Once Again, Sarah is Disappointed by the Medical Community

 

5:00AM.  Froedert Hospital check in. Don't I look thrilled?

Good morning!

So this week I continued the sage of the plugged ear (I've had a plugged ear for almost a year and the ENTs in my life couldn't figure out what to do) with a little procedure called a tympanomastoidectomy.  It's a thing, look it up.  Basically, for the last 11 months I've had a mystery substance in my right ear, plugging the ear and making it hard to hear.

5:10 AM. Still looking excited.
I was super excited (no I wasn't) about the surgery. I was going to be able to hear again! YAY!
I did have one request, and it's a request I make of any medical professional who removes something from my body:  I WANT TO SEE IT!
  Who let me see what came out of me? Let's go back:
Tonsils, age four. Nope.Mole removal, age six.  NopeCyst removal, age 23.  Nope.

No, not that Substance.  Probably.

After several procedures to drain the ear, the med team in charge of my ear (two ENTS, one of which is a moron, one primary care physician, who had no idea what was happening, an Urgent care doc, who said it was allergies, and a super specialist who finally agreed to operate after multiple trips to his big, shiny office.) we all decided (they decided) I should have surgery.

Baby: age 26. Let me see the baby, but not the afterbirth.

Baby, age 29.  Ditto.

Tooth extractions, all three of them: Nope.

Knee replacement.  Big Nope.

And now, here we are.  No one used the same word for what they removed, which was weird. Some called it an infection. Some called it inflamation.  Some just called it goo.  (okay, that was me.)

Tuesday was the big goo removal day.  Hubby drove me to the big hospital half an hour away from home.  We had to be there two hours ahead of kick off, so we had to be in the hospital no later than 5:15AM.  Do the math backwards. Yeah, it was early. And dark.  Also, they told me I couldn't take anything by mouth two hours before I arrived. Which means by 3:15AM I could not eat or drink anything.

Hubby was going to take off two days for this, but decided since surgery day was pretty much only going to involve him sitting around doing nothing, he decided to work in the waiting room. Clever hubby!

We got a great parking spot in the underground lot. (I mean, it was the middle of the night.) Hubby did notice that there was a plastic vodka bottle lying on the ground next to where we parked. Some kind of Omen or just random litter?

Vodka is a clear liquid, right?

Check in was fun. it is shocking how many people in SE Wisconsin needed surgery at 5AM on a Tuesday.  In true Midwest fashion, I started a conversation with the woman behind me, a lady with a smoky southern accent. She'd broken her pelvis and tailbone and was allowed to drink clear liquids much longer than I was.  She had coffee! 

As we chatted, I learned this about her:  1) Her surgeon was a week away from having a baby, and the lady was convinced the surgeon would go into labor before the surgery was done.  2) The woman did not get my sense of humor and clearly believe they were removing a nest of spiders from my head.

I wasn't in the check in room long before they called me in.  As Hubby and I walked toward the doors, this lady looks at me from across the very full waiting room and yells "Good luck with your spiders!"

Alrighty then.

They got me settled into a bed in Bay 9.  Apparently, they don't do blankets anymore. on the bed was this large, inflatable paper bag, inflated and heated by a hose that was connected to the wall.  Lucky me, I was having multiple hot flashes so...yeah...that thing got turned off right away.  (Post op, here at home, I really could have used it.)

Fun fact: You have to get to a surgery two hours ahead so that everyone...and I mean EVERYONE...can come in, ask you your name and birthdate and what you're having done.

This was fun for me.  I mean, I gave the right name and age, but every time I was asked what they were doing, I changed the answer.  Maybe they're removing goo. Maybe they're cutting out a nest of spiders.  Everyone got a slightly different answer.

I especially enjoyed the visit from the chaplain.  I mean, I have my own pastors (which we'd actually forgotten to alert).  When i was in for my knee, that chaplain was amazing. She said a prayer that made us both cry.  This guy...not so much.  I get it. It's early. He probably hadn't had coffee yet.  But there was no praying, nothing like that. He sort of came in, asked what I was having done, and left.  I may have told him I was having a parasitic twin removed. I'm not sure.

I did enjoy the visit from the anesthesiologist. He was Norwegian (I asked) and we had a great convo about the Winter Olympics. My surgeon showed up and after I told him he was extracting mystery substance from my head, he joined in in the skiing conversation. That was fun.

I'm not saying my anesthesiologist is in this photo. But I'm not saying he's not.

