Just Boring

Dante says that above the gates of Hell there is a sign that reads "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

I reckon the same sign should be placed outside of the emergency ward of St Vincents hospital - where I spent yet another thrilling day in the emergency ward Friday. It's the second time in just over a year that I've ended up in the bowels of this hospital, for pretty much the same thing - suspected appendicitis.

For the second time in just over a year, I was sent home after half a day with an inconclusive result, some painkillers and instructions to take it easy and come back if things get worse. Though at least this time I've been reassured that I wont have to follow up on treatment and the pain should go away in a few days.

These hospital trips get me thinking a lot - and counting my blessings.

To catch up on things, for the last few day I've been feeling a bit ropey. I was a bit uncomfortable when I went to the opera on Tuesday, but I put that down to nearly three hours in the nosebleed section of the Arts Centre where Em and I took in a wonderful Don Giovanni. I went home with an aching head, limited energy  on Wednesday and I noticed a pain in my side a Thursday - also got told by a few people that I wasn't looking that well - I put that down to Christmas as you do. I think the pain is musclar due to the exercise I do and don't think much of it. It took a visit to Pinochet, hoiking a weights for ten minutes on Thursday night where I ended  up in a heap on the floor in tears of pain to get me to the doctor the following morning- who sent me straight to the emergency ward to be checked out for what could be appendicitis.

Somebody at breakfast after meditation yesterday put it well - St Vincents is where you see the flotsam and jestam of society. "It's where all the ferals go when they get a cold." It's also where all the severe car accidents,  the inner city drug overdoses, the broken bones, the spewing, the mewling and the puking go to seek assistance and all times of the day and night - but every emergency ward is like this no matter what country or city you're in.

When I suggested to my GP that I go to St Vinnies rather than the Freemasons or Epworth, she turned up her nose. My reasoning was twofold. I go to St Vinnies, I'm in their system already and it's a public hospital. I go to the Epworth or Freemasons - they charge me two days pay for the privilege of sitting for hours in their emergency ward. Where ever I was going to end up, I was going to have to wait anyway. The wait at the private hospitals would be an hour or two less, maybe. It was going to be purgatory - may as go with the cheaper option.

Getting home from the GP, I gathered my emergency bag, just in case. Toothbrush, knickers, t-shirt, a nightie,books, phone charger, hairbrush, spare house keys. I've ended up in foreign countries with less. If I have to stay over, I'd be set for a day or so. That's the thing about being on your own, you know what you need and where to get it quickly - the thought of friends going through my stuff finding things doesn't feel great. I ring my mum, tell her what's going on and put myself on a tram for the ten minute trip to the hospital - I figure it's quicker and easier than getting a cab. The tram drops me at the hospital door. It's after peak hour - I got a seat.

Emergency rooms are hellish in so many ways - the smells, the poople, the chairs, the lighting - all designed to keep you away and reconsider why you came in the first place. Thankfully, and  being ten on a Friday morning, it's not too bad. It's only half full, there is nobody obviously too sick or suffering or smelly in the place. Everybody seems quite polite - which was a change from the last time I was there, when security got called on the odd occassion.

After an hour, they've asked me to piddle in a cup. After two hours they've drawn some blood and fed me some minor opiates for the pain which takes the edge off my nervousness more than anything.

Jonella came and sat with me during her lunchtime, which is appreciated more than she will ever know. The only time I teared up when when she came in. Up until this time I'd managed to remain strong. A bit of support and sympathy and I crumble.

Friends were marvellous as well - texting and calling over the day to make sure I was okay. I'm so very fortunate to have them.

After four hours they'd found me a trolley in a cubicle away from the rabble of the waiting room, got me into one of those  fetching backless gowns and told me the good news - blood tests cleared me of appendicitis - the daft dangle of bowel gets to stay. Just needed an ultrasound for final clearance and to see what was going on. Another two hours of lying on my trolley doped up on Panadeine Forte, reading my book in my slinky backless cotton number, I was taken for the test.

