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After going well over a decade without needing emergency medical care of any sort, I am now on the verge of getting a frequent customer card from the local emergency rooms. (Get resuscitated nine times, and the tenth is on us!)
Starting about Wednesday of last week, I had had a little trouble swallowing. Well, by Friday, "a little trouble" had become "noticeable pain." This interfered with my enjoyment of the Rosh Hashanah dinner we went to Friday night, but I still kept my reputation as a trencherman. By Saturday morning, though, I was in terrible pain. By afternoon, about all I could get down was a few mouthfuls of water; I couldn't manage even a milkshake for dinner without being doubled over in pain.
I slept well enough, but things did not improve overnight. Pain, dehydration, and hunger do not bring out the best in me, either. By mid-afternoon, I decided that I needed to go to the emergency room. (Well, actually, I decided that I needed to go to the emergency room; Lauren decided that she needed to call my doctor first; and then my doctor decided that I needed to go to the emergency room.) So we set off to NYU hospital.
The emergency room at NYU hospital was full, and the triage nurse was nowhere to be found. After an extremely drunk man sat down next to me and asked for a cigarette, Lauren suggested that we try another hospital. We then went to Beth Israel, where we were seen right away, although they didn't get my information right.
That last was partly my fault. I indeed had serious pain, and it was indeed in my chest. But if I had said the magic words "chest pain," I would have immediately had wires and tubes stuffed into every orifice (and they wouldn't even have bought me a drink first), and I would have sat that way for the next three hours. I didn't see how this would have brought me closer to solving the real problem, so I tried to talk around that. Unfortunately, this meant that my chart indicated that I was there for a sore throat, which put me way at the bottom of the pile.
But eventually I was seen by someone with a brain, and she diagnosed me with an inflamed esophagus, probably caused by the antibiotic my dermatologist had prescribed. She told me to cut that out. She also prescribed a thick, goopy anesthetic for me to swallow. It did wonders for the pain, I have to admit, but it's really gross and feels pretty weird, too. I also have a prescription for prilosec, to keep the acid under control until things heal up. I'm optimistic, as a Google search suggests that things should heal in just a couple of days, now that the source of the irritation is gone. But I have to follow up with my own doctor, and I also need to get "scoped," which doesn't sound like fun.
This is an awkward time for all of this to be happening. Lauren's insurance options at her old job were much better and much cheaper than mine, but because she left that job, the insurance turns into a pumpkin on Tuesday. Our new insurance will go into effect the following Monday, but that's still a week in which we're not covered and in which I'm still recovering. Moreover, even after the new coverage starts, it will be a few weeks before we have the new cards and such. I shouldn't be complaining—we're still much better off than most people—but it's inconvenient.
And how was your weekend?
Starting about Wednesday of last week, I had had a little trouble swallowing. Well, by Friday, "a little trouble" had become "noticeable pain." This interfered with my enjoyment of the Rosh Hashanah dinner we went to Friday night, but I still kept my reputation as a trencherman. By Saturday morning, though, I was in terrible pain. By afternoon, about all I could get down was a few mouthfuls of water; I couldn't manage even a milkshake for dinner without being doubled over in pain.
I slept well enough, but things did not improve overnight. Pain, dehydration, and hunger do not bring out the best in me, either. By mid-afternoon, I decided that I needed to go to the emergency room. (Well, actually, I decided that I needed to go to the emergency room; Lauren decided that she needed to call my doctor first; and then my doctor decided that I needed to go to the emergency room.) So we set off to NYU hospital.
The emergency room at NYU hospital was full, and the triage nurse was nowhere to be found. After an extremely drunk man sat down next to me and asked for a cigarette, Lauren suggested that we try another hospital. We then went to Beth Israel, where we were seen right away, although they didn't get my information right.
That last was partly my fault. I indeed had serious pain, and it was indeed in my chest. But if I had said the magic words "chest pain," I would have immediately had wires and tubes stuffed into every orifice (and they wouldn't even have bought me a drink first), and I would have sat that way for the next three hours. I didn't see how this would have brought me closer to solving the real problem, so I tried to talk around that. Unfortunately, this meant that my chart indicated that I was there for a sore throat, which put me way at the bottom of the pile.
But eventually I was seen by someone with a brain, and she diagnosed me with an inflamed esophagus, probably caused by the antibiotic my dermatologist had prescribed. She told me to cut that out. She also prescribed a thick, goopy anesthetic for me to swallow. It did wonders for the pain, I have to admit, but it's really gross and feels pretty weird, too. I also have a prescription for prilosec, to keep the acid under control until things heal up. I'm optimistic, as a Google search suggests that things should heal in just a couple of days, now that the source of the irritation is gone. But I have to follow up with my own doctor, and I also need to get "scoped," which doesn't sound like fun.
This is an awkward time for all of this to be happening. Lauren's insurance options at her old job were much better and much cheaper than mine, but because she left that job, the insurance turns into a pumpkin on Tuesday. Our new insurance will go into effect the following Monday, but that's still a week in which we're not covered and in which I'm still recovering. Moreover, even after the new coverage starts, it will be a few weeks before we have the new cards and such. I shouldn't be complaining—we're still much better off than most people—but it's inconvenient.
And how was your weekend?