We also talked about my fears regarding being put under. Given how I almost DIED the last time, I wanted to be sure Mr. Norway understood that he had to be careful. I have things to do, books to write, TV to watch after surgery.

He assured me that everything would be fine. Then he turned me over to his assistant, Pria, the world's tiniest adult. Pria had a very think Indian accent, which was hard for me to understand given 1) I could only hear out of one ear and 2) I sometimes have issues understanding the Indian accent.  (Had she been Hispanic, I would have been fine.)  She asked me something about blood.  She asked me three times. I finally gave up and looked at Hubby who repeated the question:  if you need blood, is it okay to give you blood?

Um, yeah!  Again, books to write, TV to watch!

Now, the biggest thing that surprised me was that I had to get naked. Like naked naked.  That was a surprise for me because, well, they were operating on my head.  Surely I could keep my underwear on!

Nope.  It all had to come off.  They gave me one of those really great feeling gowns (open to the back) but it was too small for me. COME ON! It's Wisconsin. I'm not that fat! Ya couldn't get me a gown that actually fit?

They told me I had to be naked because they needed the surgical room to be as sterile as possible. Also, they didn't want anything in the way in case they had to put a catheter in me.

That made me soooooooooooo happy to know.

The nurse stuck a motion sickness patch behind my ear. She told me, "If you touch it, wash your hands right away. And for the love of all that's holy, don't let your pets near it."

Fun!

They also made sure I peed. Like that was the biggest issue they were concerned about, after asking my name and birthdate.  Did I pee?  Do I need to pee?  How about if we go try to pee?

I'm a people pleaser, so sure, I let the nurse guide me down the hall, and around the corner, right past the big door that leads to the waiting room.  (It was open, so everyone there got to see me in my ill fitting gown.) I did my duty and was led back to my bay, again, right past the open waiting room door.

Then it was time to go to the surgery room.  It was Pria's job to push my bed to the operating suite.  Pria, the tiniest adult, was tasked with pushing my bed (which outweighed her) and me (which REALLY outweighed her) around roughly seven corners, down four long hallways and past no less than two dozen empty beds parked in the hall.  I was literally looking for the internes from Grey's Anatomy.

It should also be noted that part of Pria's job was to announce that she was coming around a corner, by announcing loudly, COMING AROUND.

Pria, the world's tiniest adult, did not have what one would call a big voice.  But she did okay. Until we got to the door of the surgical room.  That's when she kind of lost control of the bed a bit and lowed into a line of mobile vital taking machines.  I didn't make contact, but she apologized profusely. At least, I think so. I couldn't really hear or understand her.

Once in the surgical room, I had a job to do:  I had to help scooch myself from the rolling bed to the operating table.  That operating table was NARROW.  I was mildly concerned I'd scooch too hard and shoot myself right off the table onto the floor.  

I was very careful. I didn't want Pria to have to pick me up.

The Norwegian was there, and he and Pria had a conversation that I cannot believe either one understood.  But, I blacked out at some point, so I guess they understand each other's accents.

Waking up, I checked for three things:

1) Did I have a catheter?  Nope.

2) Did I have bruising on my breastbone from them trying to wake me?  Nope.

3) Could I hear out of my right ear?  Nope.

Well, two good things anyway.

How cool am I?

Hubby came in and watched my oxygen levels, reminding me to breathe when they dropped below 90%.  We are a good team. He reminds me to breathe and I don't die because of it.  He also had to keep telling me not to touch my eyes.  Apparently, after surgery, I have a strong need to rub my eyes.


The woman who rolled me from recovery back to my pre-op bay was a lovely Black lady who had a voice that carried.  "COMING AROUND!" she yelled.  I told her she was really good at that.

Once in my bay, hubby and I waited. There was no parade of people at the end. Just a nurse who checked me out a couple times.  I must've passed because the next thing I near, they were allowing me to put clothes back on. I thought about stealing the gown, but I didn't.

It was about 11:30 at this point and me, being me, I found the TV remote and turned on FRIENDS.  (Which is on not quite 24 hours a day on various channels.)  I find the show comforting whenever I'm out of sorts. Like when I have half a bra on my head and everyone's telling me to stop scratching my eyes.

Transport came to get me and take me down to the parking lot level.  This young Black gent, lovely young guy, clearly loves his job. I asked him about it. He told me he gets 15, 000-16,000 steps a day and the hospital gives thema free pair of Brooks shoes every year.