There's something surreal about these ultrasounds. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to get used to these - there's ovarian cancer in my family - I've been told I have to get one of these anually from now on. They're not that pleasant - though they could be worse. At least they don't hurt and the technician was pretty sensitive to my privacy and dignity - every time I've had one of these, the radiographers have been excellent - gentle and sensitive. Still, it doesn't rate highly in the things I like having to go through. I think I prefer the dentist.

As crappy medical tests go, it's a matter of lying back, thinking of something pleasant and not focussing on what is going on down in your nether regions. The ceiling tiles don't inspire anything lyrical to ponder. Lying back and thinking of England isn't really appropriate - remembering cathedrals, pubs, bad food and soft- skinned, steady-handed, gently insistant Englishmen isn't really appropriate under the circumstances.

After a heap of literal poking and prodding, the technician made a few grumbles.

"You're rather boring." he said.
"Of course I'm boring. I work in IT and come from Adelaide."
"No, everything's as it should be. You're in great working order. Everything's normal. Your appendix in normal. All your bits are working. I'm not supposed to tell you anything, but there's nothing noxious here."
"Well that is something."
"Do you mind if the student has a drive of the camera?" he asked.

It's a teaching hospital - what are you supposed to say?

Five minutes later I'm back in my cubicle, wiped free from the ultrasound goop, waiting once again.

They let me go an hour later. The ache in my side is probably a small busted cyst going by the ultrasound - the pain should resolve in a few days - take it easy, no exercise until the pain goes - everything else is fine.

After a welcome cup of tea and a biscuit, I got dressed and waited for my release papers.

"How are you getting home?" the nurse asked.
"Tram."
"Nobody's picking you up?"
"Nobody to pick me up."
"Why don't you take a cab?"
"Because the 109 is outside the front door and it will drop me at my front door and it will be faster. Besides, there's nothing wrong with me - the doctor's just given me a letter to say so."
"Can't argue with that logic."

The day's second bout of tears came when I got home. With an ice cream in hand, I got in the door and started to cry.

Now is when I want somebody about, even if it's to make me a cup of tea and go fetch me some dinner. I can cope for a day in the Danteseque hell of St Vinnies Accident and Emergency ward, keeping my sense of pride and humour intact (though there is nothing dignified about a hospital gown - which is why I tied a sheet around me while walking to the xray department for the ultrasound. The orderly commented that I couldn't be too ill as I had the sense to do that) Get home to an empty flat after a day like this and I crumble.

I'm normally alright on my own - only when I'm poorly do things go pear-shaped. Just to have that support and comfort at home at times like this would be a blessing. Last year when this happened, Reindert made sure I got some dinner and saw me home - but he's on his way to Patagonia at the moment. It seem stupid to ask somebody to come over and give you company when there's nothing wrong with you. I'm stronger than that.

Rustling up some beans on toast, another cup of tea and another round of Panadeine Forte, I made my way to bed for a night of deep, dreamless sleep.

Two days on, I'm back to my normal self. The dull ache in my side is still there, lessened by the rest and the knowledge that it's nothing serious and I'm not going to get worse. I've had a nice quiet day yesterday - went to meditation, had breakfast and the rest of the day was spent reading, wrapping Christmas presents and watching television. I went over to Blarney's last night and sat the twins. Maow Maow gives the best healing hugs - but being a warm night, the cuddles were short lived. Never to mind, he's coming to stay for a few weeks on Tuesday.

I count myself lucky. There's nothing really wrong with me. It's a little bit of pain that will go away. I'm not dying, I don't need surgery, I don't have to be on drugs for a long time. It will resolve in time. I know how fortunate I am to be in rudely good health.

If all of this means spending a day in purgatory to find out that all will be well, then that is the price that needs to be paid. What is harder for me to face is all the other dramas that being out of sorts brings up as a consequence.

Broken Bits

Much is made of the relationship that men have with the appendage between their legs.

Not as much is said about the relationship women have with their corresponding body parts.

