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Here’s what they go during the endoscope and flex-sig. Dr. Gatof let me keep the pictures and said, “They’re yours to post on MySpace.” He’s awesome! (I don’t have MySpace, but my blog is a close, albeit Microsoft-free, analogy.)

I don’t even remember what these pictures are of. I think #1 and #4 are my esophageous; #2 and #3 are the other end, but I don’t know which part.

 WARNING: This post, like the last two, contains graphic depictions of poo and (new!) farting.  Be forewarned.

I woke up on Wednesday morning absolutely exhausted.  The nurse entered my room to draw blood completely cloaked in plastic.  She had on a plastic gown, latex gloves, and a face mask.

“Don’t worry, but we’ve put you on isolation in case you have C-diff.  It’s a bacteria that you can often get after taking antibiotics.”

“But I haven’t been.”

“Well, the hospital internist put you on isolation anyway.  Sorry!”

“Wouldn’t I have a fever if I had an infection?”

“Usually.  Your temperature is …” [checks her paperwork] “… 97.8F.”

“I don’t think I have C-diff then.”

“Neither do I, but we have to wear the protective gear anyway.”

The nurse took my blood; my IV line had stopped giving blood and she had to poke me.  Twice.  I’m all black and blue due to the nurses’ meager attempts to get blood.  It hurt, too!

I watched TV until the doc came in around ten.  “What did it look like?” he asked.  I groaned.  I couldn’t believe he actually *wanted* me to describe my poo to him.  How did he choose this specialty?  Did he like poo stories?  He was a young guy and didn’t look like a pervert or anything.  He was also REALLY nice.  I told him my story.

“And you’ve had several CVAs?” he asked.

“Yep.  One in September ‘05 and one in March of ‘06.”  I went on to tell him about my PFO and how I’d gone to Boston and had it confirmed that that was the cause of the strokes.  The other potential cause, I explained, was vasculitis, which didn’t fit my symptoms very well.

He went on to explain his proposed plan of action.  “I’d like to give you an endoscope, which is when we put a camera down your throat to look at your stomach.  At the same time, under the same sedative, I’d like to do something called a flex-sig, which allows us a look from the other end.  It’s not as extensive as a colonoscopy, but I’m hoping that we can avoid that …”  He’d lost me at “a look from the other end.”  Was he proposing to stick something up my butt?  And to take pictures?  That didn’t sound fun at all.  I mean, I’m all for having pictures of myself, but I don’t really need anybody looking up THERE, thank you very much.  I asked for clarification.

“Umm … could you please explain ‘looking from the other end’?” I asked.

“Oh, sure.  We stick a camera — the same kind we use for the endoscope — up your rectum and take pictures of your intestinal walls.”  I made a face.  My rectum is off-limits; I don’t like to show it to anyone, and that seems reasonable to me.  “It sounds gross, but it’s the only way to figure out what’s going on,” he continued.

“Will you be able to fix whatever it is that’s bleeding?” Ben interrupted.

“I can’t tell you that for sure.  If it’s something easy, then yes, but some things aren’t so straightforward.”

“What is the most likely thing you’ll find?” Ben asked.  Goodness, I thought, I love him.  He’s so handy at doctor’s appointments!

Dr. Gatof thought for a minute.  “I can’t really say,” he answered.  “On the upper end, stomach ulcers. On the lower end, hemmorhoids.  But I don’t like to make predictions.”

“If the bleeding has stopped, will you still be able to see the cause of it?” I asked.

“It depends.  It’s difficult to say.”  He went on to explain that some of the causes of the bleeding could also lead to stroke.  Excellent!  I agreed to do the procedure and he disappeared.

A short while later, my nurse reemerged with two bottles.  “Here are your enemas!” she announced.

“You want to stick that up my butt?” I asked.

“Yes.  I’m sorry,” she apologized.  “The easiest way to do it is to stand by the bed and have me squeeze it in, but some people prefer to do it themselves.”

“I’ll go walk the dogs,” Ben said helpfully.  He got up and left the room.

“OK, the basic idea is to hold this all in, but a lot of people can’t,” my nurse said as I positioned myself leaning on the bed.  “So it’s OK if you spray it all over the room.  You ready?”  I nodded.

“Oww!”

“Ooh … sorry.  Is this better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She finished squeezing the bottle of laxative into my butt.  When she was done, she complimented me on my ‘holding skills.’  “It’s nice to be good at something!” I joked.  She laughed and said she’d return in an hour for the next round.