The transport guy was so nice, he actually rolled me right to the car. He wasn't supposed to, but that's how much he liked his job.  He and hubby got me into the car and we were off home.  We did do a quick stop a Starbucks. I didn't want anything, but hubby got a big reward for being such a great Hubby!

Also, if the Bradley couple leaves the house, a stop at Starbucks is almost a guarantee.

Finally, home, and settled on the couch, I was ready for a long nap. Hubby was going to pick up my meds, including pain meds, but we hadn't gotten the call from the pharmacy. Fortunately, I had several tablets of Oxy left over from my knee replacement. Same milligrams and everything.  So Hubby could finish his work day without having to run out again.  Meds could wait until Wednesday.

hubby and Skippy had a play to go to Tuesday night.  I can't make this stuff up.  I was determined that they go and have their night out, so Peaches agreed to come sit with me. We had fun. We ordered Taco Johns crunchy tacos.  It was the first food I'd eaten since 8:30 PM Monday.  I inhaled 3 tacos faster than anything. We watched that documentary about America's Next Top Model, and I got to watch her favorite podcast as well. All in all, a fun night.  It was almost like nothing happened. Which is probably the semi expired oxy talking.

Nighty night!


Wednesday brought with it the time to change the dressing!  

Nothing sexier than that hair, am I right?

We, and by we I mean Hubby, changed the gross gauze in the weird little water polo hat.  

Exactly the same.

Wednesday, I started my meds.  Yep, they put me on antibiotics. Oh joy.  I asked them which one they were going to give me: The one that made me crap liquid or the one that burned out my taste buds. They asked if I had a preference (I'm allergic to the normal ones but I also have bad reactions to the not normal ones) I told them to surprise me.

The great part of Wednesday was the dairy free lasagna my good friend Sheila made for me.  It was delicious and so much better than then Taco Johns tacos I'd been surviving on.

Wednesday night I realized they'd given me super-secret choice number 3:  The one that makes my hands and feet itch. AWESOME.  A dose of Benadryl, and Wednesday was over.

Thursday, yesterday, was rough. I was definitely blue and on the edge of tears. My ear still hadn't opened up, my pain level was higher, and my hands itched.  

Reading the after surgery summary, I find out that the ear may not open up for several weeks to SEVERAL MONTHS.  WHAT???????????????????????????????

Also, Thursday I could take off the athletic cup strapped to my head. That was nice, except everything around my ear itched. Fun fact:  the entire right side of my head is still numb, except when it itches.  No idea what that's about, but I'm like Cousin Eddy with his metal plate.

The other big thing on Thursday was...I GOT TO SHOWER! Shower, change clothes, all of it!

I had to "wash my hair gently" and wear a Vaseline covered cotton ball in my ear bowl (It's a term they used. I like it.) while in the shower.  this is when the Bradley couple discovered they own 3, count them 3 jars (all opened) of Vaseline. 

I'm not pretty, but at least I'm clean!

Today, Friday, I'm in better spirits. My ear is still clogged, but it feels more like stuff that's just waiting to fall out.  Can't wait to see what comes out in the coming days.  A drop of blood here and there right now, nothing that dramatic, but a girl can dream.

But how was I disappointed?  Yeah, guess what?  NO ONE sent me a picture of what they removed from my head. NO ONE!  I asked everyone...even Pria.  No one took a picture no one let me see what they removed.

Did they even do anything????  How am I supposed to know?

I'm supposed to go back to work on Monday.  I can't even think about that right now because making myself presentable in an office setting, given what I'm working with at the moment, well, we'll see.

So there you go. The ear surgery is done. Now we move forward in the hopes that everything clears up and I'll be able to hear properly soon.  

And if anyone from Froedert is reading this, I still want that picture! I'll get over the disappointment, but I'm still waiting.

WE ARE SMART AND CAPABLE WOMEN!

 

Good morning!  

It happens every year.  Hubby goes on a quest to climb mountains in the autumn, and the kids and I are left to our own devices without supervision.  It's become quite the family joke, noting whatever weirdness happens when Hubby's out on vacation.

Here are some of the highlights of past years:

1) Skippy's car basically split in half...a block from home...in the pouring rain...a day before Skippy was leaving for a road trip.  (The Mighty Cube went to Nashville that year.)

2) A rat turned up dead in the garage.  Had to have the neighbor remove it because, well, the kids and I don't do dead animals.

