On June 3, I entered the hospital for surgery and checked out 24 hours later because hospitals have taken to emulating the fast food industry. (I suspect their ultimate goal is to remove a spleen in the same amount of time it takes to prepare a cheeseburger.)
So I went home and all was well....
Until I awoke in great distress about 2:30 a.m. this morning with a suspected complication. It was too suspicious to ignore, so I had to go to the ER. And they kept me there all night. And this morning they decided to admit me.
The world's loudest Physician's Assistant (Lauren the Loudmouth) woke me up by hitting the lights and shrieking, GOOD MORNING, MRS. NOLAN. DR. SO-AND-SO HAS DECIDED TO ADMIT YOU FOR SOME TESTS AND XRAYS AND A CAT SCAN AND AN UPPER GI SO THEY CAN SEE WHAT'S GOING ON IN THERE. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS? NO? OKAY, THEN. SOMEONE WILL BE WHEELING YOU UP TO THE NINTH TOWER IN A MINUTE. AND DON'T EAT OR DRINK ANYTHING.
I'm not sure what was more terrifying. The blind panic that spread through me as I was jolted from sleep to discover myself alone in a strange place being screamed at by a Nazi Wannabe, or the news that I was to be taken to The Ninth Tower. (I don't know about you, but I find The Ninth Tower somewhat sinister sounding. It makes me think of Richard the Third, and the two little princes, and other medieval jollies.)
Bring on the leeches! Let the blood-letting begin!
I wish I could have a drink of water....