They were both teenagers, out-of-town grandchildren, a girl and a boy, spending several weeks of their summer vacation visiting with Grandma and Grandpa. They had been doing it for years. It was tradition.
It was their first time to our ER. An unplanned visit, of course. For all the summers and all the weeks spent in our town, never once did either teenager or their grandparents have to visit us. No lacerations. No broken bones. No typical summer injuries that required our attention.
They were sweet, this girl and boy. Despite their tired and worried faces, they smiled and spoke kindly to one another. And to us. They showered their attention on their grandparents, clearly comfortable and unabashed in showing their deep love and respect. The way it should be.
Their Grandpa was sick. They hadn't planned on Grandma and Grandpa waking them in the middle of this night. But Grandma did wake them, right after she had called the ambulance to have Grandpa brought to us. Pillow creases etched their innocent cheeks, their yawning but feeble attempts to wash their tiredness away.
Their Grandpa had awoken from his sleep with severe and sudden abdominal pain. He hadn't eaten anything unusual, nor had he been ill. No fever. Never had anything like this before. But Grandpa did have hypertension, adult-onset diabetes, and hypercholesterolemia. And his blood pressure readings were dangerously low. Most alarming, Grandpa had diminished leg pulses when compared to his arm pulses. This was serious.
Grandpa had a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm. A life-threatening diagnosis
I performed a quick ultrasound to confirm the problem, all the while giving Grandpa aggressive IV fluids, low doses of pain medication, and starting blood transfusions. The cardiothoracic surgeon was called in emergently and the OR was prepared. We worked quickly and efficiently, time not our friend.
Tenderly but urgently, I spoke with Grandma and Grandpa and the two grandchildren about my concerns with Grandpa's symptoms. I explained that a dissecting abdominal aortic aneurysm is life-threatening and, similar to a sprung leak in a water dam, Grandpa's abdomen was filling with blood leaking from the ruptured wall of his aorta, our body's biggest oxygen-delivering vessel. That time was of the essence. That this leak would only get bigger until it ruptured, without emergency surgery. That Grandpa's life was at stake.
Grandpa's grandchildren, with Grandma, stood in the corner of the room, their faces transforming before me, their innocence circling the drain after being bathed by the harshness of reality. Grandma held each of their hands within hers. Eyes began to glisten as tears silently filled their corners, spilling over. Prayers were whispered.
I offered the grandchildren the option to step out and be comfortable in the family room, maybe something to eat. Just a few minutes away from the commotion. They declined, opting to remain in the comfort of Grandma and Grandpa's presence, in spite of the circumstances, rather that keep company with a floral-print love seat and seafoam painted walls. The right choice.
"But," stammered the younger of the grandchildren, the boy, "I don't understand. If Grandpa's this sick, how can he still talk to us? How come he is still awake?"
My heart was heavy as I watched this boy's hopeful eyes. His older sister stepped up to his side, wrapping her arm around his shoulder.
I reassured the boy before explaining to him, as well as the rest of the family, how we were fighting hard for his Grandpa, how we were giving him IV fluids, blood transfusions, and other medications. How these things were helping Grandpa temporarily. How we all wanted his Grandpa to do well and were using everything in our power to make that happen. "But," I said, cautiously and honestly, "there will be a point where we can no longer keep up with the blood he is losing from his leaking aorta, and that will be the scary moment. That is why we are hurrying to get him to the operating room."
They nodded their understanding to me before embracing one another, leaning over the cot's rail to include Grandpa, who was getting visibly weaker. Grandma tenderly stroked his scalp, front to back, as she whispered in his ear. He smiled from her words. The grandkids caressed his hands. He smiled from their touch. I walked out of their room, quite affected by their expressions of love. Especially in the midst of their pain.
Usually, when death is an imminent danger and time is precious, I make it a point to express to the family to share their emotions and thoughts, share those words and feelings that may have been assumed or bottled through the years. Share their love. Watching these grandparents with their grandchildren, though, I felt no need for that. Clearly, they had been sharing their love all along. Right to the end.
Grandpa lost consciousness on his way to the OR. CPR was started in the elevator. Emergent intubation was performed in the hallway that lead to the OR (this had been held off in the ER because the family had requested as much time as possible to talk). Blood transfusions were continued. Pulses, heart rate, and breathing remained fragile.
Despite each of our best efforts, Grandpa lost his life in the middle of that awful night on the OR table.
Damn it all.
