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Jul. 30th, 2009 07:37 am
spookyevilone: (Default)
5 hours of waiting, prodding, and imaging..

Alien Baby has still not been captured on camera.
It's not a mass and it's not a gas pocket.
I'm not septic.
I don't have any sort of infection.
I'm not pregnant.
It's "probably not cancer".
It's not an AIP flare. Which I knew going in. Those don't hit in one place.

Other than that, they have no clue what's causing it. They suspect an ulcer. It was recommended I have my vagus nerve truncated. It's such a great idea, I had it done three years ago. So now I have a prescription for horse pill anti-ulcer things.

I've been instructed not to take any aspirin, tylenol, or aleve.

Asked what the chances were that I'd erupt like an overripe melon and spray passers by with liquified human goo, and the doctor gravely said, "Unlikely." Not, y'know, "No". I blame malpractice litigation. It's also disturbing to realize that the doctor is saying that because there's the merest, slightest, one in three hundred million chance that I might explode in an eruption of human goo.

That's comforting.

Query

Jul. 29th, 2009 10:58 pm
spookyevilone: (deathstarcouplepaymentsonmycar)
An hour and a half after eating, you experience a fever and stabbing, breath-stealing waves of pain coming from your mid-left lower abdomen. Do you:

A) Forget that passing 'Go' crap and get to a hospital;
B) Google image search, assume it's some sort of intestinal ulcer and promptly ignore it;
C) Assume it's some new, hell-sent food allergy and promptly ignore it;
D) Wonder if your appendix or pancreas somehow defected to the left side and wait to see if you start puking;
E) Overdose on anti-gas pills and promptly ignore it;
F) Wait to see if a small, slimy alien bursts out of your thorax;
G) All of the above except A, because A would involve getting dressed?

In theory, if it were food issues, it should be higher, because 1.5 hours is not long enough for my tum to liquefy carbs. The pain is in one very specific place, and it's always in the same place.

I hope it goes away. That Guy will not be happy with me if I have to call him to take me to the ER the night before his kayaking trip. I mean, he'd be less happy if I let myself expire for anything less than a spectacularly headline-news worthy death, but he'd still probably be grouched off. Especially if it was another of the, "She needs surgery RIGHT NOW" kinds of things. Mostly because he forbade any of my internal bits to explode ever again and it would annoy him beyond measure if they disobeyed.

It's not my gall bladder. Mt. St. Gallbladder tried to kill me in 2003 and was excised for its trouble.

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