About 20 minutes later, I had to go to the bathroom.  This enema stuff works, I thought!  My poo was still bloody, but it was bloody and … very watery.  An hour later, right on schedule, my nurse arrived and planted the next round in my butt.  20 minutes after that, it was back to the bathroom.  Another hour later and a GI nurse came and fetched me to go to the endoscopy room.

I looked around carefully at the room.  There was an IV rack on the ceiling and (conscious) anesthesia materials next to the bed.  On my left was the scope.  On the side of the box was written, “Do not use with inflammable gasses.”  That made me stop and take a closer look.  Why wouldn’t they write, “Do not use with any gasses”?  I asked the nurse and she gave me some story about anesthesia gasses, but it still didn’t make sense to me.  Plus, I pointed out, my oxygen line was right next to the scope.  Oh well.

“OK, here comes the anesthesia!” the nurse announced.  There was a slight delay, particularly worrisome when you’re supposed to be out cold, but I guess it was all OK because I woke up an hour and a half later.  Dr. Gatof was saying something to me.  I really have no recollection of WHAT it was he was saying.  Something about, “Where’s your husband?”  I told him I didn’t know and then I konked out again.  He came back in again 10 minutes later — Ben was still nowhere to be found.

“Well, I didn’t find anything.  I’m afraid we’ll have to do another procedure tomorrow.”  Oh, great.  That’ll be fun.  I can’t wait!  I fell asleep again.

The nurse rolled me back upstairs, where Ben was waiting for me.  “Dr. Gatof was looking for you in the waiting room!” I said.

“Yeah, but the dogs aren’t allowed down there.”

“OK.” I went back to sleep.

About three hours later, I was finally up for the day.  The nurse explained that Dr. Gatof’s explorations had been fruitless and that I’d been scheduled for a colonoscopy in the morning.  That was nice, I thought, but I just want something to eat.  “I’m hungry,” I said.

“I’ll go get your tray!”

She returned a minute later with my tray of … clear liquids.  Geez louise.  Yellow Jello, some broth, a cup of tea, and that was it.   I downed it all, yellow Jello included, and asked for some more broth. “Sure!” my nurse said.  “It’s good that you’ve got an appetite.”  She went out and fetched me another cup.  When she returned, she apologized that she couldn’t get any more REAL broth; she’d had to make this from buillion cubes.  I assured her it didn’t matter.

I took a sip and my stomach suddenly started to hurt.  It felt like gas, but it was still REALLY painful.  I put the cup on my tray and didn’t touch the rest of it.

“Sweetie,” Ben said gently, “are you farting?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I apologized.  “My stomach hurts.”

“It’s gassing me to death!” he complained.  I explained that there wasn’t much I could do about it, but offered him a chance to escape to the clear air outside.  He thought about it for a minute and announced his decision to put up with it.  “That’s OK, I’ll just sit — OOHHH, sweetie!  That’s awful!” he gasped at the latest round.  It really was terrible.  Ben gets brownie points for putting up with it.  If I could’ve, I’d have left!

Suddenly, I had to go to the bathroom again.  I got out of bed gingerly but moved as fast as I could; I didn’t make it.  Ten seconds later, there was poo all over the floor.   Or, rather, there was *blood* all over the floor.  It smelled positively awful.  “What happened?” Ben asked, concerned and, I imagine, suffocating.  I started to cry.

“I had an accident,” I told him.  I pressed the nurse’s call button.  Good grief, this was about the most embarrassing day I’d ever had.  The nurse came in and asked what had happened.  I told her.  I hung my head low like Chaco does when he’s pooed on the floor.  I avoided eye contact.  I wanted to melt into the walls.

“It’s OK,” the nurse assured me.  “I’ll go get a mop; in the meantime, how about you hop in the shower and clean up?”  I nodded.  Goodness gracious, I LOVED my nurse.  She was a saint.  She squirted stuff up my butt with nary a complaint, and now she was helping me clean up the mess I’d made on the floor.  When I’d finished in the shower, I climbed back into bed.  The nurse came back in with air freshener.  “I’m sorry –”

“No, THANK YOU!” I interrupted.  She sprayed it all over.  The poo scent gradually neutralized.

We switched rooms, which offered us a chance to escape the poo scent for good.  I got my dinner — clear liquids again — and at seven, a nurse came in with a gas container-sized container of “GoLytely”.  She explained that it ‘tasted like water’, and I should drink the whole gallon before ten o’clock.  She poured me a glass and I drank.  It tasted pretty good until you swallowed it, when a naseauting flavor took over and made me gag.  “Goodness gracious, this stuff’s terrible!” I exclaimed, puking up the little bit that had gone down.  I paged the nurse.

“I can’t do this,” I said.

