The tl:dr Edition
Sep. 9th, 2015 07:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lanalucyOkay, so I spent a goodly number of hours at the ER overnight, because my right hand hurt a LOT. Like I couldn't pick up a pen a lot. Called the Nurse Line, and the nurse told me it didn't sound like an emergency, but I should get it looked at within twenty-four hours, and I could go to any of the walk-in clinics in the hospital system.
Within twenty-four hours, the only place left open was the ER at Parkland, which is new and shiny and has thirteen (13!!!!!) "pods" of twelve rooms each for handling patients. I spent about six hours in the waiting room, being triaged twice before I was called back to an actual ER cube in a pod.
Anyway, I presented with hand pain, significant swelling, visible redness, an area hot to the touch, and they put me in my little cube. A woman visited me to get my signature on the permission to treat forms, which was fun, since I am right-handed. I can print, very slowly, with my left hand, but signing? Nyet.
Another hour passes, in which I see nobody until I leave my little cube and have to actually wait nearly five minutes for these two people to finish their conversation so I could ask where the patient restrooms were. I get back to my room, a nurse visits me and takes my vitals, again, not paying any attention when I tell her if my temp is 99.1, it's two degrees above normal for me. We assess my pain level, which frankly is pretty useless, because I have a unreasonably high pain tolerance, which means my seven out of ten in normal-person speak is "It's not as bad as passing that kidney stone, but Holy Mary, Mother of God, I hurt! Give me pain meds now!!!! Can I have a morphine IV?" Only I'm allergic to morphine. Lucky me.
Turns out one of those people finishing that conversation out there was the ER doctor on call. She looked at my hand, compared my left and right, asked a few questions, looked briefly at another mark on my left arm which had appeared since I'd been in the ER, and said they were going to take x-rays. Yay. Broken bones in my right hand would be pretty bad. ALL of my work depends on typing of some sort, so a broken hand would be a bad thing.
X-Rays are "Great! Nothing's broken!" She leaves again.
Someone comes to take my vitals. Again. At no time was I offered anything for my pain, or anything for the swelling (in case it was an allergic reaction as I suggested was possible), nor was any blood ever taken (except for the finger-sticking for my blood glucose, and I still have a bruise on that finger, because I forgot to ask her to let me stick myself - they always leave bruises). I had to get up and get my own blanket, because I couldn't find someone to bring me one.
Then everyone comes back and the doctor is all smiles and talking about infections and antibiotics and sending me home. There was a distinct air of "don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." She didn't even tell me my diagnosis.
Ordinarily, I'm very proactive about medical stuff, making sure I understand what's going on, but I was running on more than twenty-four hours of wake time with very little food and my pain was so far beyond my personal pain tolerance, I was almost numb. When the pain's so bad I don't feel it anymore? It's bad.
On the train on the way back to the house, I read all the forms, because I am OCD and that's what I do. That's when I discover my official diagnosis of "cellulitis with hand abscess." But did anyone lance the abscess? Run a culture? Anything? Nope. And that antibiotic she's prescribed is a heavy hitter intended to kill MRSA.
Without even touching my hand, she decides I have a staph infection, but doesn't bother to actually tell me that.
On the bus (after the train) on the way back to the house, I notice the swelling's beginning to go down. There's less heat in the area. The redness is going away. Still, I dutifully go to Walmart to get the prescription filled, only to find out that even though it's a generic, it's $24. Um, no. Twenty-four dollars buys a lot more food than any medicine I'm pretty sure I don't actually need.
Finish my bit of shopping, wait for my ride, come back to the house. Deal with landlady's father and brother, then spend a bit of time in the garage with her, rearranging, trashing, recycling, like one does. And I sweat a lot, like one does when one is a Ford, and when we quit, I take a shower, as one does when one is me.
As I'm checking myself in the mirror - because I am OCD and skin cancer runs in my family, so I look every single day - I see another spot. It's bigger. It's redder. It's on my elbow. How special. I take my shower, scrubbing what I hope is an entire layer of dead skin and sweat off, and when I get out of the shower, just for kicks, I decide to check the rest of me. There's another one. On my back.
So, something has bitten/stung me at least four times, and I've had an allergic reaction, which just happened to coincide with me hurting my hand somehow, and because of the excessive histamine reaction, my overall pain is worse than usual, so I don't even notice when I'm being bitten/stung. My hand's reaction was so much more noticeable because there's so little fatty tissue in my hands, especially when compared to the rest of my body. Because yes, people, I'm not as skinny as I was in high school.
It's very likely the only reason I didn't have a worse reaction was because I routinely take 100mg of generic benadryl a day to try to keep my allergies in check. It doesn't help much, but it helped this time, I guess because it wasn't my usual run of the mill allergies, but something new and shiny. Hmph.
Anyway, my hand/finger does still hurt, but not as much as it did on Monday, so maybe it's just jammed or something. I'm getting ready to take my night-time handful of pills and sleep, I fervently hope.
I'm really glad I listen to my instincts about my own body, and I'm more than a little angry at an ER crew who put very little care into their patient care last night. I mean, if someone had just given me some heavy duty benadryl, or something else for the swelling, the change would have been so obvious it would be clear to everyone I was having an allergic reaction, not carrying around MRSA.
