Hysteriawatch Final

Intervention Radiologists 3
LaCootina 0

Sunday morning, part of my central line catheter ("Portitia") went cablooey. The outer plastic line cracked and sent saline a'flyin' all over the room. My nurses spent the rest of the day trying to find out what could be done and when, from a department called Intervention Radiologists. First, the Intervention Radiologists (for our purposes here, the "IR Pricks") refused to give even a ballpark time frame for when they would see me. I understand that on their planet, where they are no doubt worshipped as gods, one little catheter going "cablooey!" does not constitute an emergency. But all I was looking for was maybe a 4-hour time frame, because I wanted someone to be with me. The lucky task fell to Sis, who WORKS FOR A LIVING and so if the IR Pricks could just have said "Oh, it won't be until after noon." That could have been so very helpful, and just a slight indication of humanity.

I'm exercising all my limited patience all day long, stretched so thin you could see through it, because there is a chance, just a chance that the cablooey can be repaired and surgery will not be needed. However, there still existed a chance for surgery, so all day long I had to hold off on almost all my meds, and couldn't eat anything. Now at 30+hours since cablooey, I am ravenously hungry, blinding headache, anxiety very close to pee-my-pants level, exhausted, frustrated, using all my SuperPowers not to have a screaming meltdown on the nurses or my poor Sis because I have one goal, one minute obsession: if they can't repair it and i have to have surgery again, I don't want to be awake, I want to be knocked out.

Well, that's a no-brainer, you say. What kind of asshole would expect you to be awake during surgery? DING DING DING DING!

If I had been physically capable of doing so, I would have gotten up off the table and run. But I couldn't, so here's the 15-20 minute conversation that will haunt me for the rest of my life:
Me: I want to be out. Knock me out. Get the twilight stuff. I don't want to be awake.
IRP: Oh, it'll just take a few minutes. It'll be over before you know it.
Me: I DON'T WANT TO BE AWAKE. KNOCK ME OUT. KNOCK ME OUT. PLEASE! PLEASE!
{{{extreme pain, discomfort, nausea burbling, more pain, pain PAIN}}}
IRP: Nurse, can you fribulate the franchenator and blagivate the phericory?
ME: STOP I DON'T WANT TO BE AWAKE IT HURTS I CAN FEEL IT
{{{hurt hurt pain stop hurt stop stop}}}
IRP: ...and just FORCE IT here...!
ME: STOP STOP STOP PLEASE STOP NOW
IRP: {harrumph, big whiny crybaby}

Now, almost 24 hours later, I am only beginning to calm down. Because everything is "fresh" again, i feel like i have a javelin run through me. I know that ice packs and time will greatly relieve that. And I acknowledge that my version of the event is probably distorted by hunger, exhaustion, pain, hypersensitivity. But even with all those mitigating factors, I am asking them to tell me why I was not allowed to be sedated for the procedure.

EPILOGUE: I started this process by calling "Patient Services" and was initially treated rather frostily by John. I very briefly told him I had some issues with the way things were done by IR and would like to see the notes from those procedures. John insisted that I could not access any of my records or reports until after I was discharged from the facility. I told him to please check with his attorneys on that and I would do the same. Next thing i know, ol' John is knockin' at my door. Yessum, I can access those records and yessum, could he shine my feet, seeing as how i wasn't wearing any shoes? I doubt that I will get satisfactory answers... but by gum, I'll get answers!