At some point, as we expected, his aortic wall just gave out and there was nothing further that could be done. His small leak had progressed to a full rupture, and he essentially bled-out from his aorta into his abdomen.
When I think back to those grandchildren on that fateful night, I still hurt for them. Imagine spending a nice summer day with your grandparents and, at the end of the day, climbing into a quilt-covered, lumpy bed to go to sleep. In the middle of your sleep, you are urgently awoken to accompany your sick grandfather to the hospital. And there, you watch him die an unsettling death. Talking one moment, and gone the next.
I remember the grandchildrens' faces the most. Their pitiful expressions. Their caring. Their pain. Their disbelief. Their worry. Their tears. Their sadness while watching their grandfather grow weaker. I can only hope that those faces are smiling again. That time has been kind. That their good memories have survived, sprouting wings to fly above the breezes of the bad.
You know what most reassures me to think that this family is fine? That they have survived and moved on? It is the simple truth that Grandpa had loved his grandkids. And they had known. Their final moments together reflected this love. Grandpa could give them no greater gift than this, a gift that, I hope, they will carry with them through their life's journey.
A grandfather's love for his grandkids. How privileged was I to bear witness during their darkest hour?
As always, thanks for reading. Next post will be on Monday, March 15. See you then...and watch out Hilton Head, here we come!
Showing posts with label OR. Show all posts
Showing posts with label OR. Show all posts
Friday, March 12, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Amazing Race
To understand this next patient, you need to do me a favor. Ball your hand into a fist. Now, rotate your fist either way as far as you can. When you can't rotate any farther and your forearm muscles feel tense and strained, imagine that you are Stretch Armstrong and continue rotating your fist for a full rotation. Pretty amazing, yes? Now, do the impossible and imagine another full rotation. And then another.
This is exactly what happened to Javier's testicle. Javier, a handsome but frantic eight year-old, had presented to our ER around 10 a.m. just a few weeks back. He had been born with an undescended testicle and had been closely followed by our pediatric urologist, who most recently had seen him just a month prior. Because his testicle had finally decided to spontaneously show up for this life, Javier's doctor was debating whether to surgically anchor his testicle down to keep it in place. Yep, a suture from his testicle to his scrotum.
Unfortunately, on the morning Javier had presented to our ER, he had awoken at 2 a.m. with sudden and severe left-sided groin pain. He was comfortable lying perfectly still, but the minute he moved or someone approached him to palpate his groin area, he was beside himself. You couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor kid who, despite his pain, was trying his best to be courageous.
After some morphine and a brief exam, in which he wouldn't even let me get close enough to thoroughly examine his genitalia, we proceeded with a very quick workup to figure out where his pain originated from. His urinalysis came back clean, just as I expected. Good blood work. The test that I most needed was an ultrasound of his affected testicle. To complete this test, because he was in such intense pain, we needed to give Javier an additional generous dose of morphine. The ultrasound tech was then able to manipulate Javier's scrotum to view his left testicle.
Sure enough, the ultrasound revealed that he has no blood flow to his testicle--a diagnosis of "torsion" of the testicle. So, from above, your fist = Javier's testicle. All the vessels that lead to and from his testicle had been twisted and rotated to the point that they closed off and were no longer delivering significant blood to the testicle.
Javier was in danger of losing his boyhood. Cringe-worthy stuff, I must say. I'd cry, too. I could only hope someone would be kind enough to load me up on morphine. And lots of it.
Javier, by this time, had been in pain for approximately nine hours. Time was "of-the-essence," so to speak, to save his testicle (after 6-8 hours, we begin to seriously worry). There are several manipulations one can sometimes attempt in the ER to save the testicle but, again, I couldn't get near Javier's testicle to really palpate it, let alone manipulate it. I was very close to giving Javier some anesthesia in our ER in an attempt to urgently "unrotate" his testicle. Thankfully, though, his pediatric urologist was close-by (from our earlier alert to her) and arrived in just minutes to take Javier to the OR. The race was on to save his testicle.
After establishing the diagnosis, I had a chance to go spend some time with Javier and his family. Javier and his uncle were well-versed in English, but his father wasn't. Fortunately, his uncle did a fantastic job of translating and by the end of our conversation, Javier's father had given permission to surgically repair Javier's testicle.
Poor Javier, though, was crying inconsolably now, probably as much from the fear of the unknown as from the pain of his testicle. More morphine, please.