“OK, I’ll be right back.”  She returned in a few minutes with a glass of cranberry juice.  “Some people have more luck when they mix it with juice.”  I had a couple of thoughts: (1) Cranberry juice?  Really?  Isn’t that stuff bitter, too? (2)  ‘Some people have more luck …’  implies that she’s seen this problem before, so it didn’t really taste like water, did it?  (3)  No way I’m drinking this.  No way.

I tried it.  I poured a swig of the GoLytely potion into the glass of cranberry juice and took a swig, then puked it back up.  That wasn’t going to work.

Ben was on the internet, so he looked up other people’s experiences with this crap.  “Um …” he said as he perused the forums, “it doesn’t look like anybody likes this stuff.  Some people recommend using a straw tucked way back in your mouth so that the fluid bypasses your taste buds.  Just chug it.”  He got me a straw.  I tried chugging it.  I puked it up.

“Can I pour it into my jug?” I asked, indicating the one-liter water bottle I’d gotten that morning.

“No!  If you dilute it ten-to-one, you’re going to have to drink ten gallons of water before 10pm!  That’s not going to work!”

“But it’s the only way I can think of to combat the taste!  Plus, I don’t even know if it’ll work!”

“No.”

“I’m going to go ahead and try it.  I’ve got nothing to lose …”

“Why don’t you call your dad?  He’s had some experience with this stuff.  Maybe he knows how to do it!”  What?  Dad had been through this, too, and hadn’t told me?  I agreed.

“Hiya, Dad!  I’m having a problem …”  He listened to my GoLytely woes.

“Well, I’m sorry that you’re having so much trouble,” he told me.  “I can’t remember how I did it, but that stuff was HORRIBLE.  Why don’t you call the nurse and tell her that you’re not going to drink it?  She may have a ‘Plan B’ for people with a strong gag reflex.”

So I called the nurse again.  “I’m sorry, but I can’t drink this stuff.  It tastes terrible.  I take a sip and then puke it back up.  I have a strong gag reflex and it’s just overpowering.  I take one sip and –”

She cut me off.  “OK, don’t drink any more, then.  I’ll call the doc and figure something out.”

An hour later, she came back with some pills.  “He said take two Ducolax and then drink this bottle in an hour.  It’s fizzy, and it’s lemon-lime flavored.  People have good luck tolerating it.”  I asked about taking the pills with popcorn; I lost my ability to swallow pills with water when I was taking Aggrenox.  “Well, you’re NPO,” she explained, “meaning nothing to eat.  We want nothing in your GI tract for the colonoscopy.  However, the Ducolax are really small.”  I asked to see them.  They were indeed tiny, so I agreed to try it.

I swallowed them, went to the bathroom, waited an hour, and opened the bottle of fizzy water.  I poured it into a cup and took a swig.  “How does it taste?” Ben asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I answered.  “But infinitely better than that GoLytely stuff.”  I poured some more.  It started to not taste so good.  I poured some more and practically threw up the last third of a bottle.  Still, I’d take it.  I went to the bathroom AGAIN.

My poo was bright red.  Anticipating the nurse’s question, I didn’t flush; instead, I directed her to the bathroom to see for herself.  “I’m going to go get [another nurse] to have a look,” she said.  “We’d really like to see you pooing merely clear liquid.”

“I’m doing my best!” I thought.  Then, I thought about the ludicrosity of this situation: everybody wanted to know how my poo was doing.  They asked how it looked.  They looked for themselves.  They brought their friends in to look.  Just let me poo in peace!  Please!

Ben and I settled down for the night.  “This is the most uncomfortable bed I’ve EVER slept on,” Ben complained.  That’s saying a lot; he’d spent several years at camp, and their mattresses are nothing to write home about.   He put his head down, and 15 minutes later he was sawing logs.  Me?  Well, I looked at the lights again.  The VCR in this room had a clock on it; that screws me over every time.  I look at it, see what time it is, and panic because it’s so late.  I think it was 12:30pm before I conked out.

… to be continued …

WARNING: This post, like the last post, contains graphic descriptions of poo.  If you’re offended by such talk, please don’t read this.

Ben dropped me off at the door to the ER and I proceeded inside.  There was a line at the check-in desk; a lady in a wheelchair complaining of nasuea was ahead of me.  The triage nurse  interrupted her to see what was wrong with me; it occured to me then that if something REALLY terrible were wrong with me, they’d want to know right away.  I waited my turn.