3) Peaches shaved her head, and I had to help...even though I swore I wasn't going to.

4) My weed clearing project basically turned into an attempt to set fire to everything in the back yard.

5) My aunt died. 

I mean, seriously...you cannot make this up.

Which is why it was NO SURPRISE that last night, while Peaches and I were catching up on the new episodes of "YOU," Peaches paused the remote and said, "Tell me Rocket is playing with a toy."

We turned the lights on and then noted no... Rocket, our "mighty hunter" cat, was NOT playing with a toy. At least, not a toy we'd purchased for him.

It was a mouse.

A real live mouse.  Not one with its head torn off. Not one that died of a heart attack when it got a look of our army of cats. Not even one he found on the back porch and was toying with.  (All these things have happened.  But that's the complete list of rodent infestations we've had in the 19 years we've lived here.  So...I guess we were due.)

So there's Rocket, the mighty hunter, sitting in front of this wee critter, pawing at it every couple seconds.  In my house. In front of my television.  While I'm sitting there eating Chinese food and drinking saki.  (Okay, Peaches was drinking saki.  I'm still nursing mouth burn from my antibiotics for my ear...that's another story.)  

Now, okay, Peaches and I are not squeaky, frightened, girlie girls.  

At least, we didn't think so.

Hannah moved first.  "We are smart, capable women," she said.  

"Get a big bowl," I said.

I, of course, thought this would be like that situation in "Friends" where Rachel has to trap a pigeon.

This was not that. (Rachel and the pigeon video.)

It started out simply.  Peaches got the big popcorn bowl (we first had to decide if we wanted to use the big plastic microwave pot or the ancient mixing bowl.  I opted for the mixing bowl...but Peaches got both out, so thusly started the deconstruction of the house) I picked up the cat (no small thing, he's a chunk) and she'd slam down the bowl, trapping the mouse. We then would slide the cardboard from the bag of Chinese food under the bowl and walk the mouse out.

It worked for Rachel Green.  And, as Peaches kept saying, "we are smart, capable women."

We moved Rocket to another room.  Taco, our other cat, was comfortably perched on his cat tree, watching the whole thing without taking part.

Here's the thing though:  When dealing with a wild animal, one should be ready for anything.  Like, maybe the mouse didn't want to be trapped under a big glass bowl.  (He did not.)  Instead, he found a hiding place within the crevices of our tree stump coffee table.

Okay. This table weighs a metric ton.  Moving it, even for two smart, capable women, is a trick. And when there's a wild animal involved, one we do not want to crush (because that would be so much of a worse situation, note what I said about the dead rat.  I was not about to call the neighbor...again. I mean, it was only 8:00PM, sure, but I have yet to live down the screams of horror emitting from my face as he picked up the rat corpse and carried it out of the garage.)

We shifted the table a bit, revealing the mouse again.  This time, while we were screeching like children, he skittered across my FOOT, along the wall, and under a corner shelf.

Not the worst thing.  The worst thing is if he got under my beloved couch.  I'd never be able to sit there again.

This time, Peaches had an idea.  "Let's build a wall and funnel him to the patio door."

BRILLIANT!

So we built a bit of a mouse trail with books and whatever else we had.  I included a soft sided cat tent as part of the wall.  I mean, it's a tiny little mouse. He's not going to plow under the one small section of this brilliant wall and sneak in a direction we don't want him to go, right?  Of course not. That's crazy talk!

Once the wall was finished, Peaches lifted the corner shelf and put that to the side. The wee hunted mouse was plastered tight against the wall, not moving.  She used a long-handled cat toy and poked the mouse. "Come on buddy," she said.  "Come on...Buddy?"

Oh boy. Do we have yet another mouse that's died of fright?

But no. I could tell this one was still alive.  "Get the handle behind him, against the wall," I told Peaches.  "Poke him away from the wall."

Worked like a charm.

Except for one thing:  The minute he moved, we screeched again.  He skittered down the trail we'd built toward the door and we were screaming both from fear and amazement that we'd succeeded!  WE ARE SMART AND CAPABLE WOMEN!

And we thought we had it...until we didn't.

Remember that soft sided cat house?  Yeah, that mouse snuck right under that.  I could have trapped him with my foot. I could have. I was too busy running away screaming.

At this point, once Peaches and I regrouped, we realized the mouse was in one of two places:

1)  He escaped into the torn underlining of the footstool:

2) He was under the couch.