I should have saved my drawings explaining the testicular torsion from that day. If I may say so, they were beautiful. Stunning, actually...NOT. They were a complete mess, like most of my attempts at drawing are. I should probably spend more time at home practicing how to draw a realistic testicle, so I'll be ready the next time. I would just need to be very careful about where I leave these practice drawings lying around. And who knows, maybe with a little practice I'll become the male version of Georgia O'Keefe!
What explanation Javier and his family understood best, though, was my fist and my attempt to rotate it. They understood that this "was not good" for the testicle. Bad, actually. To reinforce the seriousness of the situation, I brought a medical book into the room and was able to show them a legitimate picture of the testicle and how it had rotated on itself.
I have great news to share with you, though. Javier still has two functioning testicles! Oh, he sure does! Yes, yes--of course I'll wait for the cheers to die down. After the pediatric urologist made her scrotal incision, she was able to unrotate Javier's testicle and it immediately "pinked-up," meaning blood-flow had been reestablished. She later shared that his testicle probably survived this long because of two reasons; 1) his testicle rotated only a couple times, and loosely at that, and 2) the rotations probably didn't completely cut off his blood supply and a trickle flow of blood may have sustained the testicle. Lucky ball! She tacked it down so that this would hopefully not happen again to brave Javier. Yep, a suture from his testicle to his scrotum (did I mention this already?).
Regardless, I'm just happy that Javier can still face his world with two functioning balls. Let's face it--there is a reason we call them "jewels," and, as any guy will testify, it's better to face the world with two of them instead of one.
If things hadn't worked out for Javier, though, he would still have had one functioning testicle and worse things than that exist. I'm just glad that, in a few years, he won't have to go pick out a life-like prosthesis. Hmmm--decisions, decisions. A steel ball? Wooden? Saline-filled? I personally would go for the steel ball, after living through residency. Come to think of it, though, imagine what a chick-magnet a ten-pound prosthetic testicle could have been for Javier, regardless of what it was made of!
Initially, I thought we had helped Javier win The Amazing Race, saving his testicle and all. But after thinking the prosthesis thing through, maybe not.
Sorry, buddy.
Hats off to Javier for being a brave little boy. As always, thanks for reading. The last round of comments were very cool. Next post will be Wednesday, January 20.
This is exactly what happened to Javier's testicle. Javier, a handsome but frantic eight year-old, had presented to our ER around 10 a.m. just a few weeks back. He had been born with an undescended testicle and had been closely followed by our pediatric urologist, who most recently had seen him just a month prior. Because his testicle had finally decided to spontaneously show up for this life, Javier's doctor was debating whether to surgically anchor his testicle down to keep it in place. Yep, a suture from his testicle to his scrotum.
Unfortunately, on the morning Javier had presented to our ER, he had awoken at 2 a.m. with sudden and severe left-sided groin pain. He was comfortable lying perfectly still, but the minute he moved or someone approached him to palpate his groin area, he was beside himself. You couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor kid who, despite his pain, was trying his best to be courageous.
After some morphine and a brief exam, in which he wouldn't even let me get close enough to thoroughly examine his genitalia, we proceeded with a very quick workup to figure out where his pain originated from. His urinalysis came back clean, just as I expected. Good blood work. The test that I most needed was an ultrasound of his affected testicle. To complete this test, because he was in such intense pain, we needed to give Javier an additional generous dose of morphine. The ultrasound tech was then able to manipulate Javier's scrotum to view his left testicle.
Sure enough, the ultrasound revealed that he has no blood flow to his testicle--a diagnosis of "torsion" of the testicle. So, from above, your fist = Javier's testicle. All the vessels that lead to and from his testicle had been twisted and rotated to the point that they closed off and were no longer delivering significant blood to the testicle.
Javier was in danger of losing his boyhood. Cringe-worthy stuff, I must say. I'd cry, too. I could only hope someone would be kind enough to load me up on morphine. And lots of it.
Javier, by this time, had been in pain for approximately nine hours. Time was "of-the-essence," so to speak, to save his testicle (after 6-8 hours, we begin to seriously worry). There are several manipulations one can sometimes attempt in the ER to save the testicle but, again, I couldn't get near Javier's testicle to really palpate it, let alone manipulate it. I was very close to giving Javier some anesthesia in our ER in an attempt to urgently "unrotate" his testicle. Thankfully, though, his pediatric urologist was close-by (from our earlier alert to her) and arrived in just minutes to take Javier to the OR. The race was on to save his testicle.