When I finally got the seat of honor, the nurse asked me about my medical history, which is rather long.  You’d think that they’d have it written down — after all, I’d been to this hospital before — but NO, they want ME to explain all the details of my strokes.  All the medications I’m on.   Then they take my blood pressure.  “Does it generally run low?” they ask.  Yes, I explain, and my pulse is generally high.  If they’re curious, they ask if I’ve seen a cardiologist.  Yes, I answer, I have; he didn’t seem all that interested in my tachycardia or hypo-blood presure.  Finally, I got the order to go wait in the waiting room and I’d be called back when the were ready for me.

The lady in the wheelchair wasn’t there; I assumed she’d already been taken back.  However, right in the middle of the waiting room sat a girl with the flu and her mom, who was on her cell phone.  “I’m her MOTHER!” she was saying.  “I know when something’s wrong!  And the nurse just dismissed me!”  I started to sit down next to them; they were in front of the TV.  Ben stopped me.

“We’re not going to get the flu,” he told me.  “Let’s sit over here.  Why do you want to sit with the girl with the flu?”  I thought about it for a minute and decided there was no good reason.   I sat down; I was ready for a long wait. However, the triage nurse came in about ten minutes later and signaled me to come with her.

“We’ve got you a room,” she said kindly.  I couldn’t believe it!  They had a room for me?  Ahead of the girl coughing and blowing her nose?  Cool!  I followed her back to the exam room.

“Put this on, everything else off but your underwear,” she said, handing me a hospital gown, “and somebody will be in shortly to start your IV.”  I did as I was instructed.  Then I waited for the needle guy to come poke me.  I don’t relish this part; I’m such a hard stick that they always need to poke me 2-4 times.  By the third try, I usually don’t feel so good.

He arrived 15 minutes later, a student in tow.  He introduced himself as an EMT.  “What’s the problem here?” he asked.  At this point, I was still fairly shy about sharing my bloody diaherra problem, but I told him anyway.  “Eww!” he said.  “Well, I hope they can fix you up.”  He smiled, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then I explained that I’m a hard stick.  Stick number 1 was a FAIL.  I begged him to stop after stick number 2 and get someone else to do it.  “Oh, I never go past two.  I’ll find the expert after this,” he promised.  Wait, I thought — he didn’t consider himself an expert???  Why was he trying at all?  I considered protesting further, but he announced, “A little stick,” and plunged the needle into my arm.  He wiggled it around a little bit and got a flash!  Then he started drawing blood for labs.  Five vials in all.  I started to not feel so good — a lightheaded, naseous feeling again.  Somewhere around vial #3, I threw up.  It soaked my gown and freaked the student out.

“I’ll — I’ll go get some towels,” he said quickly and left.  I continued puking, and the EMT handed me a small cup.

“Almost done,” he said as he pushed vial #5 into the needle.  I couldn’t speak at this point; vomiting requires a lot of concentration.  “OK,” he said as he inserted the IV, “I’m done.”  I gave him a weak smile.

“Thanks,” I said feebly.  I thought about the vomiting.  I couldn’t figure out what had made me do it.  Was it the needle?  That couldn’t be it; I’d watched them poke me twice with no problem!  Was it watching him extract blood from my arm?  No, that couldn’t make me feel woozy.  Was it the volume of blood he drew?  Could that have lowered my blood pressure enough to make me almost pass out?  Considering the amount of blood in the toilet, yes, that was a possibility.  I didn’t say anything, however; Ben had warned me against putting too much of my own speculation into my recount of what had happened, which made sense to me.

A while later, a doctor came to visit me.  “What did it look like?” he asked.  Geez louise!  These people had NO sense of privacy!   How would he feel if I asked him what HIS poop looked like!  But what the heck, I thought, and told him the whole story, bloody diarrhea and all.  He looked puzzled.  “I don’t know what would cause that,” he admitted.  “I ordered a CBC, or complete blood count.  If your count is low, I’d like to observe you overnight; otherwise, you can go home.  Now I’d like to examine you …”

He listened to my heart and lungs.  Then, he announced that he’d like to perform a rectal exam.  “You’re going to stick your fingers up my butt?!?!” I exclaimed.  I wanted to follow it with an emphatic, “I don’t think so!” but he stopped me.

“I’ve got to check,” he said.  “I’ll lubricate my fingers and make it as quick as possible.”

“OK,” I consented.  It was uncomfortable, but more because of the privacy issue than any physical discomfort.  When he was done, he announced, “Well, it’s bloody!”  No s*&t, sherlock!  That’s why I’m here!  Of COURSE it’s bloody!  Did they not believe me?  Oh my goodness, they didn’t!  Well, I’m glad that my rectum supported my story.  The doctor said he’d be back when he got my blood work from the lab.

Half an hour later, he reemerged through the doorway.  “I got your blood work back, and your count is indeed a little low — not dangerous, but low.  We’re going to keep you here overnight so that we can make sure that you don’t need a transfusion.  Another doctor, a hospital internist, will be in shortly.  OK?”  I nodded.  He disappeared again.

