Ah the holidays. Brings out the best in everyone, right? Except if you’re on Grape Road, of course. Well, in my case it brought out the worst in my appendix and so after some incredible pain, rushed doctor visits, and what not, out it went the other day. I’m happy to report that I received nothing but primo care by an absolutely wonderful group of individuals. From my kindly doctor and his super-helpful nurses, to the calming CAT scan technicians and radiologists, to the amazing hospital nurses who were just so unbelievably caring, and of course to the very capable surgeon and anaesthesiologist--all helped me get back on my feet again. I am now a huge fan of Memorial Hospital and if they want to build 27 helicopter pads they have my blessing. To top it off, my roommate was a friendly guy.
But I want to bring some helpful advice to all of you WVPE listeners, and it revolves around something I learned during my stay at Memorial: morphine is over-rated. Yes, this so-called fearsome drug should be deep-sixed. Now, this surprised me no end because my knowledge of this drug was directly related to the old Rolling Stones song, “Sister Morphine.” Let me give you an idea of what I was expecting when the drip of morphine went into my intravenous tube:
Now, if the lyrics and guitar doesn’t make the drug sound both scary and just plain otherworldly--and a bit enticing-- nothing will. Unfortunately, it took me almost 12 hours to realize that (a) this very, very dangerous drug wasn’t doing diddly to stop that stabbing feeling in my abdomen and, (b) it made me itch all over. Perhaps the good nurses were afraid that if I got too much of this stuff I’d become some hard-core junky and form a rock band--or maybe a right wing radio talk show host. Happily, they then provided me with something called Vicodin and all I can say is “brother this med rocks.” Mick and Keith should have sung about this one instead. When I mentioned the benefits of Vicodin to a friend, he told me that this is Ozzy Osborne’s drug of choice, though he reputedly adds a bottle of wine to the mix. Given this combo it’s possible that the Prince of Darkness is doing more than ease the pain of where his appendix once was.
Oh, I learned another thing at the hospital and it relates back to morphine. Pain management is kinda important in these situations. Everyone at the hospital kept asking me to look at this wall chart and point to where I was in relation to a pain scale where “0” had a happy face next to it and “10” had a really unhappy face next to it. Sounds simple, right? Find the face and say “that’s me.” Well, it took me a full day to realize that my self-diagnose was not too accurate. Perhaps some people are just better at this than others, but given all of the things they stuck in me, on me, and around me, you’d think there would be just one more device that could measure my neurons a bit more accurately than asking me how I feel when I’m in a semi-comatose state. Get to work you crazy scientists you.
I don’t mean to end this saga on an ungrateful note, but I am now being deluged with medical bills. My two day experience with modern medicine has racked up bills well in excess of $10,000. Yes, that’s right, $10,000. Naturally, the bills are all written in that medical bureaucratic hieroglyphics that makes them next to impossible to decipher. To add insult to injury, my IQ drops a good 10 points every time I look at them. I am also finding out that my health insurance is, well, no insurance that I don’t have to pay for a fair portion of this episode. I am left with the sinking feeling that our medical system is as sick and dying as was my poor appendix. Happy New Year Blue Cross and Blue Shield....and may you rot in Hell.