The emergency room of any hospital is a strange place. Ask anyone who has been there. The kids dropped me off at the ER and I walked in to register. I was relieved to see only one other person waiting. I was in so much pain and my hand was shaking so much I couldn’t fill out the registration form. I had to ask the nurse if she could fill it out for me. I slumped over the edge of the counter as I gave her my personal information.
I spoke to the check-in nurse briefly, gave all my insurance info to another woman, then waited some more. We probably waited an hour, and the ER waiting room slowly filled up. I enjoyed looking at the clothes people wore to the ER. There were a lot of track pants, but also a surprising number of six inch heels and tight, short, hoochie mama dresses. I bet there were some good stories connected to those clothes.
We were finally called back and told that all the rooms were full, was it okay if they gave us a curtained off area along the hallway? I laughed and asked if we really had a choice, and she said some people actually choose to wait for a room. I guess some emergencies are more private–and urgent–than others. My curtained cubicle was not bad, situated right across from the main nurses’ desk, and I asked to leave the curtains halfway open so I could see what was going on around me. No chairs are allowed in these cubicles in the hallway (fire hazard), so Nick and Nicole squeezed onto the end of the bed with me. I was just glad to be in a bed. The pain was definitely an 8 by now.
A nice nurse gave me a gown and a warm blanket, and a young paramedic put in an IV. It took two attempts. Ugh.
By far the worst part of any trip to a hospital, for me, is putting in an IV. They are not fun. The worst location to have one put in is on the wrist or top of the hand. No matter where they put it, it hurts. Maybe my abdominal pain was enough to divert my attention, but it really didn’t hurt too much this time, despite the fact that it took two attempts. The nice nurse came and asked the young paramedic why it didn’t work the first time, told him to “push right on through the valve,” and stood by for assistance on the second arm. I could tell he was a little nervous because we were all watching him.
More waiting. Dr H introduced himself, pushed at my stomach near the belly button telling me it sounded like diverticulitis, then frowned as I guided his hand down to the actual location of pain and told him my hormonal issues from the past few months. He didn’t seem convinced that it was anything other than diverticulitis, and eventually I was wheeled off for a CT scan–for the first time ever without having to drink the dreaded 35 ounces of contrast liquid. I guess I talked about hating it so much that they took pity on me. I sent the kids off for some lunch for themselves while I had the scan.
The man who wheeled me down to the CT room asked if I had ever had diverticulitis before, then was amazed when I told him I’d had the rare duodenal form twice. He literally oohed and aahed. I think it made his day. He didn’t know why they were doing the scan without the contrast, checked to make sure they weren’t making a mistake, then had me slide across the bed to the big donut-shaped tube. I took a few deep breaths when my old familiar buddy, British Accent Man, told me to, and then it was back to my “room” to wait for results.
The nice nurse came by a little later with something for the IV. When I asked her what it was she told me saline, because the doctor thought I looked a little “peaked.” Oh, and this little vial here that I’m inserting into your IV? Morphine. Morphine! The effects were almost immediate and the pain subsided to about a 3. It was the first time I’d felt comfortable all day.
Dr H eventually came by with results from the CT scan. I had a cyst on my left ovary. A 10cm, “complicated” cyst. He said because of its composition (fluid and solid particles) and size, he was going to call someone from gynecology to come down and give me more information. Though he said it was too soon to start worrying about cancer, he admitted there was some cause for concern.
A cyst the size of a grapefruit. Well, hello, my little friend. This explained a lot about the bloating, tight jeans, and frequent trips to the bathroom.
I was calm. I was relaxed while I took in the news. I felt a slight sense of satisfaction that I was right about something being wrong with my hormones and ovaries these past few months. The idea of cancer, however, had never entered my mind. I told the kids I wasn’t worried at all, that except for the excruciating pain in my belly I felt strong and healthy. I ran marathons. I was thin. I had had two children. I breastfed both for a year each. I had none of the risk factors and no family history. I didn’t feel seriously ill in the least.
The gynecologist (or gynecological nurse, I’m not sure which) came down and explained more, telling me they wanted to run some tests to rule out all the “bad stuff” first. She said it didn’t mean there was anything to worry about, they just wanted to rule out the bad first and go from there. She asked me a lot of questions, then I was wheeled off to an examination room for a pelvic exam, which another gynecologist performed.
She was nice, but her cool demeanor wasn’t very calming. She seemed a little stiff and nervous. She spoke to me about torsion, which is when a cyst twists on itself and cuts off the blood supply to the ovary–which is “very bad,” though she didn’t explain why. She told the nurse to bring a pap smear kit, and I asked her if that was necessary since I’d had a hysterectomy five years earlier. Oops. She admitted she forgot I’d had a hysterectomy and apologized. Everyone makes mistakes, but it made her lose a little credibility in my eyes. Both doctors did a pelvic exam. This was not comfortable at all, even with the morphine. She said my stomach wasn’t too tight or hard, which was a good sign, and she didn’t think there was any torsion.
The cyst and ovary would definitely need to be removed, as soon as possible. She asked if I wanted my doctor to make all the arrangements or if I wanted to come to the clinic across the street. Maybe it was the morphine, but this is where I kind of spaced out. I wondered why my family doctor would need to be informed when he’s not a gynecologist, so she said she would schedule an appointment for the following Monday in preparation for surgery and that they would call me (they never did). Monday was still five long days away . . .
We were finally given our own room with a teeny, tiny TV monitor on a long, expandable arm that my son had fun annoying us with, and three chairs. Michael arrived from work, and we saw on the TV that it was storming outside. We heard nothing inside the hospital, and I was sorry to be missing a good thunderstorm. I thought about the dogs alone at home, who hate thunderstorms.
The nice nurse asked if I’d ever had a transvaginal ultrasound before, then told me about the grapefruit sized ovarian cyst she’d had years ago. She called hers a “chocolate cyst” based on the color of the fluid. Hers was removed, was noncancerous, and she went on to give birth to a son three years later. She knew all about the pain I was going through.
A CA-125 blood test was given to test for tumor markers, then I was wheeled off again for an ultrasound. First the technician tried on top of my abdomen, but she said there was so much fluid inside my abdominal cavity she was having a difficult time finding either ovary. I asked if that was a bad thing, to have fluid in the abdomen, and what it meant, but all she would say was that it could mean different things. She next did a transvaginal ultrasound which gave her slightly better results. Both procedures were uncomfortable but not painful. The technician was very quiet and made almost no small talk, which was not very reassuring.
After getting to the doctor’s office around 11:00AM, and the ER around 1:00PM, by the time we left the hospital around 7:30PM it had been a full day. The young paramedic removed the IV shunt while I joked about him leaving it in and giving me a vial of morphine to take home with me. Trainspotting Mom! Maybe my joking waved a red flag because I was sent home with nothing stronger than prescription strength ibuprofen (800 mg).
I felt I was leaving the ER with more questions than answers. I had a large ovarian cyst. It could be cancerous. It would have to be removed, along with the ovary and possibly the other ovary as well, no matter what the CA-125 blood test showed. I would still be in pain for the next few days.
In the meantime, the morphine was starting to wear off.
To be continued . . .