This golden girl’s saga continues…
Suffice it to say that it was a bit premature to feel better about this whole Obstructive Jaundice/Gallstones mess that I found myself in. (Read What healthcare system? and Life goes on for this golden girl to get the full story.)
By Sunday, my tolerance for the lack of forward motion dwindled to nil. The surgeon’s nurse didn’t call me back with the answer to the question about taking the gallbladder out before having an ERCP.
Deflated and angry, and feeling worse every day that passed, I vented in the only way I know how: I wrote. It took a bit of searching to find places on the UAMS site to communicate, and stumbled on two. One was a form found by following a bunch of links through the physician referral section, and the other a “comment” email address.
Diagnosed on February 29, and still, nothing has been done. I’ve called myself “the golden girl” for the past week, jokingly. Despite the obvious yellow color, I’m not overly sick; just uncomfortable now and then. And tired.
I figured I’d hear something on Monday. For me, Mondays are productive. I get organized, I tie up loose ends, I plan out what to do when. Mondays are also the busiest days of the week in the office, so the day flew by. It wasn’t until the day was done that I realized UAMS didn’t call and didn’t schedule the ERCP. It wasn’t until Wednesday that I had the time to call the surgeon’s office.
The sweetheart of a nurse was surprised when I told her I was still sitting and waiting. She’d call down there, then call me back, and she did a few hours later.
Take a ride with me. I’m going to tell you the story of my latest bump. I’ll get over my angst about ranting over a personal problem, something I find a bit uncomfortable, because I know with certainty that my experiences aren’t unusual.
About a month ago, I ran through the drive-through of a local fast food fish place after a long day. I ate about half of the fish and cole slaw and went to bed. A half hour before the alarm went off the next morning, I was in the bathroom, sending that poor excuse for a meal down the drain in a projectile manner. Convinced I was dying, I called in sick to work and went back to bed.