Hospital fraud

The night to end my worst weekend in years was even worse than the preceding two days.  I woke up every two hours with excruciating pain in my abdomen.  I went through the by now established bathroom routine, which didn’t help.  I went back to find rest, turning left, turning right - sorry for repeating myself - before ending up where I had started, on my back and in great discomfort.  Eventually, I would fall asleep again.

In the morning, I called the emergency ward.  They connected me with the surgeon who had performed the hemicolectomy.  She invited me to come up to figure out what was wrong.  “The CT scanner is already warming up”, she said.  I shuffled to the bus stop and made it to the hospital in one piece, mighty proud of myself.  My belly still hurt as if someone had forgotten not just little scalpel inside but a full-size cheesegrater.

Over the next six hours - so much time that I even started watching TV by the end - my blood was analyzed and I was CT’ed.  Word of my curious reaction to iodine during the first CT had got out.  This time, I got a preemptive shot of anti-histamine.  It was a rather bizarre experience to have the anti-histamine and the contrast agent battle it out inside my body.  The anti-histamine recorded a narrow win.

All blood tests came back good.  The CT looked all right too, certainly no problems related to the surgery.  The radiologist had flagged slightly thickened walls of the stomach and the small intestine.  Could be an infection, bacterial or viral, or something I’d eaten.  “It doesn’t matter”, the doctor said.  “I’d like to keep you here for a couple of nights to see that you’re getting better.”  If I were a normal, healthy person, she’d have sent me home to sleep it off.

I’m not healthy, but the curious thing is that I was feeling so much better already.  Maybe it was the wholesome air of the hospital.  Maybe it was the reassurance that nothing grave was wrong with me (besides what is obviously gravely wrong with me).  Most likely, it was my body winning the battle – and it would have done so, even if I had stayed at home.

By the afternoon, I felt a bit like a fraud.  The pain was largely gone, and I was hungry for the first time in days.  I looked to myself like an intruder in the hospital, keen on attention and rest.  To the doctors and carers I looked like a patient.  I went back to the simplest meals, the kind of which had got me started after the surgery.  I won’t be gaining any weight this way, but it will probably help my digestion get back up to speed.

If I can draw any conclusions from this episode, it might be these.

• I’m not as strong as I used to be or as I wish I’d be.  The cancer and the operation have taken their toll.  In the past, I would not have struggled for more than two days with whatever it was.  In fact, I never have.
• I’m still strong, against the odds.  I’m strong enough to take care of myself.  I don’t need doctors for banalities.  It will be a different story on Monday morning, when chemotherapy starts and my strength will be put to the real test.

It’s easy to get used to being at the hospital for little whiles at a time.  People are friendly, take care of you, feed you (depending on the shape you’re in) and you relax, recover and rest.  After one night, I should be ready for work and then family, but will the doctors be ready for that?