If he's in the footstool, we reasoned, we just put the footstool on the porch and close the porch. Done.

 

If he's under the couch, he can live quite happily given my love for snacks and my dislike for housekeeping.

"Get a scissors and cut out the lining," I say to Peaches, who is now waving a flashlight around light some kind of Republican in the Watergate Hotel.  She's got better knees than I do, so she got on the ground and started pointing the flashlight under the couch and under everything else.

I proceeded to sift through all the blankets, pillows, small pieces of furniture, and stacking them where ever I could, mostly on the couch and the big easy chair.

Hannah moved the footstool out to the patio. While out there, she studied the walls to find where this guy had gotten in.  Meanwhile, I fired off a text to Hubby, hoping for some idea how to manage this.

"Don't we have two cats?" That was his helpful suggestion.  That was followed with, "Peaches is familiar with traps."

"Hey, Peaches. So, Dad says you're familiar with traps."

She gives me what one can only describe as a "WITHERING" look.  Yes, she has set rodent traps. But she also calls her boss to come empty them when needed.  

"Traps are $12 a dozen on Amazon," was another helpful text from the Rockies.

"That doesn't help me NOW," I responded.

"Go to Walmart."

Let's ignore the fact that between the saki and the fact that we were in our jammies we were not okay to go outside the house.  I was not about to leave my domicile with Wild Kingdom running around.  Who knows how many of his little mice buddies he'd have in the house by the time we got back?

Besides, I have trauma from the days when we'd trap mice in our house growing up. I should note, my mom, also a smart and capable woman, called my dad at work to come home and dispose of the dead mouse behind the couch. So yeah, trip to Walmart was out.  But, we took a breather and scanned Amazon and decided we'd order a live trap. I know I'm able to empty a live trap rather than toss a trap full of dead mouse.  I AM A SMART AND CAPABLE WOMAN.

Peaches had an idea, "Let me call my friend Amy, she's good with animals."

Amy is a friend Peaches has had since grade school. She owns a rat and an assortment of other critters.   Peaches facetimed her.  After quite a bit of laughing, Amy had zero suggestions.  

At this point we'd been trying to trap this guy for almost an hour.  I kept saying, "I'm not sleeping in this house until we get him out of here."  Hey, I've been camping.  I've raised children.  I've babysat all manner of kids and I've owned different kinds of animals. I've probably slept in a house with an active mouse situation a hundred times.  

Peaches had another idea.  "Let's release Rocket. He'll find the mouse again."

That seemed as likely as anything else, so we did. We released the beast.  The beast who was very good at sniffing out where the mouse HAD BEEN, but not where he was.  Instead, this mighty hunter got distracted by all the rearranged furniture and blankets.  He got all caught up in exploring the new floor plan of the living room.  Useless beast.

I sat on my spot on the couch. "I guess we just wait now until he comes out again."

I was fully ready to wait the mouse out.  Let him run across my lap while I was watching TV. I would catch him.  I AM A SMART AND CAPABLE WOMAN!  But I was also quite tired of moving stuff around and I wanted to finish the episode of "YOU," we'd interrupted to catch the mouse.

We were almost settled back in our spots when Peaches glanced out the patio door.  "There he is!"

Sure enough, he'd hidden in the underlining of the footstool and was now running circles in the patio.  But he was really running circles.  Almost like...

"I hope we didn't give him a concussion!" Peaches says, fully concerned now that the wild animal was almost back where he belonged.  "How's he going to get out of the porch?"

 That was the next problem.  On Hubby's advice, I'd blocked the hole we found with a wad of steel wool. The best, easiest way for Mr. Mouse to leave was to reopen his route.  But I was not about to go out there. "I'll hold Rocket," I said.

Nope, I am not all that brave.

Peaches went out, removed the steel wool, and we closed the patio door, much to Rocket's ire.  He spent the next half hour staring out the patio door, watching the mouse run in circles.  We finally pulled the curtain closed.  Rocket snuck behind the curtain.  Honestly, I thought if he hadn't already proven to be such a waste of a hunter, I would have turned him loose on the porch and let him have the best night ever.  

As it was, the living room and parts of the kitchen looked like the dining room scene from "The Miracle Worker."

But, at least, the mouse was outside of the house and Peaches and I are still SMART AND CAPABLE WOMEN!  

We settled down and finished the episode, congratulating ourselves on getting the drama out of the way so early in Hubby's trip.  Now it'll be smooth going the whole time he's gone.

