So the hospitalist just came in and told me that the “pancreas specialist” (I’m going to call him PS from now on) had decided that my pancreas is far too inflamed to do the EUS (endoscopic ultrasound) at this time. PS likened it to poking a wasp’s nest with a hot cattle prod, so apparently it will be a couple of weeks before I can have that done. Also, apparently I am not stable enough medically with my concurrent asthma problems to be sedated. So what that means is, I’ve been hungry all day for nothing. Insert sad face here.
The bright side of that is that the hospitalist felt so sorry for me that she ordered a full liquid diet for me. (Sad face worked. Yay!). I’m so excited I could cry. I’ve been eating hot water that they’ve been passing off as chicken broth all week and watching old Law and Order SVU episodes that feature Little Ceaser Bacon Wrapped Deep Dish Pizza ads, and eventually this will drive you stark raving mad if you let it. Everything is better with bacon! Even pancreatitis!
So I told the hospitalist about my poop today, as I’m very proud of it. Heck, I’ve told everyone. You don’t realize how much you take pooping for granted until you can’t, and when you finally do and it takes 45 minutes, hurts like a mofo, and then it comes out like crunchy peanut butter. I mean, seriously: imagine having to push out about a cup of extra crunchy peanut butter from your butt. Then, at some point, by the magic of the gods, it turns into super glue. I was literally covered from head to toe in poop, like one of those babies who’s about to take a baptism picture and blows his diaper just before the photographer gets there. The only thing that saved me was the fact that I was getting in the shower after I pooped, but that was the longest shower of my life. I had no idea you could get poop behind your ears at the age of 50, without involving some kind of weird sexual ritual, á lá 50 Shades of Grey. (No wonder E.L. James picked the color grey. She knew old people were kinky too.)
So now the question is, “What shall I eat?” The hospital I am in has an á lá carte menu, and frankly the food is pretty good as far as institutional food goes, so let’s see what my choices are:
Grits (hey I live in the South), cream of tomato soup, cream of chicken soup, vanilla or chocolate pudding (which I can’t eat due to that unfortunate third grade incident), ice cream, low fat yogurt, and milk. I’m lactose intolerant so that throws out everything except for the soup and the grits, so soup and grits it is. My mouth is already watering! With a side of Popsicles. Boy they love giving you Popsicles in the hospital, and I guess if it weren’t for all the Blue Bell Snacks Popsicles I’ve been eating this week, I’d probably be certifiable right about now. Of course, people who know me probably would tell you I’m already certifiable, but I prefer that you, lovely reader, figure that out for yourself by following this blog. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
I’m also really upset because one of my all time favorite bands is in town for a concert. I have tickets, but of course I can’t go, being cooped up in here. I’ve been trying to figure out how I can sneak out of here to go tonight by strategically arranging the pillows on my bed, but you can’t get vital signs from a pillow, no matter how hard you try, so I’m left to wallow in my sadness because this is literally a once in a lifetime opportunity; these guys aren’t well known, and the odds of them coming back here in the next 50 years are pretty much the same odds of me winning the Powerball. I’m so ill, literally and figuratively. I’ve been looking forward to this concert for WEEKS, and it just isn’t going to happen. Insert really sad face here.
Well, lovely reader, it’s time to imbibe in grits and creamy soups so I will leave you to your imaginations to wonder just how certifiable I really am. Good luck with that.