Eight doctors appointments, three separate trips to three different hospitals, an ambulance ride and one MRI in seven days.
Oh, and one Xanax. Cannot forget that Xanax. I was stressing about my MRI and my mom offered me the last of hers to take at the hospital "as long as I promised not to waste it." Which I did not. That is love right there. Thanks Ma!
So my driving privileges are not yet reinstated and I still have no answers. Other than my (extensive) list of doctor visits, I have not really left the house in eight days. EIGHT days. Wait, that is not true, my dad drove me to Filene's Basement this weekend so I could buy some slippers. Which was FABULOUS. Also because I was a good girl and did not cry for the IV, Jeff took me out for french toast after my MRI ... but I don't really recall all that much from the experience because I was still Zanny'ed up (Thanks, AR, for my new favorite nickname).
So the neurosurgeon from Hopkins called my cell this morning before 7 a.m. and I missed the call. I MISSED THE CALL because I was asleep still and my phone was downstairs. And what super-over-achieving doctor calls before 7 a.m.? Ethan does not even get up until 7 a.m. I treasure my sleep (apparently more than my brain scan results).
I called back soon thereafter but he had already left for the O.R. At about 4 p.m., I called back again and spoke to the neurosurgeon's assistant. She told me he was STILL in the O.R. (what the hell is going on in there - a head transplant?), so unfortunately, he would likely have to get back to me tomorrow.
When I sounded panicked and told her I had been in the hospital and could not see well, she honestly, did not sound that impressed by my plight. She did concede that she could email him and leave him a note to follow-up with me tonight, if at all possible. I then realized that assistants in this field are not all that impressed when patients complain about being a big mess and worrying about something life-threatening because ALL of their patients are a big mess and worrying about something life-threatening. Take a number.
So I spent all day waiting by the phone to hear the results for naught. Except when I was eating cookies. Or calling my husband to report that nobody has called me yet. Or calling back three minutes later to report still no call. Or now, one hour later. Or pacing back and forth in front of the bathroom because I did not want to take a pee break in case the phone rang. Or eating more cookies. Or doing a little light stalking on Facebook. Other than that, I sat by the phone and waited patiently.
I felt like the neurosurgical equivalent of the classic He's Just Not That Into You woman. I was one step away from calling all my friends and whining, "Why? Why didn't he call!? He SAID he would call! Should I call him? NO! ... No? Are you sure? ... Maybe he lost my number? ... Maybe I should email him? .... No? ... I mean, I guess he IS busy at work ... Right? RIGHT!?" and then putting on slutty patent leather boots (you know the kind) and going out to get trashed on cosmos and multiple buttery nipple shots. (Shout out K and L). After which I would call him anyway, slurring, "I thought I meant something to you! Or do you say that to ALL the girls with intraventricular tumors and potential hydrocephalus?" And his wife would hang up on me and then block my phone number.
But before it got to that point, I asked nicely and requested that maybe if the surgeon got a break, he could call me tonight. Ya know, if he got bored of his 12-hour surgery and wanted to wash that cerebellum off his hands and get a snack or something. It's OK - I don't mind if he talks with his mouth full - I was, in fact, raised in a barn! Or if he was busy, he could even just send me an email with either ( - : or ) - ; in the subject line. All I need.
The assistant DID tell me that the MRI had been read by the radiologist and she had the report on her desk. Of course, she could not tell me what it says. I have to talk to the surgeon about that. Hmm. I briefly debated calling Hopkins MRI to fax me the report but I have been down that road before and I, personally, recommend never ever reading your own radiology report before you talk to a doctor. Sometimes it is better than it sounds and Wikipedia will do you no favors on this front. You will spend an obsessive night (or nights) convinced you have four hours to live. Or maybe that is just me.
Alright this entire post makes me sound INSANE (- r, than usual), but what can I say? I am a little frayed around the edges right now. And if the shoe ... or slutty boot ... fits ....
