Wednesday, July 7, 2010

And I'm back.

How'd the surgery go? Why, I have no idea. I never got to talk to the doctor after this one. Why didn't I get to talk to the doc? Because I managed to screw up the surgical schedule for my doctor.

"Golly, Rob! How'd you do that?" To be honest, I'm not EXACTLY sure. That is, I don't know what the underlying cause might have been. Did I eat too much during "the last supper?" Is my long-acting insulin going bad? I have no idea. What I DO know is that I entered the hospital this morning feeling rather thirsty. If all was well, I wouldn't have been craving a drink so badly. So I had the cute nurse attending me take my blood sugar within minutes of my arrival. The result was an even 400.

This wasn't so bad. I'd had higher in my lifetime. All I needed was a little insulin and I'd be fine. Except insulin can't be given without an order from a doctor, and there were no doctors in the surgical center at that hour. Adding a little adventure to the quest was the fact that the phones weren't working. So all kinds of races were run to find someone who could say, "Yes, the diabetic may have insulin."

It gets kind of fun, as none of the doctors wanted to commit to prescribing a dose. Their answer was that someone should contact my PCP and have THAT doctor tell them how much to give me. Reaching my doctor, however, was almost impossible, as I see a nurse practitioner, and her number wasn't lying around for anyone to call her.

But maybe they did, because what followed was not nearly as professional as one would think. The nurse eventually returned to my room to ask, "How much insulin should we give you?" Ummm...screw the insulin. Just mainline some morphine into me and I won't care how high my blood sugar is. Yeah, I'm sure that'd go over well. I can practically hear how the situation came to them asking me. It involves them getting my NP on the phone and her saying, "What are you asking me for? He's the one living with this disease for almost 36 years. Ask him, and stop bugging me."

So I get the insulin, and I'm thinking that all will be well. Until, that is, I'm told they'll be doing an A1c to check my diabetes control. If the numbers come back crazy, then the surgery would be off. If it was okay, then we were w a go.

That's when the frustration got to me. My knee had been becoming increasingly painful. I'd been coping as best as possible with the growing stress of surgery. And now, in the virtual blink of an eye, they were threatening to shut down the operation and let me suffer a while longer until things looked better. Alone in the prep room, firmly believing my "birthday disaster" was almost upon me, I cracked and started to tear up. I hated being in pain. I hated the requirement for surgery. And now I was absolutely despising the concept of having to remain in pain until the doc saw a hemoglobin A1c result he liked. And he probably wouldn't like future results, as living in perpetually increasing pain would only make those numbers worse.

Well, I didn't like the results, myself, but my growing pain explains why I was an 8.1. (I can't seem to remember my last results. That could be because I've had a busy day thus far.)

All of this for little old me meant I wouldn't have the surgery when I was supposed to. The doc took the person ahead of me, thereby throwing off his schedule just enough. By the time I was done, he needed to prep for a bit pf back surgery. No time to sit around, jawing with patients he'd already seen...well, he'd technically seen me...unconscious. Right?

To add to the day's adventures, the SNAFU with my meds still hasn't been cleared up. And I just don't understand how that's possible. The request for prior authorization was sent 30 June. The person supposedly handling it was at the pain specialist's office yesterday, but trapped in the procedure room most of the day. Today, she's not even in the office. And as far as I know, NO ONE has been trying to get this worked on, exbept for me, who can actually do very little.

Thus, it has become short cut time. I was told by the insurance people yesterday that I could have the prescriptions filled for that which WAS covered. It's less than a month supply, as originally written, but it'll help me survive. It will also allow for three weeks for someone somewhere to get their act together and get what I need from the insurance company. Hopefully, there will so further complications, like some nitwit saying no to the shortcut that the insurance company told me I could take. Oh, then I'd be all kinds of new and improved pissed off.

Amidst all of the after-surgery fun, I called Dad to let him know I was okay. If I didn't, he would have called later this very day to find out how I was, and would probably do it while I was resting. It's kinda hard to rest when people are calling.

As my final act for this day, I will call Becky to remind her, as I do daily, that I love her tremendously. Who knows? Some day soon she may actually understand that I am the luckiest man alive for having found a woman as wonderful as she is. Then again, maybe I'm the one who'll cotton on when she says that SHE'S lucky. (I keep trying to make it clear that she's doomed, but seems to think otherwise.)

I'm off to get lots and lots of rest. Writing while on my bed may not be as bad as sitting at my desk, but this lef should be elevated a bit higher. And I seem to have a mild fever starting up. So be well, my friends, and I'll work on doing the same.

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