Medical Malpractice

I've had a few conversations recently that centered around minor medical issues. My brother-in-law was just talking about having his wisdom teeth taken out. Then a friend of mine was nervous about switching doctors, hoping he wasn't a weirdo. Now, I'm aware that one-upping someone is an obnoxious thing to do. I hate when I'm telling a story and it's blatantly obvious that the person listening has not only tuned out, but is counting the seconds until I'm done talking so they can start regaling me with their more impressive story. "Oh, you think that's bad. Wait 'til you hear this...."

However, in these particular medical categories, I am certain my friends' experiences can not turn out worse than mine. So I use my stories not as a precautionary tale of what painful dangers lie ahead, but as a way of reassuring them. Whatever happens, at least it didn't turn out like this...

Chapter 1: I'll Forgo the Wisdom
After wisdom teeth removal, everyone I know has come home on a Friday, popped some Tylenol, avoided rock hard foods and straws for two days, and been good to go by Monday. I, on the other side, must've had some serious wisdom in those f**kers.

It was Christmas break and all four of my wisdom teeth were impacted. In other words, all hanging out under the gums and pointing in whichever direction they please. So first things first... a nurse put the clamp on my finger that monitors heart rate. If you've never been put in this mind trap, count your blessings. The machine emits a very loud beep that is steady unless, of course, you're breathing. Any inhaling or exhaling made my heart rate increase slightly, making the beeping get faster and louder. As if I wasn't already imagining myself in the electric chair on Death Row, they've gotta strap on this thing. To put myself at ease and avoid nurses running in to check my vital signs, I started holding my breath for seconds at a time. Naturally this did the opposite of the desired effect, making the machine go crazy. Awesome.

Finally, Mr. Surgeon Man comes in and puts a novocaine shot in each corner of my mouth. Sure, standard procedure. A few minutes later, he pokes around and asks if I feel anything. For the love of God, I should've said no. I could only feel it slightly, but having never been in this situation I opted for honesty. So he administered six more shots of novocaine into my gums (one more in each corner, then two more for "good measure"). If you're counting, that's a grand total of ten. In restrospect, this guy might've been the inspiration for the show Little Shop of Horrors. We were fifteen minutes in and I was certain I'd never feel my tongue again. This is more than enough painkiller, you would think, for a routine oral surgery. False.

Surgeon Man goes, "Have you ever had laughing gas before?" I immediately respond with, "Yes, and I really dislike it. I have a strong reaction to it and it makes me sick." Blame selective hearing or indifference, but damn it if he doesn't pop that mask on my face anyway and crank up the gas. One deep breath and I was tripping on acid. Well, I wasn't hallucinating but I was certainly boarding the bus to Crazy Town. To add insult to injury, the guy chose this moment to stab an IV into my arm. Didn't matter how high I was, that still hurt.

When I come to, some indeterminate amount of time later, I'm in an entirely different room and I'm bawling. I'm lying in a room the size of a broom closet on a brown leather couch from the Freudian era. My mom is sitting next to me and neither of us know why there are tears pouring from my face or what to do about it. The doctor pokes his head in and rattles off something patronizing about "females" and "suppressed emotions". When I try to sit up, as expected, I'm really nauseous. But they're on a schedule and I'm ushered out of the office and downstairs. I throw up in the car ride back which comes close to ripping out my stitches. The best part about that - apart from the fact that I didn't have to go back and get re-stitched - was my reaction. At this point I am Mayor of Crazy Town and the only thing I could think to say to my mother after vomiting in the car was "Don't judge meeeeee."

For most people, the worst is over at this point of the story. But not only did the numbness not wear off for eighteen hours, but my teeth o' wisdom were so mangled to begin with that they refused to heal. I had to deal with intense throbbing pain around the clock. I refilled my large prescription of Vicodin, couldn't sleep, ate nothing but pudding and soup, and walked around looking like this kid for two and a half weeks. Sexy, I know. Anyway, I got over it. Now, unless someone's wisdom teeth are growing out the side of their face, this story's become useful in making others feel happier with the cards they've been dealt.


Chapter 2: Some People Shouldn't Be Doctors
Last year, I started coming down with something crappy. After waiting a few days and feeling worse, I figured I should go see what's up. Turns out insurance policies had changed at our usual office, so I followed my mom's recommendation and made an appointment with her doctor. The following events will now be broken down into three separate visits, all within a six day period:

Appointment #1: I show up and sit for an excessive amount of time in the waiting room. When I'm finally ushered back to a room, I meet the doctor and immediately realize she's super snarky and condescending. She does a routine glance into my throat and dramatically falls back against the counter, aghast. The only thing that would've warranted a reaction like this was if my throat were missing. So I ask her what's wrong. She says, "Y-y-your tonsils are huge!" Right, I know. That's why I'm here, buttmunch. Everyone had a recurring illness in their childhood and my flavor of the week was always strep. So I've seen my tonsils gigantic and spotted as often as I've seen them at normal size. She immediately washes her hands (having not really touched anything yet) and asks for my pharmacy's number. Sitting on the exam table, I ask her to grab my cell phone so I can get the number. I swear to you, she looked at the phone like it had just been dropped in a urine sample. I don't have the plague, woman. She was condescending a few more times, but called in the antibiotics and I was outta there.

Appointment #2: I called in two days later to let her know the antibiotics weren't working. Anyone who showed up for 9th grade Biology knows the thing isn't bacterial and would just work itself out naturally. Again, Dr. Neurotic gives me a reaction way past "appropriate". She alerted the church elders and there I was in her office again, being poked with needles like a lab rat.

Appointment #3: Dr. Crazypants called to let me know tests for strep, mono, hepatitis and the flu all came back negative. She made another appointment for me. When I showed up to #3, I sat in the waiting room staring off into space, feeling like absolute death. When the doc saw me through the window, she bolted into the waiting room like I was engulfed in flames. To be fair, I had lost ten pounds and was not lookin' hot. But there's no need to make a scene; she literally cancelled appointments so she could bring me back to her lab that second. When we got there, she paced anxiously like a dog in heat, then sits me down and goes - I shit you not - "You might have AIDS." EXCUSE ME?! There is a higher chance of this woman being Enrique Iglesias in disguise than of me being HIV-positive. But at this point, I am Miranda Priestley's definition of an "incubus of viral plague" so I let the lab technician take all of the blood left in my arm.

Unfortunately, Dr. Jekyll is still unsatisfied and before I know it, I'm on my way to the ER. I lay in a sanitized bed for the next ten hours. I give endless samples, get an unnecessary MRI (radiation for no reason), and two full IV drips before I get sent home and wake up good as new. The best part of the story? When I explain to Dr. Crazypants that I've gotten over my illness over time (as I had predicted on Day 1) she responds nonchalantly with "Oh, yeah. These viruses come and go, no big deal." After all that, she shrugs it off. Yes  ma'am. Definitely NBD.