After establishing the diagnosis, I had a chance to go spend some time with Javier and his family. Javier and his uncle were well-versed in English, but his father wasn't. Fortunately, his uncle did a fantastic job of translating and by the end of our conversation, Javier's father had given permission to surgically repair Javier's testicle.
Poor Javier, though, was crying inconsolably now, probably as much from the fear of the unknown as from the pain of his testicle. More morphine, please.
I should have saved my drawings explaining the testicular torsion from that day. If I may say so, they were beautiful. Stunning, actually...NOT. They were a complete mess, like most of my attempts at drawing are. I should probably spend more time at home practicing how to draw a realistic testicle, so I'll be ready the next time. I would just need to be very careful about where I leave these practice drawings lying around. And who knows, maybe with a little practice I'll become the male version of Georgia O'Keefe!
What explanation Javier and his family understood best, though, was my fist and my attempt to rotate it. They understood that this "was not good" for the testicle. Bad, actually. To reinforce the seriousness of the situation, I brought a medical book into the room and was able to show them a legitimate picture of the testicle and how it had rotated on itself.
I have great news to share with you, though. Javier still has two functioning testicles! Oh, he sure does! Yes, yes--of course I'll wait for the cheers to die down. After the pediatric urologist made her scrotal incision, she was able to unrotate Javier's testicle and it immediately "pinked-up," meaning blood-flow had been reestablished. She later shared that his testicle probably survived this long because of two reasons; 1) his testicle rotated only a couple times, and loosely at that, and 2) the rotations probably didn't completely cut off his blood supply and a trickle flow of blood may have sustained the testicle. Lucky ball! She tacked it down so that this would hopefully not happen again to brave Javier. Yep, a suture from his testicle to his scrotum (did I mention this already?).
Regardless, I'm just happy that Javier can still face his world with two functioning balls. Let's face it--there is a reason we call them "jewels," and, as any guy will testify, it's better to face the world with two of them instead of one.
If things hadn't worked out for Javier, though, he would still have had one functioning testicle and worse things than that exist. I'm just glad that, in a few years, he won't have to go pick out a life-like prosthesis. Hmmm--decisions, decisions. A steel ball? Wooden? Saline-filled? I personally would go for the steel ball, after living through residency. Come to think of it, though, imagine what a chick-magnet a ten-pound prosthetic testicle could have been for Javier, regardless of what it was made of!
Initially, I thought we had helped Javier win The Amazing Race, saving his testicle and all. But after thinking the prosthesis thing through, maybe not.
Sorry, buddy.
Hats off to Javier for being a brave little boy. As always, thanks for reading. The last round of comments were very cool. Next post will be Wednesday, January 20.
Monday, December 14, 2009
What Do I Know?
One of the hardest parts of being a physician is that people expect you to know everything about everything. And I have to be brutally honest here. That ain't me. But, thanks to a great residency and medical school, I do know my medicine.
Heck, though, I'll be the first to admit that I've never known much about plumbing. Or electrical work. Or car engines. Or how to cut an onion without crying. Or rectal foreign bodies.
Whoa, back up! What did I just say?
Yes, you heard me right. Rectal foreign bodies. As in having something in your behind that shouldn't be there. If you need to squat over a mirror to look, then chances are something is wrong back there. Seriously wrong.
So, imagine my surprise when, in my first year of residency, I discovered that our hospital's ER, being centrally located among several prisons, got it's fair share of rectal foreign bodies.
"Wait a second, people," I wanted to scream out, "I didn't sign up for this part of the job!" As long as I was making a list, I didn't sign up to do internal pelvic exams on eighty year-old ladies with blue hair, either. Unfortunately, though, in the ER you simply don't have a choice. Besides, I was a first-year resident. That's about as low as you go on the medical totem pole. Who would have listened to my concerns?
I remember well my first "something's stuck back there" patient. One of my favorite teaching physicians, Dr. Z., held a chart out for me. "Hey, K.," he said, "there's a patient in Room 12 I'd like you to see." Looking back now, I should have known his snicker was not all that innocent.
I walked into the room to find a regular Joe sitting on his cot, his feet and legs dangling off the side, looking a little uncomfortable.
Hmmm, not a prisoner. So far, so good.
"Hello, sir. I'm Dr. K. What can I do to help you today?"
"Well," the patient stammered, "I had an accident."
"What kind of accident?"
"Well," he started, his eyeballs almost rolling up into his brain to recite his rehearsed story, "I was at the gym and after working out, I got a shower. After I was done, I walked back to my locker wrapped in a towel and as I went to sit down on the bench, the guy next to me put his hairspray bottle down and I sat on it. It was an accident."
