DON'T WANNA WANG-DANG
Just a little over 2 weeks had passed since I was released from the hospital, and now I was lying in my bed knowing I had to go back. Staring at the spinning fan, and seeing four spinning fans, and experiencing a menacing pounding in my head that can only be explained as: menacing and pounding, were my first symptoms.
It was 5:30am, when I decided I needed to have my father take me to the emergency room. It wasn't until one hour and a half later that I finally had managed to get dressed and out of bed. My equilibrium was completely shot, I couldn't see two feet in front of me, and the pain in my head was menacing and pounding.
Apparently, both of the cars had broken down, because my father decided to take the pogo-stick to the emergency room, connecting with every pot hole, speed bump, and curb on his “short cut” to the hospital. My father seems to believe for every sensible convenient route to a destination, there must be a “short cut”, free of pesky stoplights, too much traffic, and paved roads for that matter. Hours of my life must have been lost, stuck in the passenger seat, staring out the window, not knowing where we were, but knowing we were close. My father would direct the car with confidence, cigarette hanging from his mouth, singing the wrong words to the oldies on the radio, and at any moment we would pull out from behind some deserted gas station, hang a quick right and arrive at out desired destination. All the while not really understanding when my dad could have found the time to do all of this exploring of the city we lived in.
Finally at the E.R., the first doctor comes in to examine me. Now, my experience with hospitals and doctors may not be an extensive one, but I do have this theory. The first doctor to come in and give you his initial diagnosis is a lot like the T.V. weatherman; gets paid a whole bunch of money, to be wrong. Just looking at him saying to yourself, “Well, remember what you said a couple of weeks ago? Look how that turned out. Not only were you way off, but I wore a coat and got a little sweaty.”
He grabs my head and proceeds with the “does it hurt more like this, or like that” test. Well, it's menacing when you tilt it that way, and pounding when you pound on it like that. After shoving his hand held microscope deep into my ear, he states that there is tremendous buildup, I promptly say, “It's my tremendous intelligence.”
Laughing at my own lame joke hurts my head even more.
Diagnosed with a severe sinus headache, I immediately brush it off as a completely false statement, his diagnosis will be very wrong, and I will be re-examined and told I have the gout or something utterly unrelated.
An MRI will be done soon to double check any problems with the brain. Meanwhile, I'm given a heavy dose of morphine to ease the pain. Never that big into painkillers, or any drug for that matter, I am wary of the effects that such a drug could have on my life. I can only assume it will be similar to what I have witnessed with family and friends. I fear I will get addicted, start popping more pills than prescribed, get hooked on classic rock, and purchase way too many Grateful Dead t-shirts.
The MRI seems to arrive faster than expected. Either time is flying by, or I was so caught up in the Wango Tango Nugent solo, playing in my soon to be Purple Haze of a fried brain, that I just didn't notice. Those unfamiliar with an MRI, doctors obtain detailed “pictures” of a body part, in my case, the brain, by placing it inside a tube, and then proceeding to beat it senselessly with sledgehammers.
I am halfway through White Room and imagining myself as the egg, in the “This is your brain on drugs” commercials, when the Neurologist comes to delivers the results of my head torture.
Dr. Barry is a large awkward man, with a look that suggests his mouth will soon swallow his head, and he speaks as if he is about to drown in his own mucus. I dislike him. For some reason, I just don't feel comfortable receiving medical advice from a man who has yet to catch his breath since entering the room. Explaining the results of the test as if he is in a conference of studied colleagues, he spits medical jargon like he's just completed reading “1001 Complicated Brain Problems”. Although the words and terms by themselves would suggest that Dr. Barry is incredibly intelligent, they are not by themselves. He speaks to me as if I am a toddler, “Is there a vasculitis in your cranial membrane? Is there? Huh? You want Dr. B to fix it all up?”
I return the favor by staring back as most toddlers do, with a distant stare that screams, “your such a dumb bastard”. All the while with snot dripping from my nose and slowly concocting a present for him in my pants.
The signs of my future as a classic rock obsessed drug addled junkie are apparent everywhere. I have just been told that I must get a “Spinal Tap”, to obtain further information from my brain. You would assume with the massive amounts of technology in the medical world today that maybe they could retrieve fluid from the brain by a different method. About the same time some caveman was working on a little thing called fire, another came up with the Spinal Tap. Put a long needle up the back, and then tilt the body like an empty bottle of ketchup till some liquid comes out.
After they are done tapping my brain keg, I'm wheeled back to my ER waiting room (I have not yet been admitted) to find dinner waiting for me. Now, for a patient who can barely see, and what vision that is available comes in like a kaleidoscope, a patient whose head is in so much menacing pounding pain he can barely lift it up. A patient whose (because of massive amounts of steroids) hands shake like autumn leaves on a windy day. What convenient food do they bring for this patient to enjoy? Rice! I look around for the chopsticks so the joke will truly be complete.
The long boring wait for answers is made bearable by the entertainment of my Dad. He reminds me a whole lot of a really bad made for TV movie, not meant to be funny, it just is.
“Make sure you take care of the baby of the family”. “You know he's the baby?” “That's right, he's the youngest”. My father makes sure to mention this to every single new nurse or doctor to come within ninety feet of me. I'm pretty sure he is trying to garner a response similar to, “Youngest? No way, look how big he is”.
Just so he can respond, “That's right, even after seven kids I still have the ability to produce offspring the size of an NFL linebacker”.
It's the same routine after we get done playing, “Look at your son the freak show” game, he insists on asking if any of the nurses need help with anything. I can only imagine the look on his face if a nurse said, “Actually, Mr. Quinn, you can, were about to give this eighty year old woman an enema, now hold this bag”.
Halfway through my sixth grain of rice, Dr. Barry finds his way back to my area. I put my best “you're an idiot” look upon my face, as he begins to recite the entire New England Journal of Medicines chapter dealing with the brain. After ten minutes of his blubbering, I am told that the Spinal Tap did not reveal any further bad news. I am admitted to the hospital for further observation. I am also being taken off the Morphine. What? What are you talking about? I am in pain. I know I have only been a Morphine junkie for a couple of hours, but I need that high.
Since I'm jonesin' (need drugs) I get in contact with my dealer (my doctor), he gets me the hook up (more drugs), and then a runner (nurse Tammy), drops the shit (Dilaudid) at my crib (Room #132). I am kept in the hospital for another week, and released with my vision better, but my headaches are still present. I'm told treatments of chemotherapy will help me get rid of the pain I am sent home with the Dilaudid, which is an EXTREMELY potent painkiller. I am now truly living my junkie classic rock life:
I am on the “Black Mountain Side”, with the “Girl I Love, with the Black Wavy Hair”, there's a “Communication Breakdown” at the “Misty Mountain Hop”. “Poor Tom”, he's “Dazed and Confused” as he eats “Custard Pie” with a “Black Country Woman”.
After just one treatment the headaches are gone. I kick the painkiller habit and hang up my torn blue jeans and faded Jerry Garcia t-shirt for good. But, for a good solid week, I had a habit to be proud of. So, years from now I can warn my kids of the hazards of drug use. I can honestly look them straight in the face and say, “Drugs are bad. Just say No”.
My youngest son will look up at me with bloodshot eyes, “Yeah, Dad whatever Ramble On”. |
