I'm home!*
The Good Doctor ShoulderMan worked his magic on Monday, gifting me with a new left shoulder. He had to do some rearranging but he made it work.
But, of course, this being me (me, under the everloving influence of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, both of us under the magic skies deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé) -- well.
Well, on the "deep tissue" stain, we finally found bacteria waving back at us, all gram-positive-y, upbeat, and downright defiant. But, of course, this being me (me, under the everloving influence of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, both of us under the magic skies deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé)-- Wait one freaking minute! (The fog of anesthesia?)
As of Day 2, there was, natch, no growth on culture! My Infectious Disease Dood's eyes are bugging out. Bless his bones, he cannot decide when, and how much, to lie to me -- in his mind, I think, he sees this as "managing" the patient.
Because, you see, I refused insertion of a PICC line. They thought I was just posturing, joshing, when I made the declaration before surgery. But, of course, this being me (me, under the everloving influence of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, both of us under the magic skies deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé) -- arg! Sorry about that, and je vous prie de bien vouloir m'excuser, too -- covering all my bases.
So, Infectious Disease Dood decides that I need Zyvox, a ridiculously expensive antibiotic that just happens to have serious interaction issues with 3 of my meds, as well as some nasty side effects all on its own. The deciding factor? Insurance coverage, as the $1500/week cost doesn't fit my very tired budget. Anyway... Fred and I think it was all a plot. As in, ID Dood was expecting BCBS -- Bull Crap Bull Skeet of Tête-de-Hergé -- to refuse coverage.
I was held hostage, told I could not leave the hospital without either the Zyvox or a PICC line with trusty i.v. med balls full of vancomycin.
[I know that it's overkill for the vanco hyperlink to refer back to this blog, but it astonished me, upon searching, to find out how much vancomycin has occupied my life and mind, and what it has come to signify. Allow me that rare {raspy cough} professorial moment of recommending a read of Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5. Wunnerful wunnerful commentary --
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
I'm just sayin'.]
Fools! They didn't know with whom they were messing. Once Fred, all bleary-eyed and pooped, arrived... well, we were hell-bent on leaving the hearsepital. At that point, ID Dood and His ID Minions began weaving tangled webs.
Case managers arrived. All nurses with decision-making capacity suddenly were off the floor, scarfing down lunch. And didn't I wish to order lunch? And, uh-oh, the medication you must take before eating hasn't come up from pharmacy. Let's get a blood sugar and another set of vitals! And then they sneak in: They'll be up to put in the line in about 2 hours, no need to go down to Interventional Radiology, how great is that? [I despise the huge, cold, scary room down in IR.]
They promise a nirvana-inducing insertion, complete with a soundtrack. And lest I scoff, they cite:
The Good Doctor ShoulderMan worked his magic on Monday, gifting me with a new left shoulder. He had to do some rearranging but he made it work.
But, of course, this being me (me, under the everloving influence of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, both of us under the magic skies deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé) -- well.
Well, on the "deep tissue" stain, we finally found bacteria waving back at us, all gram-positive-y, upbeat, and downright defiant. But, of course, this being me (me, under the everloving influence of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, both of us under the magic skies deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé)-- Wait one freaking minute! (The fog of anesthesia?)
As of Day 2, there was, natch, no growth on culture! My Infectious Disease Dood's eyes are bugging out. Bless his bones, he cannot decide when, and how much, to lie to me -- in his mind, I think, he sees this as "managing" the patient.
Because, you see, I refused insertion of a PICC line. They thought I was just posturing, joshing, when I made the declaration before surgery. But, of course, this being me (me, under the everloving influence of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, both of us under the magic skies deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé) -- arg! Sorry about that, and je vous prie de bien vouloir m'excuser, too -- covering all my bases.
So, Infectious Disease Dood decides that I need Zyvox, a ridiculously expensive antibiotic that just happens to have serious interaction issues with 3 of my meds, as well as some nasty side effects all on its own. The deciding factor? Insurance coverage, as the $1500/week cost doesn't fit my very tired budget. Anyway... Fred and I think it was all a plot. As in, ID Dood was expecting BCBS -- Bull Crap Bull Skeet of Tête-de-Hergé -- to refuse coverage.
I was held hostage, told I could not leave the hospital without either the Zyvox or a PICC line with trusty i.v. med balls full of vancomycin.
[I know that it's overkill for the vanco hyperlink to refer back to this blog, but it astonished me, upon searching, to find out how much vancomycin has occupied my life and mind, and what it has come to signify. Allow me that rare {raspy cough} professorial moment of recommending a read of Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5. Wunnerful wunnerful commentary --
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
I'm just sayin'.]
Fools! They didn't know with whom they were messing. Once Fred, all bleary-eyed and pooped, arrived... well, we were hell-bent on leaving the hearsepital. At that point, ID Dood and His ID Minions began weaving tangled webs.
