ed_rex

Notes on my health, and the state of the Emergency Department at the Ottawa Civic Hospital (also some footie)

Health-wise, 2018 has not been kind to me. To start, following a long evening sitting in a bad chair at my father's, and my first soccer game of the year, following three weeks off (one actual missed game — about which more, perhaps, in another entry — and two bye weeks for Christmas and New Year's eves), I woke up on Monday the 8th in an agony of lower back pain, something with which I have by this point had far too much familiarity. Used to be, my back went out about every 11 years; nowadays, it's more like every two, with a minor episode between the big ones.

I called in sick, then the next day, and the one after that and the one after that. When I called in the next Monday, my boss suggested I just let him know when I was ready to go again.

Good call; I ended up missing a full two weeks of work along with two more soccer games.

(Allow me a digression. We lost the first of those missed games, and a team-mate texted me the following (I quote verbatim).

We needed you today lol our
dé was all messed up

Lost 4-2 I got the two line goals

(Needless to say, I chose and choose to read the lol in a completely non-ironic way. Onwards.)

At the same time that my back decided to treat me to another round of I dare you to get out of bed without screaming, just try it!, another, perhaps more serious, health issue blossomed suddenly into crisis after what was, in retrospect, a pretty long and gradual gestation period.

Briefly, for some time — maybe as many as two or three months, I've been finding it increasingly difficult — and uncomfortable — to pee. My once-powerful, Niagara-like flow was coming more and more often to resemble the final stretches of the modern Colorado River: slow and inconstant. And suddenly, also painful.

Finally moved to action, I called my GP's office and, using the magic words, It really hurts when I pee, managed to get an appointment on the day of the call, the 11th of January. There I produced a clean urine sample. The Good Doctor prescribed an ultrasound and blood tests, telling me she thought I probably had a bladder infection, adding that she also hoped that was the issue.

That was a Thursday. I duly made an appointment for the ultrasound at a nearby clinic, despite the fact the appointment was eight days away, just this past Friday, the 19th.

Come that day, the clinic called me and left a message saying there was no technician available and, er, my appointment was cancelled. Would I please call them back, etc etc.

Thing is, by this point, the discomfort-verging-on-pain had become fucking agony. I was peeing every hour and a half — or rather, I was trying to pee. Forced to sit rather than stand, so that I need not fear should my mighty efforts to void my bladder also sent issue from my nether region, despite the pain I usually managed to get only a fitful dribble to come out.

Feeling kind of desperate I called the clinic back. They could give me an appointment only the following Thursday. I booked it, but started calling others, and found a place (The Bruyere, south of the Byward Market) that could see me next Tuesday. I took it and hoped I could hold on (as it were) til then.

Come Saturday, I decided I couldn't hold on. The quantity of urine I was able to pass was less than ever, while the amount of pain was entering into agony territory.

I marched myself off to the Ottawa Civic's Emergency Department, arriving around 14:30.

The waiting room in the Civic's Emergency Department is pretty small, seats for maybe 30 or 40 people, I'd guess. There were about a dozen people there when I stepped up to the triage nurse's station. There they took my OHIP card and told me to take a seat and wait to be called.

I settled in for what I thought would be a long while, but I heard my name no more than five or 10 minutes later. The Triage nurse took my particulars and sent me into another waiting area — this one frankly just a hallway lined with chairs — with a samble container for a urine sample. That took about three tries to fill only half-way, but I was told it was enough when I finally saw a doctor.

Finally was a couple of hours after I'd arrived at the hospital. The doctor was a young woman (you know you're getting old when doctors are probably young enough to be your daughter. Le sigh ...) who gave no sign of being rushed. She asked questions and answered them, and took note when I mentioned that the triage nurse had made a mistake: I was suffering from pain in the tip of my penis when I pee, not "abdominal" pain! She took an ultrasound of my abdomen and she even made the rectal probe of my prostate reasonably comfortable.

And then it was back into the waiting hall.

