Had such a good day, Jack. I decided to answer your question with Part One:
Okay, Jack, here is my two-finger synopsis of what happened.
On May 22, 2002, I was at work and took a really bad pain in the chest, borrowed some antacid tabs from a co-worker, and went into the darkroom and sat on a chair holding my head. When I felt the sweat hitting my shoes, I figured it was time to do something, so I went home. As soon as my wife saw me, it was into the car and up to the hospital. By this time, I'm getting the idea that something is really wrong because all my family is there in the emergency room with me, and I asked the doctor if I had had a heart attack. He said, "Yes, you are having one." Okay, that was clear enough even for a twit like me. So, out comes this needle which is an IV and being shot into my arm, and as this is happening, I watched my brother give the doctor an elbow and pointed at the monitor, at which point the doctor said whoa, whoa, stop. Of course, I had to look at the monitor and damn near had a heart attack. What am I saying here? Hell, with those numbers, I should have been dead, but in a few minutes, the numbers started to climb back up, another shot, back down, until finally, the numbers evened out enough, and the EKG looked like I was going to make it, and this is when the shit started to hit the fan. The doctor asked me if I ever had an aneurysm, and I said yes, but I could only recall one word, and it sounded like fusiforth to me. So, I tell him to call my doctor and find out. He leaves and returns a few minutes later and said I had no aneurysm, at which point my brother says to the doc, "He's got an effing aneurysm," and the doc asked how he knew, so he said, "He just told you he did, so he has one." Now this poor doc said I'll see if I can find someone to take him over to the CAT scan lab, but these boys were telling the doc to lead the way, and we're flying down the halls, and the poor doc running behind trying to keep up. We land at the lab, and the boys grabbed me and almost threw me on the table while the technician stood there and looked at what was happening. Christ knows what he was thinking. Anyway, CAT scan done and back to emergency to wait out the report. Of course, here comes the priest, another anointing for Ed, we're now on the budget plan. Finally, back came the report, and the boys asked well?? and the doc says 6.5 cm and a chorus of "holy f#%K." We all knew what that meant, but what we didn't know was after a heart attack, you have to wait a year before they can operate and repair the sucker. So I see the specialist, and he tells me if this thing blows at home, I have a 25% chance of making it, but in the city, I would have a 75% chance, whoopeedefuckingdo, and I have to wait a year, great. Anyway, the next January, '03, I get the call to the city for this surgery, and as far as I know, everything went well, except I had another heart attack in the recovery room afterward and thought that was the end of it. Ha, no, that was the beginning of all the shit I went through afterward. Apparently, during this operation, the blood supply was cut off to my intestines for too long, but I didn't know any of this until five weeks later, and here I was thinking everything was all fine and dandy. So one Saturday night, I went to bed around midnight, actually feeling pretty damn good, but within three hours, I got violently ill, and my wife and daughter somehow got me to the hospital where the emergency docs said I had to get to the city instantly, except the fog, yeah the real stuff, and the helicopter couldn't take off, so it was into the ambulance for a 150-mile trip. Of course, I know nothing of this as I say I was really ill, I guess. Now the fun begins, I'm all doped to hell and back, and I remember having another CAT scan or an MRI, something, only while I'm in this machine, I know those two fuckers are out to kill me, and that was a fact, for me, anyway. So with the scan done, they told me not to move as they wanted to do something else, of course, they were going to kill me. One of them said not to move because I had a catheter in, so I ripped it out, and the last thing I remember was seeing the blood on the front of the machine and these guys yelling for security and being held down long enough to put me back to lala land. That's the last I remember until I woke up a week later, but here's what happened in the meantime. I was hauled arse into surgery and got that fabulous groin to thorax cut
that's all the rage now with all those shiny staples and this genius surgeon who couldn't find anything wrong, so just clip, snip, and here we are all ready for a new adventure with a new surgeon. So out with the old crap and open up a new can of worms, but apparently, this surgeon knew what the hell he was doing because when I asked him what he had done to find the problem, he said he palpitated the colon and found it was dead from the inside, so snip, snip, goodbye colon, and here come the ilium to the fore, to take over its new duties, and for a week, I was put to sleep to let the new asshole with the bag on its head learn its new role. Meanwhile, remember those pricks trying to kill me? Well, when I woke up on Easter Sunday, oh yeah, they were there, but so were all my family, so I was safe for a while. THEN, one of my brothers was alone with me and broke the news, and when he said, "Ed, we had to let them do a colostomy on you," and I remember screaming at him, "What the hell did you let them do that for?" and him answering, actually yelling, what the F #@%
were we supposed to do, let you die? OK, he had me there, but still lurking around in the ICU was one particular nurse who was in on this let's kill Ed bit, but there was also another nurse who was like my guardian angel, and I mean that so sincerely, as she knew I was having these paranoid spells and did so much to console me and help me through this mess I was in. So, fast forward about ten days, what we all go through learning how to look after ourselves, and we didn't have a colostomy but an ileostomy, shit like that, remember?