It's a rather strange anomaly. Think about it - how many naked women do you see on television - how many full frontal shots of woman, normally sans pubic hair, are visible on mainstream television after the watershed - then think about how many times you see a naked fellow in full view. Let alone a bloke with a stiffy. Jeez, that would just be wrong wouldn't it!

I've been reassessing my relationship with my nether regions over the last few months since this rather inconvenient pain has shown up on my side over what is known in medical terms as McBurney's point, or roughly where your appendix is. Mid July I ended up spending eight hours waiting at St Vincent's hospital only to be told, "You've got something around your ovary, it's not appendicitis, it's not cancer, we're not sure what it is but you'll need it investigated in a few months when things settle down. We're going to treat you for chlamydia and the clap just in case". My reaction to the meds was almost as bad as the shere annoyance about not knowing what was going on. And what do you mean a few months? I have to live with this pain? You're effing joking.

Annoyance moved to acceptance after seeing my GP a few days later. Yes, this was going to take a few months to resolve. Deal with it, don't run much, rest - and the pain would ease.

The guys at work have asked why I haven't been running. "Something's wrong with the nether regions" is enough to make them put their hands on their ears and go "LALALALALALA." Others have asked in more specific terms about what's going on. "Oh, my wife has those problems," is a common response - before throwing their hands over their ears and singing, "LALALALALA."

My poor vajayjay (thanks Grey's Anatomy) went into spasms at this point. And my head started to spin. There's something wrong down under. Argh. Would this mean I'd been flashing my bits to the world in the near future? Were my poor neglected nether regions finally going to get an airing and not in a way I'd like them to be presented?

Maybe it's my Methodist upbringing or just the fact that there's not been anybody significant in my life for years, but all this talk of my girlie bits has been truly confronting. I've been very fortunate to not have had any problems down that way, so other than the fundamental two yearly service, I'm a gynaecological virgin.

I remember being told at the age of six or seven by my dear old grandmother, "Wash between your legs, it will be important one day."

I finally worked out what she was saying at the age of thirty-five.

Thanks for the advice, Gran.

So, Tuesday, I presented myself to the Epworth for the follow up ultrasound. After being messed around with where to go, an hour after drinking the required litre of water, I was taken by a radiography student to the room where the ultrasound would be done. I looked at the gurney and the mass of electronic equipment, and then to the door, which lead out the the waiting room and reception area.

Argh. Was I to be exposed to the world?

Thankfully not. The radiographer came in and locked the door, after closing a screen in the corridor before entering.

I'm not going to say the ultrasound was pleasant, but it didn't hurt and the operator acted in a professional and sensitive way. Even better, I was treated like an intelligent human being, not a piece of meat . Finally, I know what's going on. There are some cysts on my fallopian tube that will need to come out. I have the pictures. Now it's a matter of going back to the doctor, getting a referral to a specialist and seeing what happens from there.

All of this is still confronting. You do what you have to do. I've got no problems being examined. I have no idea how anybody who's pregnant or has trouble copes with repeated examinations.

Or maybe this is my own strange little foible that I need to deal with and get over. Think of it as any other bit of my body, like a leg or an arm and get on with it - and get it out of my head that if you don't use it, you lose it.

The Waiting Room

93 Days to the Mount Desert Island Marathon

And I spend the afternoon in the Accident and Emergency Ward of St Vincent's Hospital.

Over the last few days I've had an off again on again pain in my lower stomach which was getting worse. Last night it woke me up - which is unusual. It hadn't done that in the past. On arriving at work, I told Popeye about the pain. He then marched me over to the local doctor for an appointment.

It's not like it's bad pain. More growly, grumbly pain that is bearable, but there. Nothing too bad. The Nurofen I took in the morning didn't touch it, but I wasn't doubled over - just uncomfortable.

So, 11.45am, off to the GP across the road from work - not my lovely GP near home. This guy has little bedside manner to speak of - you only go to him if really necessary. He had a prod around my belly, stuck a thermometer in my ear, took my blood pressure and announce that I'd better get myself over to St Vincents for the afternoon - something was going on, but what he couldn't tell. Ovarian cyst? Appendicitis? It needed to be investigated.