Sure.

FIVE FOR FRIDAY: (on Sunday) There's no crying in PT!

 

Happy Friday all!  First off, let's get this out of the way: YES, there is crying in PT.  But this wee was especially frustrating for me.  We know I generally only cry when I'm angry, so you know if I was crying in PT on Tuesday, I was in a rage. Everything just built up to a boiling point. Here's a countdown of five reasons why I cried in PT on Tuesday.

5) My recently replaced right knee.

Not really a problem except that it's not 100% and will never be 100% and it seems like I lost all of last year to this knee and now I've lost my inspiration to write since this knee was replaced. Is there where my creativity lived? In my now defunct right knee?

4) My left knee.

My left knee needs to be replaced. We've known this for a while.  It's just that now, since April, it's not responding to injections and it's starting to hurt in the way my right knee did last year.

3) My hands and feet.

My hands and feet are riddled with arthritis and hurt quite often, but since the first thaw this year they've been swollen and painful in spite of my usual treatments.  I hate spring, it always triggers the worst in my hands and feet. I'm like one of those Biblical guys they were always carrying around on mats in the New Testament.

No, seriously, I would LOVE IT if my friends could carry me right to Jesus to get healed!

2) My right ear.

See the blog from Wednesday.    Here's the link  Let's just say I'm suffering, once again, at the hands of incompetent medical folk who take my deductible and run over and over again.

1) My left shoulder.

This is a workman's comp thing. It's why I'm in PT right now anyway. I got hurt at work.  I'm going to PT like a good girl.  I don't mind PT, it's just that it hurts and the exercises hurt and I'm terrified this shoulder is going to mean something more than just a few sessions with my buddy, Bill, the PT guy.

So it all built up, all the pain I've got going on.  I can't sleep, because I normally sleep on my left side.  But that's my painful shoulder. I can't sleep on my right side because my ear drain blood and puss and the towel I cover my pillow with keeps slipping.  I can't hear much at work, so that's a pain in the rump.  My knees hurt so walking is a problem, but that's fine because if I did walk more my feet would scream more.

Do you get what's happening here?  Frustration overload!

Now Bill, my PT guy, is a gem.  He did my PT for my knee.  I love him, and not just because his office is a four-minute drive from my house.  He's patient, he's willing to try pretty much anything.  But...this shoulder might have him stumped.  So when I came in crying on Tuesday, he suggested we turn things up a notch and I go to the ortho guys.

You remember the ortho guys. The ones who neglected to ask if I snored and therefore nearly killed me with anesthesia during my knee surgery. You want to send me there?

In Bill's defense, he does believe in the whole, "there's no crying in PT."  He's wrong, but that's what he believes.

We went through our exercises and Bill's promised to not mention the ortho guys again unless absolutely necessary.  Stay tuned...

A doctor's appointment so bad, it gets its own blog! (Dr. House...we need you!)

 

Good day everyone!

So I was going to get a "Five for Friday" going about my day yesterday, and I had it all written in my head.  Until I had to go to the ear doctor...again...and emerged from that so angry I nearly crapped my pants on the way home. I'm not even kidding.

WARNING:  This post MAY include Rated R language as my internal speaker is not what one would call a good Christian girl with a clean mouth. No, my internal speaker is a 1940's sailor on shore leave after about six shots of the local alcoholic brew. This is really going to be more of a manifesto rant than a blog.  I'm not kidding...do not let the kiddies read this.

If you are offended by the verbal vulgarity arts, I suggest you not continue reading this.

Okay, so here's how this went down. (And I'm using actual notes from my actual MyChart, so...you know...I'm not making this up.)

On May 12 of this year, I went to urgent care because my ear was plugged and I was having a hard time hearing.  Below are some of the notes from that appointment:

Patient is a 87-year-old female who presents with right ear fullness and pressure for a week and a half prior to arrival. She reports feeling that her hearing is muffled and underwater. She feels there is pressure inside of her ear. Last week she had ear pain which resolved.

Right Ear: No drainage, swelling or tenderness. A middle ear effusion is present. There is no impacted cerumen. No foreign body. No mastoid tenderness. No hemotympanum. Tympanic membrane is not injected or erythematous.