The second ultrasound came around 17:30, and the CT scan, complete with intravenous administration of some kind of dye took place around 19:15 and I was back in the main waiting area at around 21:00. Then another two hours or so to await my results. To wit, a probably bladder infection, no sign of enlarged prostate, but a slightly thickened bladder. At 23:20, I left the hospital with a couple of antibiotics swalled and prescriptions for a two-week course of same, and a 30 day course of Tamsulosin, a muscle relaxant meant to make it easier for me to pee.

All that, for an out-of-pocket cost of about nine hours of my time and $0.00 out-of-pocket. (Filling the prescriptions, on the other hand, did cost me, though happily not a lot.)

Raven declared, "Finally, after 9 hours!!" via text, but I wrote back, "I'm not complaining. No appointment, two ultrasounds and a CT scan, all for 'free', for everyone who needs it."

And indeed, that more included another ultrasound this week, and will include follow-ups with my GP, and then, well, who knows. But I suppose as I carry on growing improbably older, I'll have need of more, not less, medicare.

All in all, I was pretty impressed by what I found at the Civic. Yes, having patients wait in a hallway is far from ideal, sign of austerity, no doubt, but still a functioning system.

Pray we organize to keep it that way.

Finally, despite the fact that I missed two weeks of work, all credit to Raven! Despite earning barely more than the new minimum provincial wage and despite having just put two new pairs of glasses (one for driving/cycling &ct, the other a pair of bifocals for reading and computer work; and glass lenses, damnit, no more god damned plastic!), I am still in a position that will see me pay of the credit card before I carry any interest. Thanks to her lessons, the missed work and the extra expenses are drag, but not a problem, never mind a disaster.

Pics, of course, to come when the new specs are delivered. This coming week, I hope!

Thanks for bearing with me. If you read this far, you deserve a little break.

Watch on YouTube

Current Music: Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds
Crossposts: https://ed-rex.livejournal.com/627417.html

I've been having chest pains over the past few weeks. A sharp, vertical blade of pain whose strength ranged from a barely-noticeable twinge to a slice of near-agony in certain positions.

That the onset coincided with my longer commute and my growing tendency to use the curls on my racing-style bike's handle bars; that it did not seem to correlate with physical exertion; and that I had an appointment with my GP scheduled for last Tuesday all combined towards my decision not to rush off to Emergency but rather, to wait for the scheduled consultation.

Did I mention that I (and Raven) have actually managed to land a family doctor? No? Well, Raven and I have landed a family doctor. She is a young Doctor who had been (and still is) working out of a local walk-in clinic and Raven and I both found her personable, intelligent and willing to take time to answer questions. Further, she tends to suggest exercise or stretches rather than jump towards prescribing pills. When she mentioned that she was starting a private practice, Raven and I leapt to sign up.

That was probably nearly two years ago. Whether for reasons of bureaucracy or something else entirely, it took nearly that long for things to be made official. But it happened, and I went in for my first physical with Dr. Chow as my Primary Care Physician a week ago.

I told her I was feeling pretty good, "I think." She confirmed my "excellent" blood pressure and my resting heart rate of 54 beats per minute (which, ahem, the internet tells me is that of an athlete), then prodded my chest a little here and there. "I'm pretty sure it's costochondritis," she said. "Inflamation of the cartilage in the ribs." She said she wanted me to have some tests done, to be sure, "but mostly to have a baseline of your heart functioning for the future," she said.

And so it was that, yesterday, I found myself in a small room, shirtless, with a technician scraping away at me with (really!) sandpaper, before attaching electrodes to the tender spots, all attached to a belt that looked like nothing so much as (I thought, but did not say) a suicide bomber's detonator.

The machine itself looked pretty much exactly like a treadmill in a gym but, the technician told me, has an extra level of inclination — I think it maxed out at 14%. At least, that's where I maxed out, when 10 minutes 24 seconds in and panting and sweaty, I cried Uncle. I had passed my target heart rate of 158 beats per minute a minute and a half before but learned that jogging "uphill" even for a brief time is harder than it looks.

The technician was, happily, willing to give me the benefit of her experience. "Off the record," she said, "I don't see any problems. But of course, the doctor will send the results to your doctor."

The stretches Dr. Chow had recommended had already been working, but the relief I felt surprised me. I hadn't, consciously, thought there was much chance I actually had something wrong with my heart but, apparently, my subconscious was a lot more concerned.