I promise you, he did not even crack a smile. It's amazing how distracting ass pain can be, I guess. Even as a first-year resident, I knew a good story when I heard one. The storyteller in me wanted more.
"So," I said, "did the bottle scratch your skin? Leave you with a bruise? What happened to it?" I, in some twisted way, wanted to hear him admit to me that as we were talking, a Clairol hairspray bottle was still missing.
He looked at me incredulously. "Look," he said, "you're new here, right?"
"Actually, yes, I am. Why?"
"Because, I've been...," he blew out an exasperated breath before continuing, "let's just say that this isn't the first time this happened to me." That explains Dr. Z.'s smile. And what gym has multiple hairspray bottle accidents in their men's locker room?
It turns out this guy had several "accidents" in his past that brought him to the ER. And, of course, they didn't really happen at the gym. He was a local celebrity of sorts. It was my privilege to finally meet someone famous, although a few years prior, I had met Cyndi Lauper. That should count, right?
I listened to the patient's heart and lungs with my stethoscope for way too long, hoping against hope that my shift would end before I had to do the rectal exam. No such luck. After feeling his abdomen, it was time "to look back there." I stepped out of the room to bring Dr. Z. in with me. After all, he was my teaching physician for the shift (plus, he dragged me into this case).
Dr. Z. walked in. "So, Joe, I see you met Dr. K., one of our new residents. He treating you okay?"
Great, Dr. Z. and Joe were buddies. "Yeah," Joe said, eyeing me up, "he'll do."
This is where my learning curve took off.
"Okay, Joe," Dr. Z. said, "you know the routine." Dr. Z. had Joe get on all fours on his cot (yes, my mouth was gaping open, too) and, after several layers of gloves, we inspected Joe's backside poking out of his gown. No scratches. No bruises. Then we tried to manually (unfortunately, "manually" meant using my fingers, not Dr. Z.'s) grasp and remove the hair spray bottle. Although I could feel the bottom of the bottle, I was unsuccessful.
I was filled with shame from my failed attempt. I had wanted this story to have an ending where I saved the day, where all the nurses would cheer for me, a measly first-year resident, and my unlimited brilliance as I walked out of Joe's room holding up the Clairol bottle like it was some sort of treasure trophy.
Dr. Z. tried his best to cheer me up. "It's okay, K. Really. This is what residency is for--to learn how to successfully pull a hair spray bottle from a patient's ass. There'll be more." Funny guy, that Dr. Z.
We sent Joe to x-ray. Abdominal films revealed to us that, just as Joe had said, there was a stuck hair spray bottle. Just beyond our reach. I blacked out Joe's name on the x-ray and made myself a copy to frame and hang over our fireplace, but my wife refused. "Don't you even think of taking down our wedding picture!" Sometimes I wish she could be a better sport about this stuff.
Unfortunately for Joe, the bottle would have to be removed in the OR. We tried one last hurrah by using a special rectal speculum and graspers, but no such luck. Yep, Joe was heading to the OR.
While under anesthesia and completely relaxed, the GI team was able to use a scope to retrieve the missing bottle from Joe's backside. I can only hope that they got the round of applause that I had dreamed about.
I often wondered what Joe told his family and friends about his hospital visits. I mean, really, what if one of them wanted to send flowers? What do you write on that card? Please let me know if you have an idea about that--I'm blanking out.
I still don't know much about plumbing or electrical work or peeling an onion without crying. However, I'm proud to say that so many years later, I know all I need to know about rectal foreign bodies.
Thanks for reading...and enjoy your day. The next post will be Wednesday, December 16.
Heck, though, I'll be the first to admit that I've never known much about plumbing. Or electrical work. Or car engines. Or how to cut an onion without crying. Or rectal foreign bodies.
Whoa, back up! What did I just say?
Yes, you heard me right. Rectal foreign bodies. As in having something in your behind that shouldn't be there. If you need to squat over a mirror to look, then chances are something is wrong back there. Seriously wrong.
So, imagine my surprise when, in my first year of residency, I discovered that our hospital's ER, being centrally located among several prisons, got it's fair share of rectal foreign bodies.
"Wait a second, people," I wanted to scream out, "I didn't sign up for this part of the job!" As long as I was making a list, I didn't sign up to do internal pelvic exams on eighty year-old ladies with blue hair, either. Unfortunately, though, in the ER you simply don't have a choice. Besides, I was a first-year resident. That's about as low as you go on the medical totem pole. Who would have listened to my concerns?
