Last night I suddenly developed the most excruciating pain in my lower abdomen. Came out of nowhere: one minute I’m searching for pics of Carol Vorderman’s extensive superstructure, the next I’m doubled up on the couch and moaning like a Democrat forced to sing the National Anthem.
So did I go to the ER? Silly rabbits, I’m a MAN — of course I didn’t wimp out and seek medical attention.
Now before anyone starts yelling at me — especially those Readers of the Female Persuasion — lemme ask y’all this:
What if it had just been gas, somehow bottled up and unable to be released? You’d feel like a proper Charlie if the ER doc were to look at your CAT scan, shake his head sorrowfully and say, “Take two Gas-X and call me in the morning”, with the unspoken corollary: “What a total pussy.” That was not going to happen. So I waited overnight.
However, by this morning the symptoms had not abated — got worse, actually — so I girded up my loins and went off to the local Doc-In-The-Box to get a CAT scan. But the nearest one had closed down for good. So I went to another one close to the apartment, and they were open but — their CAT scan machine was broken.
By this time, the combination of frustration plus pain in my gut — I was driving bent over like a Florida geezer — made me say “Fukkit!” and so I ended up at GlobalMegaHealthCorp LLC, at the other end of Plano, FFS. I went in promptly at 9.15am, was seen promptly at 11.15am, had the CAT scan promptly at 2.30pm, and was on my way to CVS promptly at 4.05pm.
Which is why I always try to go the the little ER clinics for visits of this nature: in, scanned, diagnosed, prescribed and out in generally less than 90 minutes. If they’re a little busy.
Anyway, I suppose you want to know why I’m still doubled over in pain, waiting for the Blessed Medications to kick in?
Diverticulitis (non-complicated), treated with Cipro and some other antibiotic. According to Doc Russia (who diagnosed me correctly over the phone while I was waiting in the ER room), I should feel better by tomorrow.
Let’s hope. In the meantime, I’m debating whether to pop a Tylenol-3 (the one with codeine) to help me get through the night.
Of course, I’m also counting my blessings. This pain could have pointed to something really foul like a hiatal hernia, appendicitis (even though I’m too old for that shit) or the Evil Cousin of diverticulitis, a perforated bowel (which can seriously fuck up your weekend picnic plans). Not to mention all the other shit down there that can creep up on Olde Pharttes and kill us like a smackeroo-blurdy. That part of the body is like a WWII German minefield, with stuff just waiting to kill you. But it wasn’t any of that.
Oh, and one small piece of other news: my weight has gone down from 265 to 240, in just under two months. My goal: Army weight (205-210), or maybe even less if I can stick with it. Here’s me, in approved SADF browns, circa 1977:
So there’s that, which is good.
