As you can probably tell from my lack of posts - I haven't posted many articles in a while. That's oxymoronic, sort of like the phrase medical intelligence.
To begin, if you work with me in the laser guided litter box research & development division over at American Corrugated Conglomerated Industries of America, this article may contain several instances of TMI (too much information for those of you born prior to 1965). So if you think you may get uncomfortable, please stop here. No here. Or here.
Several months ago I started having some discomfort in the jingle-jangles. This happens from time to time. Sometimes it's from wrestling with my son and getting kicked, other times it's the result of a 12 hour orgy with the Ravens' cheerleaders. This time the pain got to the point where I was getting concerned and it was affecting my disposition. I decided it was time to go to my doctor.
To complicate matters, I had to go to a new doctor because my previous doctor decided that $5 per procedure was insufficient reimbursement from my insurance company, so he dropped me like a body down the staircase. My new doctor is actually my old-old doctor that I got rid of because she sucks. Hmm......
So I go to the doctor and tell her that her that my jelly-beans are achy. It's not a sharp pain, but more of a radiating pain. It never seems to be in the same area and I cannot seem to locate the exact source of pain, despite my probing. She thinks there's nothing wrong, but sends me for a sonogram.
I called to make an appointment to see the sonogramist. This is on a Friday in September. Unfortunately, they have no openings for sonograms, but they do have several openings for teddy-grams, and candy-grams.
I make the appointment for a Monday and they tell me not to urinate all weekend and to drink 8 gallons of prune juice on Monday morning. This will help expand my bladder so that they can do before and after urination images, which may help detect any problems.
That Monday I walk in sloshing back and forth with my pants unbuttoned half-way down my thighs. They make me wait 45 minutes and I see them peeking over the counter pointing and laughing as they play videos of waterfalls and flushing toilets in the waiting room.
I finally get called back and this nice lady puts me up on the table. She then pulls the sonogram image reader out of the freezer, places it on my snow pencil causing me to shriek like an 8-year old girl, and then does a pile-driver into my bladder. I tell her that this cat Shaft is one bad mother.... She hollers, "Shut your mouth!" I tell her that I'm talking about the shaft, to which she replies, "Then I can dig it!" She finishes the pre-urination images and tells me to go urinate so that she can take the post full-bladder images.
Twenty minutes later I finish emptying my bladder and I return. She takes the post-urination images and then tells me it's time to do the jelly-beans. She gives me a shoe-string to help conceal my privates. At this point I wonder what the point is. The only part of me that she hasn't seen is the bottom of my foot.
The procedure finally ends and she sends me along my little way. A couple days later I get a call from Dr. Przyjblablar and she says that I suffer from a slight case of Hydrocele, which is a collection of fluid around the testicles. She gives me some pills and tells me to ignore it because it should go away on it's own, sort of like how teachers' unions view bad teachers.
The pain does subside for a while, but eventually returns, but with greater symptoms. I start having upper abdominal pains that occur without reading anything about Martin O'Malley. The pains shift from one side to the other and I feel a slight lump in my groin. I decide to research hydrocele. It says it can be caused by a hernia, cancer, or even global warming. CANCER?! I'm beginning to panic. I'm pressing every cavity I can find in my body. The thought occupies my thoughts nearly all day. I better go back to the doctor.
This time I go to a real doctor with an Irish name. I had written out all of my symptoms and my biorhythms. In my experience most doctors don't really want to hear what you have to say. They're too busy thinking about how awesome they are.
I call the office on a Saturday morning and request an appointment with Dr. Irish. The lady asks what is wrong. I pause - a male problem. What kind of male problem? With my manhood. Like what? Jeez, lady, I'm trying to keep this as discreet as possible. But I lose it. MY PENIS AND TESTICLES HURT! HOW'S YOUR VAGINA, LADY? This probably doesn't help my case because she says she can't take me in until next November. I start whimpering and she suggests Monday. Arg. Okay.
Monday arrives and I finally meet Dr. Irish. He seems really nice. I hand him my list of symptoms and he reads it. Sounds like you have a hernia! Really? Sure, let's check. He reaches down and cups my inner thigh (yes, awkward, but he is a doctor). Yes, you have a massive hernia. You're getting surgery!