“How do you feel about that?” Ben asked.

“Well, I don’t like being in the hospital, but honestly?  I’m kind of relieved.”  Inside, I was thinking that the doctor could eat it, because my blood count was indeed low.  I knew it!  That’s why I almost passed out!  SO THERE!  I WAS bleeding!  They might need to give me a transfusion!  That sounds like some fairly serious bleeding to me!

Another hour later, the hospital internet came in.  She introduced herself, asked me “what it looked like” (grrr), and then started speculating what could be causing the blood.  I don’t remember much of our conversation, honestly; it was nearly midnight by now, WAY past my bedtime.   I can tell you that she’s from Boston, however.  When I told her about my consults at Mass General, she said supported my decision to get some second opinions.  She’d had two neurological patients who she’d sent there for the same reason.

As she wrapped up, she told me about the plan for tomorrow.  “I think we’re going to give you a colonoscopy,” she said.  “It sounds miserable — the doctor snakes a tube up your rectum –” I winced “– but you’ll be sedated.  It’s really quite painless.”  I nodded my consent, but the thought of somebody sneaking ANYTHING up there didn’t thrill me.  “I’m going to go call the GI specialist and then we’ll get you up to your room.  I know that you’re tired.”

I thanked her for her kindness and she disappeared.  I asked Ben to dim the lights so that I could sleep.  Ten minutes later, however, I decided that my need to pee neccesitated getting up and going to the bathroom.  Ben helped me reach the IV poised high above my bed and off I went.  I realized that the IV was fully open; nothing was impeding the flow at all.  No wonder I have to pee so badly, I thought!  I sat down on the toilet and peed for, like, 60 seconds, and then I pooed.  It was bright red again.  Well, no false alarms here, at least!

I returned to the room and tried to sleep.   I tried sleeping on my left side.  I turned to my right side.  Nothing worked.  Finally, I asked Ben to go check on the internist who promised to speak to the GI doc and then get me up to my room.  Ben returned about 15 minutes later.

“She just got off the phone with the GI specialist,” he reported.  “I think they’re not going to prep you for the colonoscopy tonight — that requires drinking lots of laxative, which will essentially keep you up all night.  The plan is to see how you’re doing in the morning and then reassess.”

“Can I go upstairs now?” I pleaded.

“She said soon.  I don’t know what she’s doing, but I imagine there’s lots of paperwork to complete.  They’re also waiting for another CBC.”  I gave him a look of consternation.  I just wanted to go to bed!

An hour later, it was finally time to leave the ER.  A nurse wheeled my bed over to the elevator and then up to the smallest room on the second floor.  A small recliner stood next to the bed; there wasn’t room for anything else.  Where would Ben sleep?  “Can you please bring in a cot for my husband?” I asked the nurse.

“I’m sorry, but there isn’t room in here for a cot,” she responded.  She turned to Ben.  “I can get you some blankets and pillows and you can get comfortable next to the bed,” she offered.  Oh dear.  Because of Ben’s arm problems, he needs a bed.  His arms fall asleep if they’re anywhere but right next to him, and the armrests on the chair didn’t look very comfortable.  His back would be in a lot of pain, too.  This wasn’t going to work, or so I thought.

Ben spoke up, “OK, thanks for the blankets.  I’ll just set up on the floor; I can’t sleep in that chair.  If we could change to a larger room tomorrow if she’s going to stay another night, however, that’d be great.”  The nurse agreed!  In the end, Ben didn’t sleep on the floor.  I don’t think he slept in the chair, either, but such are hospital stays …

He went to get the dogs, whom we’d left in the car.

“I’ll be back at four am to get some more blood,” the nurse promised.  Oh great, I thought.  That sounds like fun.  It was already three o’clock.  I might just get to sleep and then they’d come wake me back up.

“Can you at least take it from my IV line?” I asked, thinking back to my previous hospital stays when they needed ‘new blood’ and wouldn’t even think of taking any from my IV line.

“I’ll sure try.  Can I see it, please?” I handed her my arm.  My IV site was inside my elbow, which she wasn’t thrilled about.  “Well, I’ll see if I can get any blood out of it.  We’ll try.”

“Thank you,” I said, eternally grateful for this small promise.

The dogs arrived.  “Hello, Chaco!  Hi, Zamba!” I cooed.  Zamba came over to the bed and gave me about 150 kisses.