Okay, I'm not 87, I'm 57, but that can be forgiven. I've had issues with itchy ears for years and this was the first doctor who actually listened to me and wrote me a referral for not just an ENT, but also an Alergist and a Dermatologist. This doctor suggested I take a number of decongestants and wait and see if the ear opened up on its own, as they tend to do this time of year because seasonal allergies, (which I have only recently started experiencing) are so big right now.

Thusly it was that I found myself at the office of an ENT on May 21 of this year. Below are some of the notes from that appointment:

A 57 y.o. female who I am asked to see at the request of who comes in with a plugged right ear with decreased hearing over the last couple of weeks. She was seen in urgent care and told to come here for fluid in her ear. She has not had a history of fluid in her ear. She has some mild allergies. She has a history of obstructive sleep apnea.

There is a middle ear effusion on the right. Discussed options with the patient what she wanted proceed with a myringotomy so right myringotomy was performed under topical phenol anesthesia under the microscope. Serous fluid was obtained from the middle ear. She notes dramatic improvement. Left ear was clear. Nasal exam unremarkable. Oral cavity pharynx clear. Neck exam negative for mass or adenopathy.

I'd like to point out that while he got my age right, he did NOT look at my left ear, my throat, my nose or anything other than my right ear. (I'm reading the clinical notes for the first time as I write this.) for those of you not familiar, a myringotomy is where the "doctor" (I'll be using quotation marks when referring to this fartnozzle now.) sticks a needle with a sponge of numbing meds in your ear. That burns like a BITCH for about 5 seconds. Then it's gone and he sticks another needle, this time combined with a vacuum cleaner, deep into the ear and cuts a hole in the eardrum and sucks out fluid. Yes, I did feel improvement which last all the way back to my car in the parking lot and the ear closed up again.

I contact the office and they said it was a process, and would take time for the ear to fully drain.  For a couple days a lovely yellow goo would flood out of my ear without warning. Super fun when one is at work.

Being a good girl, one taught to respect my elders, especially "doctors," I waited as I was told to wait.  I waited until the oozing stopped, the ear was still plugged, and my hearing got worse. But at least it hurt now, so that's great.

I went in on June 10.  Below are the notes: 

Explained options including a repeat myringotomy versus tube placement as she proceeded with the myringotomy. A right myringotomy was performed and the topical anesthesia with phenol. Serous fluid was obtained from the middle ear. Tympanic membrane was somewhat thickened. She noticed immediate relief.

Now, what's important here are things the "doctor" did NOT put in the notes. Like, how I asked him what he should do, another draining, or put in the tube. He said, "wait and let's drain it again, and see if that works."

He also used the word "infection" TWICE in the appointment. Now, I don't know about you, but the word "infection" especially when combined with "ear" means antibiotics. I didn't say anything in the appointment, because one's brain is not all that clear immediately after having needles and vacuum cleaners shoved deep into the ear. But I messaged the "doctor's" office again the next day:

Hello! it didnt click with me yesterday when i was in the office but Dr. Kass used the word "infection" twice. If I have an ear infection shouldn't I be on antibiotics? thanks, have a great evening.

The response was neither quick nor clear:

Your ear has fluid in it but this is not an actual acute infection which is why you are not on antibiotics. Treatment is drainage of the fluid. If the fluid recurs we would then place a tube. There is no acute infection requiring antibiotics but rather just a plugged eustachian tube.

That brings us to yesterday...June 17. I was already pretty fragile, for reasons we'll cover in my next Five for Friday. So when I called on Monday the 16th to schedule I was very clear that I wanted the tube in my ear. I was done fooling around with this. (Note: My portion of these appointments has been $120 each for the first two. Another thing to consider. Also, since when I can I get in to an ENT just any time I want? Can someone say "BIG STUPID RED FLAG?"

So I get to the "doctors" office. I get in the chair, we chat nicely for a moment. He shoves the stinging sponge in there and then begins 20 minutes of what I would call a mining expedition.

20 minutes of poking, drilling, cutting, and draining. Fun fact, the numbing agent that stings for five seconds really only works for about three minutes. So I started gripping the arm rests and pressing into the chair, as one does when one wants to stay still, but is experiencing extreme and sharp pain.

"Doctor" says, "oh does that hurt?"

As a wise friend said when I told her this story, "No shit, Sherlock."

More numbing, more stinging, only this time he didn't wait for it to take full effect, so more drilling, more sucking, more screeching sounds in my ear, more pain.

"Your ear drum is really thick. I'm going to try cutting it in a different spot."

Spoiler...THAT DIDN'T WORK!