And meanwhile, if anyone is keeping track, I'll be seeing a specialist about my arthritis in December; 'till then, I trust the ibuprofen will keep that pain relatively muted.

P.S. to my American readers. I have no private health coverage; none of this cost me a penny out-of-pocket. I think that's a very good thing.

Crossposts: http://ed-rex.livejournal.com/259884.html

Waiting Is the Hardest Thing

It's a strange thing, to hang around a hospital, hooked up to an IV, when you don't actually feel bad. But there I was, on the sixth floor of the Toronto General Hospital, awaiting surgery.

I went for what I thought was a mere consultation at 1:15 on Friday. The doctor examined me and my CT scans and told me to head downstairs to be admitted. "Your orbital bone is shattered," he said. "We're going to replace it with a titanium mesh. We'll make an incision in your eyelid and work in from there." He explained that the orbital bone is almost eggshell thin and can't be repaired. (The bone is just below the eye, and holds that orb in place. Without it, one's eyeball will slowly sink down and in, presumably really screwing up one's vision.) "We'll try to get you into the operating room tonight, or tomorrow morning," he told me as I packed up my bag.

The woman at the Admissions desk was a big, friendly Jamaican immigrant, who rolled her eyes when I told her no one upstairs had given me my admission papers (she had to call up to get them faxed down to her) and who laughed out loud when she asked if I wanted to declare a religion and I replied, "Absolutely not!"

Which didn't come on Friday, nor on Saturday.

Despite my lack of glasses, I did a lot of reading, a little writing (the results of which I hope to post shortly - meaning later today), and a lot of striding down the halls with my rolling pole holding the bag of saline solution.

The Room-mate - Work on the Sense of Humour, Buddy!

I wasn't sure whether my insurance covered the cost of a semi-private room, so I opted for a bed in a ward, figuring I was only going to be in for a night in any event. As it turned out, though, I ended up in a semi-private space anyway, sharing it with a patient whose face looked a lot like Frankenstein's monster - a huge scar from ear to chin, and several more on his face.

Saturday night, we exchanged stories. "Face cancer," he said, and told me had been in the hospital for 6 weeks now.

It was about 3 in the morning and he had awoken me on his way to the bathroom we shared, stopping at the foot of my bed on his way back to his.

I told him my story, of how I had spent 30 seconds being pounded by a drunk, and then I must have blinked, because the next thing I knew, he was looming over me, fist cocked and aimed at my face.

My feet were trapped by my blankets, my left arm tied to the IV, and I close to freaked out.

Struggling to free my legs for a defensive kick at his chest, I shouted, "Fuck off!" and, happily, he did. "Sorry," he said, "sorry. I was just kidding."

Some joke. I told him I didn't think it was very funny and he went back to his bed while I calmed myself down.

Surgery At Last

After Saturday's anti-climactic waiting (I kept getting bumped by emergencies), Suday saw me bording a gurney and being wheeled down to the operating room.

I have to say that, throughout this ordeal, I have been pretty impressed with both the professionalism and the personalities of almost everyone who dealt with me. As a fer'instance, the anesthesiologists spent a good ten minutes questioning me about my medical history before admitting me to the OR itself.

Once there, I finally believed it was actually happening and found that I was, in fact, a little nervous. But - by god! - general anesthetics work fast! They hooked me up, placed the oxygen mask over my face and ... the next thing I knew, I was in another room entirely, groggy but coming back to consciousness fast.

Within an hour I was once more wandering around, waiting again. At first I felt almost ecstatic. I had a lot of energy, but not much to do with it, but wait for Laura to arrive and, by the time she did, I had fallen into a post-operative low that her arrival did little to alleviate.

I wanted to go home, but they wanted me to spend one more night for observation before letting me out.

Monday morning, after a quick examination by the surgeon, they did. And here I am. My face is still kind of numb, I'm still not allowed to blow my nose and I won't be able to get new glasses for a week or two, but the ordeal is over (or so I hope). And I think I'll be pretty again.