“Goodnight,” said Ben.  He promptly fell asleep in the recliner and started snoring.  Me?  I stared at the lights that illuminated the room.  The bed had lights on it: a light for the nurse call button and the bed’s up and down functions.  The VCR had some lights, too.  The bed had some lights underneath it that cast a soft glow on the floor.  Geez louise, I wanted the nurses to cut the power to the room and turn all the lights off!  I thought about my first day in the hospital, when I had my first stroke three years ago.  I couldn’t sleep then, either, and the nurses gave me Ambien.  Good Lord, that stuff gave me weird dreams.  I was on a safari; giraffes and hippos congregated around my bed, looking at me, and a snake connected me to the IV.  I decided then and there that I would never take that stuff again.

The nurse arrived to take my blood and I asked about other sleeping meds.  “All we’ve got is Ambien,” she apologized.  I wanted Lunesta, the stuff that Dr. Stapleton gave me after my second stroke.

“Don’t you have any Lunesta?” I asked.

“No, sorry.  Our pharmacy doesn’t carry that,” the nurse said.  “I can get you some Ambien, though.”  No thank you, I told her.  I find the lack of other sleeping medications interesting; I wonder if they didn’t make a deal with the manufacturers of Ambien, because it’s got some pretty harsh side effects.  *I* wouldn’t want to give it to a bunch of mostly-elderly patients who might, say, fall off the end of their bed and break their hip.  (Which my grandpa has done.  And his doctor left him on Ambien.  I don’t get it!)

I spent the last three and a half hours of darkness staring at the lights.  I don’t think I fell asleep until about seven thirty, at which point the nurse returned to suck my blood again.  So much for sleep!

… to be continued …

Greetings from ward 2c at Boulder Community Hospital! =( I’ll explain how I got here …

NOTE: Some of this — OK, most of it — is gross. If you’re offended by the mention of poop, I’d skip this entry. =)

On Tuesday, I made two hot dogs for supper. En route to the fridge to retrieve the ketchup, I started to feel faint. My vision narrowed and turned kind of yellow and I thought I might puke. I lay down on the couch with my feet up and felt better in about ten minutes. I didn’t get to eat more than half of a hot dog before Ben announced that it was time to go the Armada practice at church, though. (The Armada is a collection of people who play instruments — guitar, bass, flute, recorder, harmonica, and percussion — who fill in for our accompanist when he can’t make it.)

“You feeling OK?” he asked, giving me a concerned look.

“Yeah, thanks for asking, though. I feel like I just got out of an hour-long soak in the hot tub,” I explained. We drove to church.

WARNING: Poop paragraph #1 approaching …

Ben took out his guitar and I went to the bathroom. I had diarrhea, or so I thought. When I looked in the toilet bowl, however, I saw … blood. BRIGHT red blood. Not mostly clear, and not pink: red. And there wasn’t any poo; instead, there were blood clots.  There was a LOT of blood.

Crap, I thought. (So to speak!) What should I do? I couldn’t very well go tell Ben about my bathroom debacle in front of the whole Armada, could I? Should I go to the ER? Or should I wait a couple of hours and see how I feel?

I decided to do the latter. The Armada was fun; we played for two hours! We played all of our Christmas songs. We played some of our regular songs. Then, we re-played the Christmas songs. I was getting tired, but Don kept requesting “one more song.” Finally, I put my flute away and grabbed Ben. “I’m tired. Can we leave, please?”

“Sure,” he said, looking at me worriedly. Once in the car, I explained my predicament.

“What do you want to do?” he asked me.

“Well … go home and read about it on the internet, I guess. I don’t really know what to do, but this sounds like something I should take care of immediately.”

“Would you like me to drive straight to the emergency room?” he offered.

“Nah, but thanks.”

At home, I googled “bloody stool”. I guess this is one of those queries that yields every result on the face of the earth: “Go to the doctor if it hasn’t resolved in two days,” “Go to the ER if the bleeding is heavy and isn’t stopping,” and “Go straight to the ER.  Do not pass go or collect $200.”  (OK, I made the last part up, but you get the point.)  Then I remebered that I’m on blood thinners, so I typed in “plavix bloody stool”.  That was a little more helpful; it said I should see my primary care physician (PCP) immediately.  There are two problems with that: (1) it was 9:30pm and nobody would be there, and (2) my PCP is an idiot.

Ben suggested I call the 24-hour nurseline provided by our insurance company.  I waited on hold with them for about 15 minutes before I spoke to anyone.  “Hi-my-name-is-Greg-and-I’ll be-helping-you-tonight.  Can-I-please-have-your-group-number?  And-your-birthday?  Are-you-taking-any-medications?”  It went on and on.  Finally, Greg decided to have me call my PCP and talk to the answering service.