Case managers arrived. All nurses with decision-making capacity suddenly were off the floor, scarfing down lunch. And didn't I wish to order lunch? And, uh-oh, the medication you must take before eating hasn't come up from pharmacy. Let's get a blood sugar and another set of vitals! And then they sneak in: They'll be up to put in the line in about 2 hours, no need to go down to Interventional Radiology, how great is that? [I despise the huge, cold, scary room down in IR.]
They promise a nirvana-inducing insertion, complete with a soundtrack. And lest I scoff, they cite:
PICC the Music and Travel to the Port of Relaxation: Preliminary Results of the Effects of Music on Perceived Pain and Anxiety During the Placement of Ports and PICCs
Journal of Radiology Nursing, Volume 26, Issue 2, Pages 61-62
C. McDaniel, M. Burkett, M. Cormier, J. Duvallm, S. Davis, L. East, G. Gilmer, N. Mahaffey, M. Moran
Giggle.
Journal of Radiology Nursing, Volume 26, Issue 2, Pages 61-62
C. McDaniel, M. Burkett, M. Cormier, J. Duvallm, S. Davis, L. East, G. Gilmer, N. Mahaffey, M. Moran
Giggle.
We left. Politely. Give me a call when you all figure out the antibiotic situation, okay?
Amazingly, BCBS of Tête de Hergé decided to fork over the money and my pharmacist, who inexplicably informs me that "[i]t's like déja-vu," promises that I'll have these ridiculous little white tablets by noon the next day.
My BCBS policy, for which I pay $1328/month [Remember: my (private) disability income is a whopping $1996.20. Without that luxurious twenty extra cents, all would be lost!] -- My policy dictates that I pay for medications and then receive reimbursement of whatever they think arbitrarily fair.
So what a hoot it was to have Discover Card's Fraud Unit calling me, all breathless. Did I know that a $3030.00 charge was just made at the nearby Huge Grocery Chain? That was for a mere 14 days worth, ID Dood suggesting I buy the Zyvox in 2 wk lots, in case I need to stop it for some reason or other. Anyway, to the inquiry about the charge:
"Yep!" said I.
There was a tremendous pause. It was absolutely KILLING the woman on the other end of the line to not be told WHAT I had bought. So she rephrased the question, and, on cue, reiterated the pregnant pause.
"That's right!" I crowed. Her frustration was now palpable.
Why not give her something to liven up the day? Let her imagine an elegant late dinner of lobster and caviar, un petit souper à la parisienne [or A Family of Sans-Culottes refreshing, after the fatigues of the day]. Just a little casse-croûte thrown together by a retired French prof whose purchase habits extended to extravagances of generic yogurt and diet cola. Okay, okay -- I also splurge on almonds and good coffee.
By the time the credit card gods were appeased, the antibacterial troops put all in a ducky row, my clothes 'n sundries put away, urgent emails answered, ablutions completed, phone calls returned? I truly felt like shit. I was febrile to the tune of 101 degrees, sweating, and hurting like the proverbial Dickens ["Fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of friendship; and pass the rosy wine!" -- ummm, any excuse for passing on my favorite Dickens quote].
Alas, poor Yorrick (sic), a quick and easy search about the origin of the phrase "hurts like the dickens" reveals the following:
Posted by James Briggs on December 18, 2001
In Reply to: Re: Hurts like the dickens posted by R. Berg on December 18, 2001
: : My son said this at supper tonight........."It hurt like the Dickens". We wondered if any one knows the origin? I have also heard "scared the dickens out of me". Any enlightenment would be appreciated.
: From the archives, here's a response to the same question.
: Posted by ESC on January 12, 2001:
: "Dickens" is a euphemism for "devil" as in "'what the dickens,'.an
expression common centuries before Charles Dickens was born, having been used by
Shakespeare in 'The Merry Wives of Windsor'." "Morris Dictionary of Word and
Phrase Origins" by William and Mary Morris (HarperCollins, New York, 1977,
1988).
It may be an altered pronunciation of "devilkin"
En tout cas... since then, it's been a topsy-turvy time but anything beats being in the hearsepital. And, thank goodness, we only have to visit ID DoodLand once a week versus the usual three or four times.
My MDVIP Go-To-Guy? He opined in an email: "I'm glad it's over and done with. We are all a bit skeptical that this will take care of everything but please try and keep positive thoughts and prayers as we all are trying to do." I have noticed that since his switch to MDVIP, he communicates much more freely and makes frequent reference to prayer, saying that I am being kept in prayer. At first, I was somewhat taken aback. Now? I am thoroughly appreciative and almost virginal in the prose with which I write him.
However, I will visit Holy Ruin on the first person to suggest removal of this prosthesis.
I'm just sayin'.
*******************************************************************************************
I’m just sayin’…
I’m pretty tired of people using the phrase “I’m just sayin’…”
I’m pretty tired of people using the phrase “I’m just sayin’…”
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