Now you would think, okay, you got through all this shit, now all we have to do is settle down and let the old bod heal on its own good time. WRONG, we are now introduced to the amazing world of blockages, or how to increase your vocabulary without even trying, that happens when you start vomiting up what I believe was the same stuff going into my pouch with such mind-numbing pain that it's impossible to describe, and after a couple of years, you no longer fear death, just that pain. Finally, on one of my in-house vacations barfing up my guts, one of the local surgeons said to me one day, "Ed, I can fix this for you, but it means one more surgery," and bet your ass, I said, "Go for it, doc," and go for it he did, and my faith in mankind was restored. I have never had a blockage since, and every time I read of someone who is having them, I have the greatest empathy for them and wish they were able to have the good fortune I received from this man. Today I only wish I could find an orthopedic surgeon that I could trust as before, during, and after all this crap I went through, it was always my spinal problems that have caused me the most agony. Today has been one of the best Father's Days I've had in years, made me really "long-winded two fingers."
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Last edited by gutenberg on Thu Aug 18, 2011 3:14 pm; edited 1 time in total
Okay, Jack, here is my two-finger synopsis of what happened.
On May 22, 2002, I was at work and took a really bad pain in the chest, borrowed some antacid tabs from a co-worker, and went into the darkroom and sat on a chair holding my head. When I felt the sweat hitting my shoes, I figured it was time to do something, so I went home. As soon as my wife saw me, it was into the car and up to the hospital. By this time, I'm getting the idea that something is really wrong because all my family is there in the emergency room with me, and I asked the doctor if I had had a heart attack. He said, "Yes, you are having one." Okay, that was clear enough even for a twit like me. So, out comes this needle which is an IV and being shot into my arm, and as this is happening, I watched my brother give the doctor an elbow and pointed at the monitor, at which point the doctor said whoa, whoa, stop. Of course, I had to look at the monitor and damn near had a heart attack. What am I saying here? Hell, with those numbers, I should have been dead, but in a few minutes, the numbers started to climb back up, another shot, back down, until finally, the numbers evened out enough, and the EKG looked like I was going to make it, and this is when the shit started to hit the fan. The doctor asked me if I ever had an aneurysm, and I said yes, but I could only recall one word, and it sounded like fusiforth to me. So, I tell him to call my doctor and find out. He leaves and returns a few minutes later and said I had no aneurysm, at which point my brother says to the doc, "He's got an effing aneurysm," and the doc asked how he knew, so he said, "He just told you he did, so he has one." Now this poor doc said I'll see if I can find someone to take him over to the CAT scan lab, but these boys were telling the doc to lead the way, and we're flying down the halls, and the poor doc running behind trying to keep up. We land at the lab, and the boys grabbed me and almost threw me on the table while the technician stood there and looked at what was happening. Christ knows what he was thinking. Anyway, CAT scan done and back to emergency to wait out the report. Of course, here comes the priest, another anointing for Ed, we're now on the budget plan. Finally, back came the report, and the boys asked well?? and the doc says 6.5 cm and a chorus of "holy f#%K." We all knew what that meant, but what we didn't know was after a heart attack, you have to wait a year before they can operate and repair the sucker. So I see the specialist, and he tells me if this thing blows at home, I have a 25% chance of making it, but in the city, I would have a 75% chance, whoopeedefuckingdo, and I have to wait a year, great. Anyway, the next January, '03, I get the call to the city for this surgery, and as far as I know, everything went well, except I had another heart attack in the recovery room afterward and thought that was the end of it. Ha, no, that was the beginning of all the shit I went through afterward. Apparently, during this