On my way to losing a marathon!

Sunday, August 5, 2012

My doctor wants to gut me like a fish.

Don't ask me how I know.  When you know, you know.  I can see it in his eyes.  That man is coming for me. And my gallbladder.

That's right folks.  I went to the doctor.  After having baked chicken, wild rice and broccoli for dinner, and then falling into a terrible, 10 hour swing of stomach cramping, I figured it was about fricks time to go see a doctor.  This was the point that I realized my gallant attempts at "treating my pain through diet"  were failing miserably, and that this pain needed a little something more than just staying away from french fries.

*Quick disclaimer from here on out.  If you have a.... anything... I'm not writing this to judge you.  Please don't hate me, and don't think I'm trying to be mean.  This post is written out of a very specific combination of pain and self deprecation.  That is all.*

Before leaving the house, I slumped down and whined to husband.

"Shaney, I feel fat and ugly and I have to go tell a doctor about my bowels."
"Oh, it's okay.  You don't look... big or bloated to me!"

Would someone please explain to my husband that he, by changing the words around did IN FACT tacitly imply that I am both fat and ugly?  Thank you.


Then I got to meet the world's most overly informative nurse, who responded to my symptoms by letting me know that THIS SOUNDS EXACTLY LIKE WHAT SHE HAS and upon being asked let me know that what she suffers from is Irritable Bowel Syndrome, which is coincidentally the exact moment that I started to consider suicide as a pretty solid treatment option.

But I digress.

The doctor came in, and brought with him a little surprise, by way of a braaaaand new MED STUDENT!  No, let me rephrase.  My 4'11", chubby, aging doctor brought with him a tall, young, decently attractive med student.  No, I'm not trying to pick up young medical professionals, I simply feel a liiiiittle extra uncomfortable when forced to describe my bowel movements in front of attractive people.  I don't know.  It's this weird phobia I have that probably dates back to high school.  It's also why I very strongly believe that getting hit with the ugly stick should be included in one of your first years at med school.



Long I'm-not-gonna-relay-it-here-story short, my doctor says that all signs point to that he wants to cut out my gall bladder.  He suggests that everything will be immediately better and awesome once I no longer have this annoying little organ (even though the internet vehemently disagrees on this point), but has conceded to "go through the motions" of seeing whether or not I actually have a problem with my gall bladder, just to make me feel a little better.

And so, the testing begins.  Just so you know, I watched when they took my blood, because I am a grown up and not a total pansy which means it doesn't freak me out to see needles stab me in the skin and veins and steal my life source.  Right.

It was unpleasant, and the next few months are bound to get unpleasanter.  They put me on the purple pill, but my stomach chooses to hurt anyway, every night it seems.  And of course, my doctor very much wants to remove my insides.

But hey, at least I don't have IBS.  Cuz ew.

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