Now if you will kindly excuse me, I hear some cookies calling my name.
Oh, and one Xanax. Cannot forget that Xanax. I was stressing about my MRI and my mom offered me the last of hers to take at the hospital "as long as I promised not to waste it." Which I did not. That is love right there. Thanks Ma!
So my driving privileges are not yet reinstated and I still have no answers. Other than my (extensive) list of doctor visits, I have not really left the house in eight days. EIGHT days. Wait, that is not true, my dad drove me to Filene's Basement this weekend so I could buy some slippers. Which was FABULOUS. Also because I was a good girl and did not cry for the IV, Jeff took me out for french toast after my MRI ... but I don't really recall all that much from the experience because I was still Zanny'ed up (Thanks, AR, for my new favorite nickname).
So the neurosurgeon from Hopkins called my cell this morning before 7 a.m. and I missed the call. I MISSED THE CALL because I was asleep still and my phone was downstairs. And what super-over-achieving doctor calls before 7 a.m.? Ethan does not even get up until 7 a.m. I treasure my sleep (apparently more than my brain scan results).
I called back soon thereafter but he had already left for the O.R. At about 4 p.m., I called back again and spoke to the neurosurgeon's assistant. She told me he was STILL in the O.R. (what the hell is going on in there - a head transplant?), so unfortunately, he would likely have to get back to me tomorrow.
When I sounded panicked and told her I had been in the hospital and could not see well, she honestly, did not sound that impressed by my plight. She did concede that she could email him and leave him a note to follow-up with me tonight, if at all possible. I then realized that assistants in this field are not all that impressed when patients complain about being a big mess and worrying about something life-threatening because ALL of their patients are a big mess and worrying about something life-threatening. Take a number.
So I spent all day waiting by the phone to hear the results for naught. Except when I was eating cookies. Or calling my husband to report that nobody has called me yet. Or calling back three minutes later to report still no call. Or now, one hour later. Or pacing back and forth in front of the bathroom because I did not want to take a pee break in case the phone rang. Or eating more cookies. Or doing a little light stalking on Facebook. Other than that, I sat by the phone and waited patiently.
I felt like the neurosurgical equivalent of the classic He's Just Not That Into You woman. I was one step away from calling all my friends and whining, "Why? Why didn't he call!? He SAID he would call! Should I call him? NO! ... No? Are you sure? ... Maybe he lost my number? ... Maybe I should email him? .... No? ... I mean, I guess he IS busy at work ... Right? RIGHT!?" and then putting on slutty patent leather boots (you know the kind) and going out to get trashed on cosmos and multiple buttery nipple shots. (Shout out K and L). After which I would call him anyway, slurring, "I thought I meant something to you! Or do you say that to ALL the girls with intraventricular tumors and potential hydrocephalus?" And his wife would hang up on me and then block my phone number.
But before it got to that point, I asked nicely and requested that maybe if the surgeon got a break, he could call me tonight. Ya know, if he got bored of his 12-hour surgery and wanted to wash that cerebellum off his hands and get a snack or something. It's OK - I don't mind if he talks with his mouth full - I was, in fact, raised in a barn! Or if he was busy, he could even just send me an email with either ( - : or ) - ; in the subject line. All I need.
The assistant DID tell me that the MRI had been read by the radiologist and she had the report on her desk. Of course, she could not tell me what it says. I have to talk to the surgeon about that. Hmm. I briefly debated calling Hopkins MRI to fax me the report but I have been down that road before and I, personally, recommend never ever reading your own radiology report before you talk to a doctor. Sometimes it is better than it sounds and Wikipedia will do you no favors on this front. You will spend an obsessive night (or nights) convinced you have four hours to live. Or maybe that is just me.
Alright this entire post makes me sound INSANE (- r, than usual), but what can I say? I am a little frayed around the edges right now. And if the shoe ... or slutty boot ... fits ....
Now if you will kindly excuse me, I hear some cookies calling my name.
No comments:
Post a Comment