Joy.

Back at the office I collected my things, the spare clothes I keep in my desk, my mobile charger and a hairbrush. I could survive a week in the Sahara with these objects. By 12.45 I was being assessed by the Triage nurse across the road.

Hospital waiting rooms have to see the most diverse tangents of society. St Vinnies, which sits at the edge of the city, next to the once notorious Fitzroy and the occasionally seedy Carlton, sees its fair share of junkies, nutters, waifs and strays. Saturday night, it's Loony Central.

I've been lucky with hospitals. In my adult life I've never been admitted - only going to the emergency room once for suspected pnuemonia and once when I was bleeding out of both ears after a really nasty virus. Though I can cope with hospitals, I'm not fond of them.

Looking around the room, the prefab chairs took the weight of the every section of humanity. Under the light of Oprah who was being projected onto a wall sat the elderly with their wheelie walkers, a hunchback in a wheelchair, a young lifeguard sat holding her stomach, weeping. Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. Greek, Chinese, Arabic, bogan were being spoken. A real melting pot.

From my perch at the back fo the room I watched as people came in and out, trying to ignore the increasing pain. A good looking man in a road crew vest asked for some attention to the laceration on his face. An old man with his zimmer frame stared at his foot encased in a plastic bag. An old Greek couple sat quietly, holding hands.

Some were angry, some dejected, some just wanted some attention. Some demanded loudly. Others just asked quietly.

I just felt a bit useless. I wasn't ill. I just had a pain in my tummy. All I wanted was something to eat and drink, which as I hadn't been diagnosed, was not allowed.

An obese woman, greasy hair, thongs, ill fitting clothing came in and out of the sliding door, popping outside for a cigarette ever half hour, on the half hour. The occasional yell. A drug fuelled rant. The squelch of sandshoes on linoleum. Names called. People shuffled by. People in lanyards and scrubs walked with purpose - different to the folks waiting for their attention.

The prefab chairs filled and emptied, filled and emptied once again.

After an hour or so Reindert came to sit with me. He's cried of a couple of meetings to be there. The phone ran hot. How was I? Where was I? Did I need anything? Standard answers. Ok. Still waiting. No needs, other than to get this over and done with.

Four hours later, things started to happen. Reindert returned to work - but his company until then meant the world to me. Ultrasounds with earnest, intelligent young women phographing me from the outside in and the inside out. More prodding and poking. More questions.

Finally, five and a half hours later, I was seen. I got my own cubicle, something to lie on, a curtain, an powerpoint to charge the phone and some privacy. A lovely German doctor, Sebastian, got to have a look. A flamboyant queen with a tyre rim in his ear took my bloods. More questions. How much do I drink? Smoke? Exercise? Questions of a more personal nature. Nothing really added up. I'm in shockingly good heath and live a rather stupidly healthy life.

At six-thirty, finally, they let me have something to drink. And I started to feel a bit better. Combined with the opium derived pain killer he gave me, things calmed a bit. Never doubt the power of a good narcotic.

They let me go at eight 'o' clock, just as Reindert and the Grounded Dutchman came to see me.

The diagnosis - ovarian pain to be investigated. Definitely not appendicitis. Not Ovarian cysts. But something that will need investigating in the weeks to come. I've been given some antibiotics to kill the inflamation. Got told to take it easy for a bit.

I'm just really glad we have access to a wonderful, free, health system over here.

I'm also glad I wasn't dying. After witness the full brunt of Accident and Emergency it's not somewhere I want to go back to in a hurry.

Reindert took me home, gathering some necessary dinner on the way. The calls to family and friends have been made. Viv, my dream group's leader made the comment. " Right ovary. 31st Path. You're not using your intellect enough."

She might have a point.

I'm just glad to be home, safe, in some minor discomfort - with the knowledge that I'm going to be okay.