Saturday, June 09, 2007
I am serving an office shift at the moment. Spread across the desk are a Schlotzky's Deli napkin (besmeared with lip gloss and chocolate milk), a clear, plastic container of Cocoa Pebbles (one-third full), a bowl and spoon, and three pill containers for the drugs the doctor prescribed for my cellulitis. I am taking two (2) antibiotics each twice (2x) daily- amoxicillin & clavulanate potassium and sulfamethoxazole. Every four to six hours, I pop two tablets of hydrocodone for the pain. The painkillers make me drowsy, moody, and disoriented: loopy, in a word.
Thursday, after determining an abscess had formed on the back of my right thigh, Dr. McDonald injected the infected area to numb it, sliced me open, and swirled things around inside with a Q-tip. Then he hosed the bacteria out with saline solution, which was very cold. Next, he explained that he was going to pack me. I did not inquire what with- cotton candy, I presumed. Possibly hay. I did not scream the entire time, and the nurse-lady even commented on how good I was. I asked, over my shoulder, if I could have a lollipop. She and the doctor laughed, but they forgot to give me a lollipop later.
Dr. McDonald insists we continue packing, every day, until the wound he created closes entirely. Yesterday he shoved something else into the gaping hole in my leg, slapped some gauze on it, and sent me to hobble across campus to my political science class, where I became extremely drowsy. Walking back to the dorm room, I clasped my hands together under my chin and had to take baby steps the entire route, which meandered a bit due to my disoriented state of being.
The drugs have made me gain weight, experience nausea, and swell tremendously, especially in my right leg. I cannot feel where my ankles should be; when I press above that locale, the skin sinks inward under my thumb and stays, like unto playdough.
Drugs also make Laurees suffer severe mood swings. After class yesterday I entered my room, stared at an old photograph of myself, got depressed, and suddenly burst into tears. I crawled into bed, snuggling Kermie, cocooned in a blankie until my older sister called to update me on her pregnancy. I felt much better afterward, in reflecting that at least I am not pregnant.
Dr. McDonald recommended I visit the minor care emergency clinic over the weekend, since the student health center closes Saturdays and Sundays. This afternoon I called Jared to drive me; we arrived a little after three. The operation takes between three and five minutes, so I had allotted plenty of time between waiting and receiving treatment to be back on campus in time for work at five.
Jared and I sat around for about half an hour until I was summoned for an assessment. He opted to remain in the waiting room after I clarified that he would have to view icky things if he followed me further. About an hour later, after I had changed into a gown and been evaluated by a few different people, I called Jared's cell phone to send him home, for I still had not been packed. I also called the young man working the office shift before me, to warn him I might be late.
I did not receive treatment until shortly after five. As predicted, it took the med student perhaps three minutes to shovel coal into the back of my thigh and to cover the area with gauze. After he left, I dressed and waited around for a few minutes. I finally opened the door and stepped out, bethinking I needed to check myself out, and happened to be stopped by the female med student who had taken my urine sample. "Oh, I'll be right back with your paperwork," she said, and indicated that I should remain where I was. I stood outside the door to the room for about twenty minutes, waiting, watching medical technicians and janitors go by.
The med student who had packed me perchanced by, stopped, mumbled some apology about the long wait, and all but shoved me back in the room. I felt depressed and unloved, and by that time was very tired and a little hungry. I sank dejectedly onto the bed and stayed there for over an hour. During this time, one of the doctors I had seen in the hall knocked on the door, came in, took something out of a drawer, and left. Sometime later she returned, wheeling some equipment. She saw me, still lying there (only now I was bleary-eyed from crying) and said, "Oh, you are the patient!" She then proceeded to set up shop, and came at me with something to wrap around my upper arm, but I sat up and hobbled off the other side: "No, no, I'm not!" I cried, in a pitiful, despairing wail (I didn't want to wake up with anything amputated).
It by now having dawned on her what had occurred, she asked who my doctor was (tearfully, I replied that I had no idea who had seen me) and then she promised to find out and come back. With no confidence, I sat down again on the bed to continue waiting, certain that I would not be getting a lollipop, if ever I made it out of that desolate little room. A few minutes later, the girl who had taken my urine sample came in with my paperwork and explained that I didn't have anything to do, that I could walk right out (avoiding eye contact most of the time). I believe the hydrocodone prevented me from developing any sense of rage or indignance; when she apologized (quickly, ushering me out the door), I was simply too tired and dejected to acknowledge her with any reply.
I was still crying as I shuffled out the front doors, and fully ready for a pity party. When I finally got to the office, three hours late, I ate two bowls of Cocoa Pebbles.
I have not yet returned to my stress equilibrium, but at least I have had chocolate.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 6:35 PM]