Where was I? Oh right, I'd just gotten the doctor's call telling me that P. needed to go to the ED right away. From there we launched into a wild morning in emergency medicine. A representative sample of the wildness was about two feet from P.'s stretcher in the form of a flailing, stoned-outta-his-mind roommate. The roomie spent his time in the ED cussing so much the ceiling tiles were blistered and biting the nurses as they tried to tie him down. He finally ended up with a net over his head, making him look like a high, unkempt beekeeper.
We ourselves refrained from biting any health care providers during our time there.
The prevailing opinion was that we were looking at a cerebral venous sinus thrombosis, or, basically, a blood clot. P. was admitted to a regular room where nobody was biting anybody. Over the next few days, he was scanned up one side and down the other and started on some industrial strength anticoagulants. Troops of doctors of various descriptions poked, questioned, and wrinkled their brows. There were little huddles of conversations out in the hallways among the doctors about what was really going on (I have very good hearing). I could tell by doctors' unease that we were looking at a zebra of some sort. But the blood clot idea was their story and they were sticking to it, at least for the time being.
After a week, P. was discharged with a prescription for still more anticoagulants and a plan for surveillance scans at intervals. So, in the intervening weeks, he had repeat scans and we went in for consultations from time to time. They said don't worry. And, after a couple of months, we stopped worrying, at least for the most part.
By July, we had clearance to travel. So we did. We had a fabulous time.
We ourselves refrained from biting any health care providers during our time there.
The prevailing opinion was that we were looking at a cerebral venous sinus thrombosis, or, basically, a blood clot. P. was admitted to a regular room where nobody was biting anybody. Over the next few days, he was scanned up one side and down the other and started on some industrial strength anticoagulants. Troops of doctors of various descriptions poked, questioned, and wrinkled their brows. There were little huddles of conversations out in the hallways among the doctors about what was really going on (I have very good hearing). I could tell by doctors' unease that we were looking at a zebra of some sort. But the blood clot idea was their story and they were sticking to it, at least for the time being.
After a week, P. was discharged with a prescription for still more anticoagulants and a plan for surveillance scans at intervals. So, in the intervening weeks, he had repeat scans and we went in for consultations from time to time. They said don't worry. And, after a couple of months, we stopped worrying, at least for the most part.
By July, we had clearance to travel. So we did. We had a fabulous time.
Once we got back, we were soon caught up in back to school preparations and almost forgot about those repeat scans and doctor visits. But I did the nagging wife thing, and P. made the appointments.
It was a mid-October scan that finally sealed the deal. We got a call telling us, saying, in essence, That clot? Well, forgeddaboutit. It's a tumor.
Now that we've reached another Pauline moment, I'll pause once again. Stay tuned for Life B.C, Part Three. I promise to wrap up the back story in one more post so we can jump into the exciting discussion of P.'s upcoming date with the proton gizmo. I bet you can't wait.
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