operation, the blood supply was cut off to my intestines for too long, but I didn't know any of this until five weeks later, and here I was thinking everything was all fine and dandy. So one Saturday night, I went to bed around midnight, actually feeling pretty damn good, but within three hours, I got violently ill, and my wife and daughter somehow got me to the hospital where the emergency docs said I had to get to the city instantly, except the fog, yeah the real stuff, and the helicopter couldn't take off, so it was into the ambulance for a 150-mile trip. Of course, I know nothing of this as I say I was really ill, I guess. Now the fun begins, I'm all doped to hell and back, and I remember having another CAT scan or an MRI, something, only while I'm in this machine, I know those two fuckers are out to kill me, and that was a fact, for me, anyway. So with the scan done, they told me not to move as they wanted to do something else, of course, they were going to kill me. One of them said not to move because I had a catheter in, so I ripped it out, and the last thing I remember was seeing the blood on the front of the machine and these guys yelling for security and being held down long enough to put me back to lala land. That's the last I remember until I woke up a week later, but here's what happened in the meantime. I was hauled arse into surgery and got that fabulous groin to thorax cut
that's all the rage now with all those shiny staples and this genius surgeon who couldn't find anything wrong, so just clip, snip, and here we are all ready for a new adventure with a new surgeon. So out with the old crap and open up a new can of worms, but apparently, this surgeon knew what the hell he was doing because when I asked him what he had done to find the problem, he said he palpitated the colon and found it was dead from the inside, so snip, snip, goodbye colon, and here come the ilium to the fore, to take over its new duties, and for a week, I was put to sleep to let the new asshole with the bag on its head learn its new role. Meanwhile, remember those pricks trying to kill me? Well, when I woke up on Easter Sunday, oh yeah, they were there, but so were all my family, so I was safe for a while. THEN, one of my brothers was alone with me and broke the news, and when he said, "Ed, we had to let them do a colostomy on you," and I remember screaming at him, "What the hell did you let them do that for?" and him answering, actually yelling, what the F #@%
were we supposed to do, let you die? OK, he had me there, but still lurking around in the ICU was one particular nurse who was in on this let's kill Ed bit, but there was also another nurse who was like my guardian angel, and I mean that so sincerely, as she knew I was having these paranoid spells and did so much to console me and help me through this mess I was in. So, fast forward about ten days, what we all go through learning how to look after ourselves, and we didn't have a colostomy but an ileostomy, shit like that, remember?
Now you would think, okay, you got through all this shit, now all we have to do is settle down and let the old bod heal on its own good time. WRONG, we are now introduced to the amazing world of blockages, or how to increase your vocabulary without even trying, that happens when you start vomiting up what I believe was the same stuff going into my pouch with such mind-numbing pain that it's impossible to describe, and after a couple of years, you no longer fear death, just that pain. Finally, on one of my in-house vacations barfing up my guts, one of the local surgeons said to me one day, "Ed, I can fix this for you, but it means one more surgery," and bet your ass, I said, "Go for it, doc," and go for it he did, and my faith in mankind was restored. I have never had a blockage since, and every time I read of someone who is having them, I have the greatest empathy for them and wish they were able to have the good fortune I received from this man. Today I only wish I could find an orthopedic surgeon that I could trust as before, during, and after all this crap I went through, it was always my spinal problems that have caused me the most agony. Today has been one of the best Father's Days I've had in years, made me really "long-winded two fingers."
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Last edited by gutenberg on Thu Aug 18, 2011 3:14 pm; edited 1 time in total