I called and left a message for my doctor and somebody (NOT my doctor) returned my call in about five minutes.  “What color was it?”  It turned the toilet bright red, I answered.  “Have you had any more bowel movements since?”  Yes, I explained, but they were different; kind of tarry.  Finally, the doctor decided he’d like me to go to the ER.  “Are you feeling really nervous about this?” he asked.  “I know you’ve been through a lot, and I’m sorry, but it doesn’t sound like the bleeding’s going to stop on it’s own …”

“No, it’s not that; it’s just that I feel like I’m going to puke again.”  He instructed me to take a big jug of water with me and drink it en route.  Ben and I collected our stuff and drove down to the ER.

To Be Continued …

[This post was written entirely by Zamba.]

Today I got a hankering to chew on stuff.  Do you ever get that feeling that you just need to chomp something?  Well, I do, and BOY, is it strong!

Jake is really mad at me because I accidentally destroyed some of Kate’s toys.  She told me that I could try on her engagement ring, and it broke — it wasn’t very high quality.  [KJ's note: I may have to take that up with the folks at the amusement center at the Jersey Shore where Jake bought the ring ... oh wait.  I didn't see the bite marks.  Nice try, Zamba.]   Now Jake is mad at me!  I can’t stand it when people don’t love me.  I’m very good at loving people.

Anyway, then I got into some other stuff — one of Mommy’s sewing patterns and Daddy’s Croakie, which apparently hold sunglasses.  The sewing pattern wasn’t even that tasty!  And the Croakie was stringy!  I thought maybe it would taste like a frog, but I was disappointed.  I’m sorry to have chewed up your stuff … will you forgive me?

How about if I give you a kiss?  Will you love me then?  How about some more kisses?  Do you love me now?

Ooooh … popcorn.  I think I’d like popcorn.  Can I have some, Mommy?  I’ll sit here and try to look pathetic.  I’m hungry, Mommy.   [KJ's note: Not in a million years, Zamba.]

Oh.  Well, how about a kiss then?

Here’s how I found Zamba 15 minutes ago.  Right after Ben took a shower.  She’s so funny!

I was going to wait to post this, but I’m so excited that I can’t.

I’M GETTING NEW GLASSES!

Not the prescription kind, but a new kind with orange tint that is designed to help people with photosensitivity.

I’ve been searching for REALLY DARK ski goggles for a while now.  I first went to REI and tried on their glacier goggles, which have approximately 7% light transmission.  Not dark enough.  Then I expanded my search to local optomitrists, all of whom said “No, we don’t make custom goggles that dark.”  FWIW, I got my sunglasses about a year and a half ago from “the best eye doctor in Boulder” who had no CLUE that strokes could cause a sensitivity to light.

“I’d just need dark glasses,” I pleaded.  I explained that you couldn’t do any better than 7% at the store.

“Well, I could make you some that are, like, 5%, but any more than that you’d do better just spray painting your eyeballs.”

“I WOULD, except that would hurt!”

Seriously.  I’m not making this up.  In the winter, when the sun shines in our south-facing windows, I find it painful to walk through the patch of light that comes in above our blinds — blinds that I got by begging Ben for them while he was stuck in California during Christmas and felt bad about ot being home.  I wait to walk the dogs until sundown.  I avoid cooking during daylight hours when it’s sunny in our kitchen.

Fortunately, the junior optomitrist took pity on me and made them as dark as possible.  I didn’t know just HOW dark until Thursday, when I went to an eye doctor recommended to me by Melissa, my speech therapist.  He’s an eye doctor specializing in eye problems in the traumatic brain injured.

My appointment was at 2:30pm.  The doctor is in Denver, so I left home at 1 o’clock in hopes of arriving early to do my paperwork, which always takes me forever.  It didn’t work out that way.  The GPS couldn’t find his address!  I used my iPhone instead.  Having google maps on your iPhone is really nice because you can read them on the go — which I can’t.  My glasses are too dark.  Oh, and the google directions are usually correct until the end when they tack on things like “Go 500 feet and make a U-turn.”  I arrived at 2:30 on the dot.

After filling out my paperwork I was escorted to an exam room by the doctor’s assistant.  These guys knew what they were doing; he asked me about my strokes and I repeated my symptoms, he tested my peripheral vision (which is fine, btw!), and asked to see my current sunglasses.  Normally, they put the glasses in a structure with a light source on one side and a light detector (the precise name of which is escaping me right now) on the other and measure the percent of transmission.  One thing I don’t know for sure is which wavelength they measure the transmission at; I had a suspicion that lower wavelength light, in the blue/UV range, bothers me more than other light.

