The rest of my Friday involved greeting my parents and drinking every non-alcoholic, non-caffeinated beverage that wasn't nailed down. After all, the nice nurse did tell me I could get dehydrated from the CATscan dye. With my parents in town to check on my recovery, I decide to "go crazy" and have a twelve ounce Pepsi with dinner, the only caffeine all day. After all that's just a little caffeine and the CATscan was 10 hours earlier. We make plans for Tom's Big Day Out the next day, since I have basically just been a crotch icing hermit for the past week.
I get up in the morning excited to start the day. I take my medication and get ready for the fun filled day ahead of us. We have so many plans! Shopping for tools. Fixing the boat. And other great feats that would have me more than 100 feet from the house (and that number is relevant later). Then I have a feeling...downstairs...in the back. It kinda feels like I have to go. But I kinda don't have to go. Then the feeling kinda feels stronger. I go into the bathroom, sit down and...well, how to explain it. Remember the old movies where the army grabs the battering ram and hits the two huge doors to the castle and they don't budge? Something like that.
You know, it is at this point I remember reading somewhere on that checklist before the CATscan "Have you ever had any adverse reaction to the dye?" We checked "No" because somehow, I have never had this particular medical procedure before. Because of my gastro-intestinal issues, most of my medical tests involves me being violated in some way. I have things done to my body that would be considered obscene outside of the operating room, I even think that some are illegal in Alabama, (and a bar show in Tijuana). But I have never had a CATscan. I remember hearing the guy just down from us filling out his form while I was trying to choke down the orange flavored cement "What the heck is the dye? Squid ink?" I didn't pay any attention, because if I have been poked, stuck, sampled, scanned, scraped, sliced and diced, I can walk through this test and it's wimpy dye!
Then it hits me again. I feel like I am going to pass out. Now I have the same army, with a slightly bigger battering ram, except this time they are trying to break through the mail slot, and still aren't getting anywhere. The pain is immense. Because I have had so many tests, I am familiar with a little painkiller back up, but nothing like this. It feels like I have the back up of constipation with the urgency of diarrhea. In between contractions, I grab a liter bottle of water. I must have gotten too dehydrated yesterday. I down the water and fill it up again. And again. Embarrassed beyond belief, I beg my wife to run to the pharmacy and get me some relief, ANY RELIEF! Still sore from the surgery, I can't stand up completely straight, and now with this going on, it hurts to sit in a chair...or lie on a bed...or breath...or blink. I park myself in the bathroom waiting for something, anything to happen. I start sweating, but feel chilled at the same time. I take off my clothes and think about jumping in the shower between squeezing and slamming. Maybe the hot water will help, I don't know. It can't hurt. My wife arrives and walks in to something a spouse should never have to walk in on. I am on the toilet, weak from all of this, and naked from almost, not quite, thinking about getting in the shower. The ordeal to this point has produce just a few brown dots in the toilet (another thing a spouse should never have to see). She says "You were successful? You don't need this?" I snatch whatever it is in her hand and start to rip it open. She told me that the pharmacist said this happens sometimes in reaction to CATscans and gave me some other instructions. He also told her that if this didn't work, I would have to use an enema. At this point, I am upset that she didn't grab an enema too.
Satisfied that relief is just around the bend, I grab the pills and take a swig of water. The funny thing about drinking three quarts of water in a short amount of time, you run out of space. None of it makes it past my mouth. I set the pills down, and then things get worse.!
People with severe gastro-esophageal reflux disease (and in my case paired with an esophageal ulcer and a hiatal hernia) can have a surgery called a laparoscopic Nissen fundiplication (and those three words just made my spellcheck start smoking). It is a great surgery and only really has one side effect. You can longer regurgitate. Your mind and stomach don't know this, but your throat is one way only now. So, the signals keep getting sent, and the muscles react, but everything stays where it started. This is really not that big of a problem...unless you just drank three quarts of water and then tried to take one more drink with two pills.
The heaves start. For some reason, even though I had this stomach surgery twelve years ago, I still lean over the toilet out of habit. Something else a spouse should never witness, although there is a small part of me that is glad she finally witnessed this anomaly. When people ask about the surgery, and you tell them about the side-effect, you usually get a skeptical glance back. Now I have a witness! This goes on for what seems like hours, but was probably about twenty seconds. I finally stop, get to my feet, when my wife asks, "What's that?" Newton's third law of motion states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. In the midst of everything else going on, the pushing and lack of motion in the front, led to a pushing and lack of motion in the back...except for a few brown spots on the carpet. I am positive now my wife can walk in front of any judge in the world, relay what she has witnessed in the past five minutes, and be granted an immediate annulment.
I manage to choke down the pills. I jump in the shower as I wait for them to work. I get out and read the package. "Expect results in 6-12 hours." I wish she would have gotten the enema too. I manage to awkwardly get onto the bed. It has only been fifteen minutes, I might as well get comfortable...uh-oh, better take a walk, a really quick walk. I sit down, and minimal success. The army is still there. I try to lay down again, no I don't. Army isn't budging. I decided it is best to remain upright so I can move quicker and walk outside to talk to my parents...I mean back inside...standing army...back outside....inside. I bet that my parents are really glad they came to see this! Within an hour, the medicine worked. I feel like the Octomom after baby six or seven, but I can sit comfortably now.
I am ready to go on with my plans with my parents. We need to go to the store, then fix the boat... Then I remember what the pill bottle said, "Expect results in 6-12 hours." Did it work so fast because I hadn't eaten anything in twelve hours? Did it works so fast because I drank half of Lake Erie this morning? Or am I 5-11 hours from expecting results. Over the next twenty minutes or so, I do get some more results, and then nothing. But I am scared. I am very scared. If this stuff worked that good within an hour, what are results going to be like in the optimal time. We decide to call off shopping or anything that involves me in a vehicle with upholstery until the twelve hours is up. We will work on the boat later. Later comes. The boat is in the backyard in my workshop. Without a bathroom. We can fix the boat later.
Six hours came and went, as well as twelve without incident. As I recover from the day's event, I read up on the literature the oncologist gave me. The active surveillance option for my treatment calls for about twenty- five CATscans over the next ten years, including every four months for the first few years. I think we can throw the active surveillance option RIGHT out the window. I continue to recover from my surgery and "labor" until the oncologist visit Tuesday. I tell the oncologist about the horrific reaction to the dye, and how I would like to limit the times I have to go through that test. The formerly nice oncologist tells me I didn't have that reaction. My wife chimes in to say that I most certainly did have that reaction (she probably has it permanently etched in her memory). The distantly nice oncologist again states that I didn't have that reaction. It must be the painkillers...that I have been off of for a week...and have already experienced and gone through that with a lot less trouble...which I would have told him had he given me the chance.
Tomorrow, I will talk about my search for a new oncologist!
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