I have the weirdest fucking life.
For reference:
Beginning
Arm
Elbow
Back
Close-up of original spot on my hand
Within twenty-four hours, the only place left open was the ER at Parkland, which is new and shiny and has thirteen (13!!!!!) "pods" of twelve rooms each for handling patients. I spent about six hours in the waiting room, being triaged twice before I was called back to an actual ER cube in a pod.
Anyway, I presented with hand pain, significant swelling, visible redness, an area hot to the touch, and they put me in my little cube. A woman visited me to get my signature on the permission to treat forms, which was fun, since I am right-handed. I can print, very slowly, with my left hand, but signing? Nyet.
Another hour passes, in which I see nobody until I leave my little cube and have to actually wait nearly five minutes for these two people to finish their conversation so I could ask where the patient restrooms were. I get back to my room, a nurse visits me and takes my vitals, again, not paying any attention when I tell her if my temp is 99.1, it's two degrees above normal for me. We assess my pain level, which frankly is pretty useless, because I have a unreasonably high pain tolerance, which means my seven out of ten in normal-person speak is "It's not as bad as passing that kidney stone, but Holy Mary, Mother of God, I hurt! Give me pain meds now!!!! Can I have a morphine IV?" Only I'm allergic to morphine. Lucky me.
Turns out one of those people finishing that conversation out there was the ER doctor on call. She looked at my hand, compared my left and right, asked a few questions, looked briefly at another mark on my left arm which had appeared since I'd been in the ER, and said they were going to take x-rays. Yay. Broken bones in my right hand would be pretty bad. ALL of my work depends on typing of some sort, so a broken hand would be a bad thing.
X-Rays are "Great! Nothing's broken!" She leaves again.
Someone comes to take my vitals. Again. At no time was I offered anything for my pain, or anything for the swelling (in case it was an allergic reaction as I suggested was possible), nor was any blood ever taken (except for the finger-sticking for my blood glucose, and I still have a bruise on that finger, because I forgot to ask her to let me stick myself - they always leave bruises). I had to get up and get my own blanket, because I couldn't find someone to bring me one.
Then everyone comes back and the doctor is all smiles and talking about infections and antibiotics and sending me home. There was a distinct air of "don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." She didn't even tell me my diagnosis.
Ordinarily, I'm very proactive about medical stuff, making sure I understand what's going on, but I was running on more than twenty-four hours of wake time with very little food and my pain was so far beyond my personal pain tolerance, I was almost numb. When the pain's so bad I don't feel it anymore? It's bad.
On the train on the way back to the house, I read all the forms, because I am OCD and that's what I do. That's when I discover my official diagnosis of "cellulitis with hand abscess." But did anyone lance the abscess? Run a culture? Anything? Nope. And that antibiotic she's prescribed is a heavy hitter intended to kill MRSA.
Without even touching my hand, she decides I have a staph infection, but doesn't bother to actually tell me that.
On the bus (after the train) on the way back to the house, I notice the swelling's beginning to go down. There's less heat in the area. The redness is going away. Still, I dutifully go to Walmart to get the prescription filled, only to find out that even though it's a generic, it's $24. Um, no. Twenty-four dollars buys a lot more food than any medicine I'm pretty sure I don't actually need.
Finish my bit of shopping, wait for my ride, come back to the house. Deal with landlady's father and brother, then spend a bit of time in the garage with her, rearranging, trashing, recycling, like one does. And I sweat a lot, like one does when one is a Ford, and when we quit, I take a shower, as one does when one is me.
As I'm checking myself in the mirror - because I am OCD and skin cancer runs in my family, so I look every single day - I see another spot. It's bigger. It's redder. It's on my elbow. How special. I take my shower, scrubbing what I hope is an entire layer of dead skin and sweat off, and when I get out of the shower, just for kicks, I decide to check the rest of me. There's another one. On my back.
So, something has bitten/stung me at least four times, and I've had an allergic reaction, which just happened to coincide with me hurting my hand somehow, and because of the excessive histamine reaction, my overall pain is worse than usual, so I don't even notice when I'm being bitten/stung. My hand's reaction was so much more noticeable because there's so little fatty tissue in my hands, especially when compared to the rest of my body. Because yes, people, I'm not as skinny as I was in high school.
It's very likely the only reason I didn't have a worse reaction was because I routinely take 100mg of generic benadryl a day to try to keep my allergies in check. It doesn't help much, but it helped this time, I guess because it wasn't my usual run of the mill allergies, but something new and shiny. Hmph.
Anyway, my hand/finger does still hurt, but not as much as it did on Monday, so maybe it's just jammed or something. I'm getting ready to take my night-time handful of pills and sleep, I fervently hope.
I'm really glad I listen to my instincts about my own body, and I'm more than a little angry at an ER crew who put very little care into their patient care last night. I mean, if someone had just given me some heavy duty benadryl, or something else for the swelling, the change would have been so obvious it would be clear to everyone I was having an allergic reaction, not carrying around MRSA.
I have the weirdest fucking life.
For reference:
Beginning
Arm
Elbow
Back
Close-up of original spot on my hand