Adventures On Rib Night

I was on my back while the man loomed above me, raining blow after blow on my face and head. In vaid, I struggled to block his fists, to find some leverage with which I might stop him. My efforts went nowhere, and I felt my glasses sink into my flesh. Blood dripped into my eyes and still the bastard pummelled me. My right lens shattered and more blood flowed.

It wasn't supposed to end that way.

Thursday night rib night at the Cadillac Lounge have become an obsession for Laura and a rival for my affections. I had joined her, and her friend MC, for ribs and beer and conversation, and we enjoyed all three pleasures.

At some point as the evening waxed on, a drunken lout joined the table of six next to us and proceded to bore and bully them until he had driven them away.

Then he turned to us and dragged his chair over. "No," I told him, adding with my notorious diplomatic applomb, "Bugger off!"

He didn't. And, apparently (this is the only part of the evening I don't recall; no doubt some kind of inner self-justification mechanism), I shoved him, to make the point explicit. The next thing I knew, he had knocked my ass over the proverbial tea-kettle and was astride me, pounding my face almost at will.

Adults hit a lot harder than kids and I really felt each and every punch. I knew I was in trouble, and I wasn't finding any way to help myself, as he landed thudding blow after thudding blow. I was worried about loosing my teeth, but I should have been worried about losing an eye, or worse.

He probably wailed on me for 30 seconds, all told. Beyond my occasional field of vision, Laura had not been standing idly by like some shrieking moll in a second-rate movie.

Not my sweetheart, no way.

She grabbed his hoodie and tightened it around his neck, choking him enough to haul him off me, then hand him off to the staff who at that point had arrived to investigate the fallen tables and chairs.

She pulled me to my feet and examined the damage. "Holy shit," I said shakily, as my hand came away from my face, covered with blood.

"Hospital," said Laura. "Now." She found my glasses, including a very sharp shard from my right lens, possibly the one that would soon result in 6 stitches over my right eye. Amazingly, the left lens and the frames were still intact, and I donned them, keeping the left eye closed.

My heroine

With the cool competence of an experienced triage nurse, she got me outside and to a cab (though she acquiesced and accompanied me down to the bathroom first; I had to pee something awful) and thence to our local hospital.

Within a couple of hours I was stitched up and on my way home. I was strangely phlegmatic about the incident, laughing more than cursing (though secretly embarassed to have failed so badly at fisticuffs "front of my girl"). By 4:30 we were in bed and, somehow, I was only an hour late for work.

Oh Say Can You See?

After an hour or so at the office I realized there was something wrong, more than could be explained by bruising and swelling. The vision out of my right away was seriously skewed. Everthing tilted down at what I characterized as a 20 degree angle. Trying to walk with my right eye open and the undamaged left eye closed, I reeled like a drunken sailor, as if I were walking on a listing ship.

By noon I was in to see my GP, who looked at me with concern, heard my symptoms and told me she wasn't qualified to diagnose me. She sent me down the street to the Toronto Western Hospital, where, she said, they had a world-class opthamalogical centre.

I made my way south and soon found myself in the Emergency triage unit. I waited no more than 10 minutes before I was processed, then maybe another 45 minutes before I was seen by a doctor. This physician too was flummoxed by my symptoms and arranged for me to have a CT scan today (I'm still waiting for a call with the precise time).

Meanwhile, on Saturday, the swelling went down a lot and by Saturday evening, my vision had returned to normal. I'll still go for the scan, but I'm reasonably confident that all is well.

And I was very impressed with the care I received and the speed with which I received it. I haven't often had reason to use the emergency medical services in this city, so it was with some surprise that I experienced its efficiency, not to mention the polite and friendly staff with whom I dealt. (And, for the Yanks among you, I won't be getting a bill for any of it; thanks all the same, but I really like paying for my medical care through my taxes.)

And with that, I bid you adieu, Gentle Readers. I am off to work.

MediCARE!

Notes on my health, and the state of the Emergency Department at the Ottawa Civic Hospital (also some footie)

The terrors of late youth: cardiac stress tests or (probably) Costochondritis

Adventures of the Bionic Man

Bif! Bam! Pow! (Thursday, Bloody Thursday)

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January 2022

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