Okay, it took him exactly 7 seconds to diagnose this. Meanwhile, if I would have returned to Doctor Przyjblablar, she probably would have sent me for another EKG for my heart murmur and to a urologist for a penmanship test.
On Tuesday I have an appointment with the surgeon. When I arrive the nice nurse does the vitals. She then tells me that I can either strip down naked while she lowers the temperature in the holding cell, or I can just lower my boxers when the doctor arrives. I tell her that I'm commando, that's how we roll in the conglomerated industry. The doctor arrives and I tell him I have a hernia. I drop the drawers and he tells me to cough when he pulls. I'm not sure what he did, but I screamed like a 5 year-old girl being chased by an icky boy. He confirmed the hernia and said not to worry, most guys get one at least once in their lifetime. He got his 2 years ago. Welcome to the fraternity.
I then go to schedule the surgery. How about November of 2015? Ahhh....do you have anything sooner? How about Thursday? Thursday???!!!! OMG - this is for real! They tell me I need a physical and blood work on Wednesday and if my blood work proves that I'm not an orangutan, then the surgery will be on Thursday at noon.
I call for an appointment with Dr. Irish, but he's not in the office on Thursday. They ask if Dr. Przyjblablar is okay. I guess so. I arrive the next day and she has no clue who I am. I tell her that I have a hernia. Oh. She does my vitals. You have a heart murmur. Yes, but I'm an orangutan, so it's okay. My physical lasts 35 seconds and includes her looking at one of my eyes for 3 seconds, and confirming my billing information for the other 32 seconds.
I head off to the phlebotomist. This is what they call people that take blood. Apparently they don't like to be called vampires or jackasses. This is over and done in less than 5 minutes. Meanwhile there is a lady there with an infant in a baby seat. They tell her that she needs to provide a urine sample. She asks where she can put the baby while she uses the bathroom. Hello! How about taking her with you? Oh, just leave her in the waiting room, there are plenty of magazines for her to read.
That night my wife sends out an email to friends and family. It goes something like this: My husband Eludius is going in for surgery tomorrow to have a hernia repaired. He will be home for a week recovering. I ask that you all pray for me. Oh, and pray for him, too. I guess you have to have a pretty good sense of humor to be married to me. One of our friends always reminds Mrs. Eludius that she has a one-way ticket to heaven.
Thursday arrives and I'm anxious. I tell my wife that I changed my mind. It doesn't work. I then tell her that I'm lucky because Hoffman's is right next door to the surgical center and we can get ice cream after the operation. Oh, okay, she says.
We arrive at the surgical center and they have the temperature set at Ice Station Zebra. I'm already anxious, which causes me to shiver, but now I'm freezing and shivering even more. I tell my wife that I think I just shook the hernia back into place and we can leave.
40 minutes later they take us back into a room and tell me to get undressed. OMG. Why don't you just wrap ice-packs around me? The nurse asks which side the hernia is on. I tell her it's the left side. I then ask her, do you go by your left or my left? She looks at me and I tell her that my left is different than her left and that I considered writing on my body which side to operate. She then takes a Sharpie and writes DT on both my arm and leg on my left side. I'm not sure what DT means, but several days later it's still there.
I'm escorted into the operating room. The anesthesiologist injects something into my catheter. I ask her if this is what will put me to sleep. She says no, it's just an appetizer. She said that I should start to feel groggy, then out I'll go. We start talking, but I never feel groggy. I then wake up from what seems like a long nap Mr. Eludius, wake up! I open my eyes. What time is it? It's 2:30. 2:30? Is Martin O'Malley still our governor? Yes. Damn! It wasn't just a bad dream! And apparently 2 hours had passed.
I'm really confused. I thought I'd feel groggy, then drift off. I have no memory of anything. She tells me that we talked for a while. She said that I mentioned that Van Halen is my favorite group because they are the best band ever. She told me to lay down, I must be dillusional. She told me that I said a friend told me that I will be in pain because the muscles that get cut are the same muscles that are used to cough, laugh, sneeze, and poop. He did say that. Thanks, Jorge.
I'm given a couple of orange Hugs to drink, the nurse dresses me and says that my insurance requires that I leave immediately. Accountants have determined that I will heal better in the car than in the recovery room.
I'm really tired, so I'll have to finish the story later. But that's what's been going on with Mr. Eludius. More to follow.
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