Okay, here are the notes:

Patient comes in for follow-up. Right ear still feeling plugged.

 

Examination of microscope reveals thick mucoid effusion with retraction. A right myringotomy was performed under sterile technique and found to have thickened eardrum with very thick middle ear mucosa. There was some fluid as well. Tympanic membranes was too thick to place a tube.

 

Impression. Right otitis media with effusion with severe edema of the tympanic membranes and mucosa.

 

Plan. Omnicef. Ciprodex drops. Keep the ear dry. Follow-up in 2 weeks for recheck and possible tube placement at that time.

What does all that mean?

Well he put me on not one, but TWO antibiotics.

FOR A FARTING INFECTION I DON'T HAVE???????????????????????

(I did warn you.)

Now, fun fact, I have allergies to some of the more common antibiotics. So he's telling me, after cutting AT LEAST 5 holes in my eardrum, that it's too thick for a tube at the moment. He asks if I have a problem with antibiotics. I tell him what I allergies are. (WHICH HE SHOULD KNOW SINCE IT'S ALL IN MY FREAKING MYCHART NOTES!)

Why do we bother filling out those preregistrations every time? The jackwagon doctors clearly don't read them. This is not the first time I've been prescribed something that sent me to urgent care with a reaction by some "doctor" who didn't get enough of a shit to read the notes I have to fill in for EVERY SINGLE FREAKING APPOINTMENT.

The second I told him my allergies, one would have thought I just informed him that I also shot holes in all four of his tires. He was that inconvenienced by my allergy. He had to think of another two antibiotics that would heal the INFECTION I DIDN'T HAVE but not kill me in the process.

Oh yeah and come back in two weeks. Also, one of the prescriptions was for ear drops. Now, this is fine, but this fucktard's last instruction to me, after telling me to come back in two weeks, was

"Keep your ear dry."

I mean, other than the fact that I have BLOOD AND YELLOW OOZE coming out of the ear and WHITE DROPS GOING IN, I AM BEING SUPER CAREFUL about keeping it dry. Now showers for me. (That's going to go over great at work.)

By the time I'm at the pharmacy (those poor people) I was in tears and raging. My ear hurt, I can't hear out of it, but sound gets stuck in my head and it's like I'm underwater. I don't want to go anywhere, I don't want to do anything. I can't carry on a conversation with a person like normal, and my TV volume is way past 11. It's all I can do not to break down at the pharmacy.

This is how mad I was: I asked to speak with the pharmacist to make sure the antibiotics weren't going to set off a reaction.

I trust pharmacists.

I do not trust "Doctors."

Wise words from Keith Richards...and he should know. He's done just about every bad thing to himself and he's still kicking.

Okay, so you'd think at this point I'd just drive home and take my meds and write a funny blog about nonsense that only happens to me.

Nope, we are not done.

Outside the pharmacy, I realize my rage is so strong it's now affecting my intestinal system.

It is an 11 minute drive from the pharmacy to my house. That's taking into consideration hitting at least two of the multiple traffic lights on the way. I judged the urgency, weighed it against my loathing for public restrooms, and decided to try and get home.

And that's when I got behind the SLOWEST CAR ON THE WHOLE DAMN ROAD. Like "what the hell dude! At least get close to the speed limit!"

As a result, I hit the first three lights on RED. By the second one, I knew I wasn't making it home. NEVER FEAR, KWIK TRIP's NEAR! I had two lights between me and the nearest KT.

Of course, I hit both the lights on red. By that last one I was yelling out my window, "COME ON!" in a voice that can only be described as desperate.

I got to the Kwik Trip, parked my car, and raced as fast as I dared to the door. However, there's an unwritten rule at Kwik Trip: You must keep the door open for the person behind you. It's the way we are, Midwest Nice. So even though I was, in all honesty, hanging on by the tiniest of threads, I held the door open for a guy who, I SWEAR, slowed his pace once he saw me holding the door.

COME ON!

Finally, I get into the bathroom, lock that door behind me, and let loose a hot steaming flood of rage from my bowels. It took several minutes to fully deshit my colon, and my relief was, unlike the crap with my ear, real and lasting.

I got home and went to cry on hubby's shoulder. Thank goodness for him. After that, I took my antibiotics for an infection I DO NOT HAVE, and I turned on "Downton Abbey" and that was the rest of my day.

Dr. House, we need you! I'm pretty sure you could kick my ear "doctors" ass, even with the cane!