills are huge and I didn't think it would go down my throat. The Magic Mouthwash would have numbed it all. There's a tricky thing about feeling numb though. To me, it feels like your mouth is swelling - like when you have novicane at the dentist. As if your lips are twice the size and you can't form words correctly so you sound drunk and most of all, I feel as if my tongue is twice the size. This was the moment when I had a little panic attack. If I took the Magic Mouthwash it might curb what I was feeling, but I felt like it also might make my tongue too big for my mouth and close off my throat. The last thing I wanted to do was choking on my own tongue. How ironic would that be?
So I called Chris who was in the Operating Room that day. To my surprise, he picked up and said he was in between cases. I explained my symptoms and he said what I dread most, "You should probably come to the Emergency Room." As a doctor who is on call nearly every third weekend and taking pages from hypochondriacs who need a refill of their narcotic pain medication only on the weekends, I've been privy to this sentence a lot. Some patients call and Chris listens calmly, tries to troubleshoot over the phone, but sometimes reverts to, "I can't diagnosis this over the phone. If you have serious concerns, I can meet you at the Emergency Room." This is when you distinguish the fakers from the honestly sick. No one wants to go to the ER, so if they're not REALLY in need, they usually say thanks anyway and hang up. It's the people who are really sick that say, "I'll be at the ER in 10 minutes."
When Chris said, "Go to the ER," it was do or die time. I HATE the ER. I HATE the hospital for that matter. (but what I hate even more is that hospitals are trying to make it the ED - for emergency DEPARTMENT. Eveyone knows ED is for Erectile Disfunction, but assholes who runs hospitals listened to some marketing asshole who makes stuff up just to bill and now they're pushing the ED. Bullshit. And that's how I feel about that.) But I knew, while sitting in the fabulous lime green leather arm chair that's in my bedroom, I better go to the ED or I might choke right here. (I probably wouldn't have choked. That's the drama in me. But I knew I couldn't continue to do what I was doing because I was scared and in pain. It wasn't really impending death, but it was enough for me.)
Chris says he can't come home to get me. He has a patient under anesthesia. He calls his mom. Marcia is on her way but it will be a little bit before she throws clothes on and gets to our house. He calls the neighbors, Beth and Nate, who are home and rush over. THANK. GOD. FOR. BETH. In every crisis, she's there. Beth calms me down as I slowly pack a bag. (I'm no fool, I packed 4 pairs of under ware, 2 pairs of sweats, my phone charger and my toiletry bag. There's no conditioner in the hospital shower.)
Just minutes later Chris pulls up like a bat out of hell. His case wasn't going just yet. He had enough time to swing home. He thanks Beth and as we pull out of our neighborhood we pass Marcia who is just minutes from our house. It was like Call Out the Calvary - we have a situation! And all these wonderful people come. How lucky am I?
In the ER, they stick my like 37 times. My veins are shot at this point. One nurse is sure she's got an IV started and it clearly is not. No problem, the CAT scan tech fixed it up in 2 seconds flat. I swear I will write a book just about the hilarity of a hospital: the different personalities, the varied skill levels, the smiles versus the attitudes. I don't know how health care people do it. I would kill myself right there.
The verdict: bad mucusitis. (No Duh!) I wasn't going to choke on my own tongue, but they helped me along the road to feeling more comfortable (ie: serious drugs! Love the pain meds!) But after drawing my blood finally, it comes back dangerous low in three different categories: barely any white blood cells - meaning I could pick up TB from the germs on my cell phone; barely any red blood cells - meaning the blood is carrying little oxygen to my brain, maybe that explains some stuff; and platelets of 6!
Let's have another platelet lesson, shall we? It's a component of your blood that helps you clot. At the lowest last time, it was 37. They'll give you chemo if you can get it up to 90. The normal level is 120. So mine was mother fucking 6! Really?!? I hate platelets.
The next thing you know the "concierge" is saying, "Congratulations and Welcome. We have a room waiting especially for you. We hear you might be staying with us for a bit. Give me your Hilton Rewards Card and I will credit you the points." Well, not really that last part. He also didn't ask if I wanted an Ocean Front room. Thankfully this time though I didn't have a Cemetery View room. See, things are looking up.
