I don't usually complain about my husband, Drip Dry, here on the public airwaves.Nor do I make it a habit to discuss my digestive distress.
But in this post I'm going to do them both together. And - for the ease of my readers - let me just tell you that when I refer to the "D" word, I am defining that disgusting word which I absolutely detest - diarrhea. . .or the word I most decidedly prefer - dysentery.
So it all started last week when I began having some vague abdominal discomfort along with a low-grade fever. By Saturday morning I had determined that the pain was so debilitating that I decided to drag myself to the ER. Now, mind you, I begged Drip Dry to drop me off at the door so I could en-dure the or-deal alone, but he refused to be deterred.
Now, I can't determine if Drip Dry has developed an innate defense mechanism to deflect his own discomfort in hospital settings, but he definitely turns into a decidedly different person when he goes through those revolving doors. He enters them a relatively-sane and intelligent creature, and exits on the other side - not exactly dumb or defective - but we'll just call it a tad bit. . . deranged. You see, Drip Dry is decidedly inquisitive by nature, but somehow his whole "inquiring minds want to know" thing goes spiraling out of control and instead of dealing with the medical data at hand- he morphs into some kind of detective and attempts to discover everything - and anything - he can about his surroundings.
So as I'm signing in at the desk - in decided discomfort - the receptionist takes a palm scan of my hand and explains it's a new way of i-dentifying patients. Now this little discovery made Drip Dry almost delirious with joy and he began to try and discern everything he could about this new display of technology. . . all while I am standing next to him in debilitating pain and dying to drop myself into the wheelchair next to me. But - alas - the two receptionists are so enthralled by Drip Dry's disruptions and diversions that they forget all about me and then proceed to deride me when I incorrectly assumed that the process of placing myself in the chair had devolved on to me.
Eventually, despite the distractions, I am somehow delivered into the inner sanctums of the ER and Drip Dry meets my designated nurse for the first time, where his detective skills are further put to work - bombarding her with a deluge of questions and demanding to know all about her life. . . in other words distracting her from her tasks with his discussion. . . at which point I try to divert his attention by suggesting he take a walk and make his discoveries elsewhere. And when he came back from his exploratory trip (and I swear to God he used this word) he asked her about the demographics of ER patients at that time of day - which he had decidedly determined were. . . well. . .old. I then reminded Drip Dry that the pediatric ER was directly on the other side of the building and suggested that he go check out the demographic data over there, but he definitively declined.
Enter the doctor.
So the M."D" proceeds to ask me to describe my symptoms in detail, and - after I am done - he does his due diligence by asking me if there's "anything else" I've been experiencing . . . like, perhaps, the "D" word???? Now actually I had been battling with the "D" word for about two weeks, but I was raised to believe that a lady doesn't discuss those kinds of things unless directly asked. . . so, hence, I demurely divulged that - yes - I had been experiencing the "D" word.
And at this precise moment Drip Dry proceeds to enter the discussion and defiantly declares, "But that's not unusual for her."
Excuse my momentary diversion here, but did you know that back in the dark ages a British king would have a dignitary designated as "Groom of the Stool"? Now this particular job was a decidedly distinguished position because he got to deliver the king's daily dump to the royal doctor each morning. . . after which the doctor would dissect said stool - trying to decipher and detect signs of royal disease, dysentery, decay, or other debilitating defects in the king's deposit which might indicate the king's untimely demise. If he found none, he then duly decreed the king fit to do his duty for another day.
Now, what the devil possessed Drip Dry to deduce that he had been deputized as my own personal "Groom of the Stool", is beyond me. And perhaps I was a tad bit delirious with discomfort at that point - but I'm still wondering why I didn't debunk his statement then and there. . . for, in truth, the duration of the "D" word was - without a doubt - decidedly unusual for me. But - whatever the determining factors - his statement had the effect of dissembling, detracting, and derailing the discussion - while disguising what may have definitely been an i-dentifying symptom and perhaps depriving me of a direct diagnosis.
All to my detriment!
So to make a long story short. . . after Drip Dry decodes the meaning of the "crash cart" in the CT room. . . and discovers that he, himself, has a swollen and distended thumb that may need the doctor's attention. . . I then needed to direct old Drippy to desist trying to operate the blood pressure cuff himself. . . which was quickly followed by a heated debate about whether the little thingy they place on your dorsal digit (otherwise know as a finger) displays your oxygenation rate or your pulse ( I was right - it determines and displays both) the doctors decide to send me home with a un-dignified diagnosis of the detection of gallstones.
And told me to wait it out.
Which I did.
Diligently, I might add.
Until I dragged myself unaccompanied to my own doctor on Monday who - due to the discomfort and duration of the "D" word - diagnosed diverticulitis and placed me on antibiotics and a special diet which is destined to solve my digestive dilemma!
With no thanks to Drip Dry . . .
who I just may now designate as my deranged, yet dedicated,
"Duke of the Derriere "
