What Genius Put Creamed Onions on the Hospital Menu?

Last Friday I had weird pains and swellings that I chose to ignore. On Saturday they started getting worse, and since my response to every unknown is to go online, I headed straight to WebMD. I thought it was only hypochondriacs who read lists of symptoms and thought, “Just as I suspected! Legionnaire’s Disease!” but sure enough, there were my symptoms, every single one, and the diagnosis wasn’t good.

I’m a person who rarely even gets colds, so when Web MD (then the Blue Cross Nurseline Lady) said I probably had a serious ailment, I wasn’t convinced. They both directed me – “now” – to the emergency room, and since I’m not a complete idiot, I went.

Sitting in the drab waiting room with the TV and its relentless CNN news feed, I still wasn't sure I should be there. I was so unconvinced I had only brought keys and a wallet, not even a book. Though the pain was getting worse and I was sweating from fever, I naively expected the doctor to pat me on the head, give me some meds, and ask me to follow up in a couple days.

‘Fraid not.

Instead I got: “we have to keep you overnight,” then at 4 a.m. “we have to do a CAT scan,” then at 6 a.m. “we have to do surgery.” It was like I was a rube in a fixed poker game where the ante kept getting bigger and bigger.

I’m not going into detail about the condition because the details are not for the squeamish, but let’s just say I hope you never hear your doctor utter the words, “It grew from the size of an olive to a tennis ball in less than 48 hours.” Unless you just got breast implants. (Sorry, bad joke. Inactivity and pain make me cranky.)

By the morning of surgery the pain had degenerated to the gasping and crying variety, which shocked me, since I tend to respond to all forms of discomfort with stoic optimism. Like my friend Summer said, I’m more the, “My arm just got lopped off, but let me help you with those groceries with the other!” type. It’s psychotic, I know.

Three years ago I suffered a major head injury and actually left my mother a voicemail that began, “No need to worry about me, but something happened this weekend you should know about….” A pool of blood on the kitchen floor? That might be worth some worry.

This week I exposed my parts to more strangers than any remotely modest person should, and was poked and prodded with an almost gleeful abandon. The most egregious poker/prodder was one of the surgeons. It was around six in the morning on day three of my stay and I had finally gotten to sleep for the night – hospitals are not the place to be if you need rest – and had been asleep about an hour when she burst into the room with her entourage of residents, flipped on the overhead light (which seemed as bright as the sun to my groggy mind), and barked a cheerful “Hello!” Like I should be thrilled that four strangers were about to lay both eyes and hands on my naked, sore body.

I whispered a creaky hello in response.

This was not good enough for Ms. Cheery Pants. “Come on now, one more time.” She shot her crew a smile that said, you want to see brilliant bedside manner? Watch and learn. “Hello!” She sang out like she was auditioning for the “Star Spangled Banner” gig at a Mets game.

“Hello, hello, hello!” I growled, though she entirely missed my sarcasm.

She said she wanted to see how I was doing post-surgery, and of course the best way to do that is to poke the area that was operated on.

Her: “Does this hurt?” (Poke.)

Me: “Ow.”

Her, picking a spot a half inch to the left: “Does this hurt?” (Poke.)

Me: “Ow!”

Her, picking a third spot, because apparently it wasn’t clear from my responses exactly how much pain I was in, asked, “Does this hurt?” (Poke.)

Me: “Ow! Ow! Yes!”

Yes was the magic word. Satisfied at last, she and her entourage whisked out of the room to torture the next patient, leaving me uncovered and glowing under the glare of fluorescents she forgot to turn off. Too tired to seethe, I pulled the covers up and went back to sleep. For an hour, because then it was time to take my blood pressure.

I’m home now and feel a little better every day. I see my doctor this afternoon, and I’m hoping he’ll tell me the incision looks good and I’m on the road to recovery. But if he says “we need to keep you overnight,” I’m outta there.