Anyway, he put my glasses in his machine and waited for a beep and a reading.  Instead, he asked me, “Do you know what transmission these are?”

“No, I don’t, but it’s in the 2 – 3% range.  Is there a problem?”

“They’re too dark for my machine to measure.  And when I look through them, it’s like putting a black sheet over my eyes!  I can’t see anything!”  Which doesn’t surprise me; inside, they’re really too dark.

I waited for the doctor in yet another exam room.  When he entered, he asked me a whole slew of questions about my strokes, beginning with, “Can you please tell me about your strokes?  How did you know you were having them?”  That scores big points with me.  Let me tell you my story and THEN ask questions and give a diagnosis, not the other way around.   I liked Dr. Politizer already.

He then determined my prescription — 0 diaopters, unfortunately (more about that later) — and told me about the new lenses that had just come out.  “You’ve got some options.  The first is a polarized lens that will cut the glare.  The second is an orange transition lens that absorbs the blue light, which traditionally bothers stroke victims the most.”  I was right!  Blue light bothers people more than other kinds of light!  That’s why sunlight is so terrible for me.  Up in Nederland, we get LOTS of blue and UV.  “Why don’t you go try some of the lenses out to see if they’ll work for you?  After you do that, we’ll dilate your eyes to check for blood clots.”

“Um … will dilation make me MORE sensitive to light?  I’m concerned about driving home if I can’t see.”

“It shouldn’t make you too much more sensitive than you are already.”  Good.  And not-so-good, because it wasn’t true.

I returned to the reception area and was assisted by the Lens Lady.  She handed me three lenses to try: an orange polarized one, a green polarized one, and an orange transition lens.  I walked outside with them.  Unfortunately, the sun was setting; it was tucked behind some clouds.  Still bright, but not as bright as I would’ve liked for testing the new lenses.  I squinted at the sun, then put on the orange polarized lens.  Pretty good!  I could look into the clouds and not be blinded, and my visibility away from the sun was incredible.  I could see stuff!  I could read the screen on my iPhone!  I switched to the green lens, which was not so good; the sun was back to blinding.  I tried the orange transition lens last.  It was a tough call between the transition and the orange polarized, but I think I liked the transition best.

I went back inside and told the Lens Lady of my decision.  “How much does it cost?”  She gave me the total without a prescription: $334.

“Oh.  Um … it’s a little hard to tell with the sun gone, and I don’t really want to spend that much money,” I said.

“Would you like to come back during the day?” she offered.

“No, thanks.  It takes me an hour and a half to get here, and the drive wears me out so that I can’t do it when I’ve got work in the morning,” I said, slightly overstating my restrictions.  “I’ll talk to the doctor about getting a prescription.  Could you please give me the price with insurance?”

After much calulation, she returned with, “$144.”  That was more reasonable!  I’ve got a couple things to say about insurance; namely, why won’t they cover SUNGLASSES?  I think that I have a pretty good excuse.  I cannot see why a prescription for REALLY DARK sunglasses, or sunglasses that have a special tint to block out a certain wavelength, don’t count as a prescription.  VSP, listen up!  It’s time to change your tune!

In the end, I got the $144 price; Dr. Politizer agreed to write me a small prescription.  All I can do now is hope that they really do solve my problem.  As for ski goggles, Dr. Politizer said, I can get the kind that wrap around glasses and then I can wear any type of glasses I’d like underneath!  “That’s cool,” I responded.  I picked out a pair of frames — sunglass frames, not any of the nice-looking, cool new frames sitting on the display (sunglasses have more protection on the sides, and I don’t want any more light than neccessary to leak in to my eyes) — and the Lens Lady wrote down all my information.

Then she put dilation drops in my eyes.  I squirmed.  I closed my eyes.  I HATE this part.  Eventually, she succeeded, and 30 minutes later my eyes were as big as saucers and I was ready for my exam.  Aside from being very bright, it was easy.  I shook hands with Dr. Politizer and was on my way!

The drive home SUCKED.  I accidentally took Coal Creek Canyon up to Nederland, and if you think that the Canyon road is curvy, I challenge you to try Coal Creek Canyon Road!  OMG[oodness].  On top of that, it felt like EVERY oncoming car had their brights on.  The dilation didn’t help my situation, I don’t think!  (Headlights are normally bright for me, but I can keep my eyes open.  Thursday night I couldn’t.  I didn’t like being on a very curvy road, with huge drop-offs on the side, and being completely blinded by headlights!)

I’m super excited about my new glasses.   If you’ve made it this far, I congratulate you!  Thank you for being a fan of Vision for the Brain Damaged!  Now, I could use your prayers that they will indeed help me enough that the thought of going outside won’t make me cringe.