Part 2: Uh, Mr. Narrator...

[Editor’s Note: When the experts for this blog’s quality control department reviewed the previous post, they discovered what they perceived to be an error. “You didn’t get an IV that time; you’re mixing it up with a later visit to the emergency department.” To this observation, this blog politely responds, “Just give us a break already. The stories we intend to be true are based on real, live facts, which we swear we are not making up. At least not on purpose.”]

I left the emergency department later that morning, that final day of August, comforted by the knowledge that the skilled personnel of the local Medical Care Establishment had labored over my case for minutes on end and concluded that I had chest pains of unknown origin that probably wouldn’t kill me, but if they did, I should by all means rush back into the emergency department. “That will be $1,300 please.” And people say we need health care reform. These fly by night characters have obviously never experienced the security that comes from knowing, beyond all shadow of doubt, that you have no clue what is wrong with your body, and neither does anyone else.

The following eight days were kind of a blur. I had been given instructions to take 600 milligrams of ibuprofen as needed for pain, but I quickly discerned there was little to be gained by such an exercise. In fact, it seemed as though the pain would see the ibuprofen coming, laugh in a maniacal fashion, and be inspired to new heights of intransigence. I still had the chest pains, which were constant and dull, although they varied in intensity, and I discovered that such inconsequential things as physical exertion and stress made the pain worse.

On Day 9, I called my doctor to alert him that in spite of the expert care provided by the skilled emergency department personnel, I was not feeling any better. He frowned at me over the phone for a few minutes and concluded that I had ____, and at this point he made a noise not unlike that which occurs when one politely coughs when they are unexpectedly discovered attempting to swallow a mole. I asked him to repeat that, and he just made that coughing noise again. He then explained that it was an inflammation of the cartilage between the ribs; later, with the aid of the medical dictionary that is Google, I learned that he had been attempting to pronounce costochondritis. This, of course, required a prescription for prednisone, which is a steroid used to treat certain inflammatory diseases. And it has side effects.

The following eight days were kind of a blur, in a déjà vu kind of way. I had been given instructions to take the prednisone every day, but I quickly discerned that there was little to be gained by such an exercise. In fact, the only discernable benefit was that I noticed my brain less and less up to the task of completing sentences and forming coherent thoughts, and more up to the task of saying and doing completely unexpected things at the most inopportune moments. Some people thought this was funny, but these are the same kind of people that find humor in America’s Funniest Videos, random puns, and other such drivel.

My pain had not alleviated and in fact, there were times when it was very intense. During the morning on Day 13, I awoke with most severe pain I have ever felt, and so excited was I by the security of not knowing what it might mean, that I immediately passed out. When I came to, the pain had diminished so, instead of risking additional exposure to the Medical Care Establishment, I went back to sleep.

On Day 17, I called my doctor to alert him that in spite of the enjoyable side effects of the prednisone, I was not feeling any better. Oh, I added under my breath, attempting to mimic his coughing noise, I also passed out a couple days ago. The doctor was not pleased with this information, or my apparently severe lapse in judgment, and ordered me to proceed directly to the prison department without passing Go or collecting $200. I’m pretty sure he meant the emergency department, but it was probably just a Freudian slip.