Do Doctors Realize How Stupid They Sound?

Me being still obsessed with my complete inability to eat anything, I'd like to share two conversations I had in the ER early Tuesday morning. Both of these happened while I was on a lot of dilaudid, mind you, so I was a bit more, um, direct than I usually am.

Conversation 1:

Dr: We need to test the function of your gallbladder.

Me: Okay.

Dr.: We can't do it right now, you'll have to schedule it later.

Me: Okay. So what does that involve?

Dr.: They'll inject a nuclear dye into your gallbladder to make it spasm-

Me: Wait, wait, wait. Isn't spasming what's going on right now? That's what's causing the pain, right?

Dr.: Well, yes, but we need to see-

Me: So you expect me to walk into a room knowing that I'm going to leave feeling like this, only without the dilaudid and the toridol?

Dr.: Well, yes, but in order to-

Me: Just how many different kinds of crazy do you think I am?

Seriously, how do you say that to someone? "Hey, I've got a great opportunity for you to deliberately feel the sort of pain that makes you beg for death! Sign up now!" Um, no, I'd rather not.

Conversation 2 (after 4 shots of dilaudid and 2 of toridol):

Dr.: If we can't get your pain under control, we'll have to admit you.

Me: And do what?

Dr.: What?

Me: What are you going to do on the 8th floor that you aren't doing here?

Dr.: Um, well, we can work on controlling the pain.

Me: You just gave me enough dilaudid to knock out an elephant, does the dilaudid work better the higher up you are?

Dr.: No.

Me: I can't sleep on dilaudid. I can't stop grinding my teeth on dilaudid. I'd like to go home, wait for the dilaudid to wear off and sleep in my comfortable bed with my pillow that smells like me. I don't see how being in some overly bright room with some roommate who wants to watch Fox News at top volume would be any better.

Dr.: I can't release you with uncontrolled pain. It's against hospital regulations and it's unethical.

Me: and I have insurance, so those things matter, I suppose. My pain's all gone now, get this IV out and send me home.

Really, pain? Don't make me laugh. Me and pain are old friends, the kind that can't stand each other anymore, but we've been together so long we don't know what else to do. Ethics? Every doctor I've ever seen undertreats my pain deliberately because they're scared of the DEA or they think I'm lying, but all of a sudden undertreating pain is unethical? Like you'd care if I didn't have insurance? Fuck off.

Cranky, Cranky Me

So after years of constant low-grade nausea and random abdominal pain, I have a diagnosis: biliary dyskinesia, basically my gallbladder spasms uncontrollably for no apparent reason. I even have a suggested treatment: yank that fucker out! Except that actual research shows that gallbladder removal isn't as successful for treating biliary dyskinesia as it for treating gallstones. As in, I could risk a surgery and not feel better. Nor does there really seem to be a risk to biliary dyskinesia other than crippling pain. Oh, hello, pain, my old friend. Come to visit me again?

The other treatment is to follow the diet recommended for those who have had their gallbladders removed, which can be best described as What the fuck do I eat, then? Not the hollandaise sauce that went with last night's flounder and steamed vegetables. Not the cookies currently in the break room, being all delicious. Not the 50 cent bag of chips in the snack machine that has the advantage of being cheap and holding back hunger for another hour and who doesn't like chips?

FUCK! I'd have the surgery just to be able to enjoy cookies and hollandaise sauce (who wants to live forever, anyway?), except that I wouldn't be able to eat them after the surgery, either. FUCKFUCKFUCK!!

Yeah, I'm gonna miss food. I'm also likely to make the people around me miss me eating food. It's not so much that misery loves company, as it is that misery demands company.