I remember well my first "something's stuck back there" patient. One of my favorite teaching physicians, Dr. Z., held a chart out for me. "Hey, K.," he said, "there's a patient in Room 12 I'd like you to see." Looking back now, I should have known his snicker was not all that innocent.
I walked into the room to find a regular Joe sitting on his cot, his feet and legs dangling off the side, looking a little uncomfortable.
Hmmm, not a prisoner. So far, so good.
"Hello, sir. I'm Dr. K. What can I do to help you today?"
"Well," the patient stammered, "I had an accident."
"What kind of accident?"
"Well," he started, his eyeballs almost rolling up into his brain to recite his rehearsed story, "I was at the gym and after working out, I got a shower. After I was done, I walked back to my locker wrapped in a towel and as I went to sit down on the bench, the guy next to me put his hairspray bottle down and I sat on it. It was an accident."
I promise you, he did not even crack a smile. It's amazing how distracting ass pain can be, I guess. Even as a first-year resident, I knew a good story when I heard one. The storyteller in me wanted more.
"So," I said, "did the bottle scratch your skin? Leave you with a bruise? What happened to it?" I, in some twisted way, wanted to hear him admit to me that as we were talking, a Clairol hairspray bottle was still missing.
He looked at me incredulously. "Look," he said, "you're new here, right?"
"Actually, yes, I am. Why?"
"Because, I've been...," he blew out an exasperated breath before continuing, "let's just say that this isn't the first time this happened to me." That explains Dr. Z.'s smile. And what gym has multiple hairspray bottle accidents in their men's locker room?
It turns out this guy had several "accidents" in his past that brought him to the ER. And, of course, they didn't really happen at the gym. He was a local celebrity of sorts. It was my privilege to finally meet someone famous, although a few years prior, I had met Cyndi Lauper. That should count, right?
I listened to the patient's heart and lungs with my stethoscope for way too long, hoping against hope that my shift would end before I had to do the rectal exam. No such luck. After feeling his abdomen, it was time "to look back there." I stepped out of the room to bring Dr. Z. in with me. After all, he was my teaching physician for the shift (plus, he dragged me into this case).
Dr. Z. walked in. "So, Joe, I see you met Dr. K., one of our new residents. He treating you okay?"
Great, Dr. Z. and Joe were buddies. "Yeah," Joe said, eyeing me up, "he'll do."
This is where my learning curve took off.
"Okay, Joe," Dr. Z. said, "you know the routine." Dr. Z. had Joe get on all fours on his cot (yes, my mouth was gaping open, too) and, after several layers of gloves, we inspected Joe's backside poking out of his gown. No scratches. No bruises. Then we tried to manually (unfortunately, "manually" meant using my fingers, not Dr. Z.'s) grasp and remove the hair spray bottle. Although I could feel the bottom of the bottle, I was unsuccessful.
I was filled with shame from my failed attempt. I had wanted this story to have an ending where I saved the day, where all the nurses would cheer for me, a measly first-year resident, and my unlimited brilliance as I walked out of Joe's room holding up the Clairol bottle like it was some sort of treasure trophy.
Dr. Z. tried his best to cheer me up. "It's okay, K. Really. This is what residency is for--to learn how to successfully pull a hair spray bottle from a patient's ass. There'll be more." Funny guy, that Dr. Z.
We sent Joe to x-ray. Abdominal films revealed to us that, just as Joe had said, there was a stuck hair spray bottle. Just beyond our reach. I blacked out Joe's name on the x-ray and made myself a copy to frame and hang over our fireplace, but my wife refused. "Don't you even think of taking down our wedding picture!" Sometimes I wish she could be a better sport about this stuff.
Unfortunately for Joe, the bottle would have to be removed in the OR. We tried one last hurrah by using a special rectal speculum and graspers, but no such luck. Yep, Joe was heading to the OR.
While under anesthesia and completely relaxed, the GI team was able to use a scope to retrieve the missing bottle from Joe's backside. I can only hope that they got the round of applause that I had dreamed about.
I often wondered what Joe told his family and friends about his hospital visits. I mean, really, what if one of them wanted to send flowers? What do you write on that card? Please let me know if you have an idea about that--I'm blanking out.
I still don't know much about plumbing or electrical work or peeling an onion without crying. However, I'm proud to say that so many years later, I know all I need to know about rectal foreign bodies.
Thanks for reading...and enjoy your day. The next post will be Wednesday, December 16.
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