Greetings Me Droogs N Droogettes!
Seems I hit a couple of nerves on Healthcare. Man, you have no idea the shit I’ve been through, so I’m right there with you. Got some horror stories, as well as funny ones. For the newbies ’round here, having survived Iraq, turns out I almost didn’t survive so to speak. I mean I did, but not for a lack of the country tryna kill me after the fact.
Back in 2011, I went “a bit around the bend” in Iraq mentally. Now yeah… fully within my rights so to speak. I’d been there at that particular point since July of 2007. It was September of 2011 that -something- ticked off my mental health and made me crazier than normal. Got really really paranoid. To the point Ranger Jay called the head office and his quote: “The loggie has lost it… you need to get him home now before he starts stacking heads.”
So, they got me home.
Funny how one’s head and body are operating on two different levels. There’s the conscious, and the subconscious. Now… what I didn’t know was there was something wrong with me. Now my brain seemed to know –something– was amiss… and was screaming to me “get home NOW!!!” Like I had no clue… I just knew shit was wrong and I might have to start killin’ motherfuckers soon… ‘fight or flight’ instincts all over the place… so, Ranger Jay got me the fuck out ASAP that day.
AFTER I got home (in disgrace as far as the company was concerned, bastards… pissed them off that they needed a last-minute emergency replacement… no thought given to my condition, after 4 years of faithful and loyal combat-service for them… pigfuckers.) Well two days after getting home, I suffered -something- chest related… thought it was a heart attack. Couldn’t breath. Like OMFGWTF this sucks pain. Called an wahmbulance, and they said “Nope, not the heart, we’re not sure, let’s get you to the ER…”
So, I got there, and some Pakistani Doc got me… thankfully one of the good docs… dude found out I had just been in Iraq and was like “Throw him in for a chest CAT scan… I got a hunch.” Turns out: Necrotizing Pneumonia… fuckin dunno how or where
IF I had ‘gutted out’ ‘whatever’ was making me nuts in Iraq, I sure as fuck would have been a deader. 56% mortality rate… stateside. That’s in a Class One facility. After the fact, the docs told me I had been 40 minutes from non-recoverability. Bullet dodged Aye?
I was loaded into the Iso-ward… they had no idea what made me this way or how I got it… just that it was deadly, and I got treated by people in space suits for the first week. No visitors no nothing.
Welcome Home Big Country.
Long of the short, I recovered. Slowly. a PIC line installed. Daily-daily self administered IV powerful antibiotics 2x a day… weakness, weight gain (goodbye all that hardcore work I did) and the cherry on top? While they were constantly X-raying me (Fukashima levels of Radiation) to follow the retreat/healing of my tattered lung tissue… well one of the big black ‘spots’ didn’t resolve… and appeared to be growing…
Sort of like that… Mine was lower bottom left airbag.
Turns out, the Big C.
An at the time extremely rare form of an encapsulated tumor. Aggressive. Started out golf ball sized, and by the time I was fully recovered from the lung rot, it was going to apple, on the way to baseball. Me and the Doc (not the same one, but a Frog from Canuckistan) had a discussion where he was pushing the same ole-same ole… the treatments that KIA’d DrDad to DeadDad.
No fucking thanks asshole. Getcher scalpel and prep to carve this here turkey dude.
See, I’ve done a shit-pot of research on cancer. Lots of close people to me have cashed besides dad. Add on that at the time, it was up close and personal. My own theories ain’t worth a shit, but, proof is in the pudding so to speak. First thing I told Frog-Doc was “cut this shit out now.” He demurred, and we went back and forth aboot it. Wanted me to do ‘standard protocol’… i.e. tons of chemo$$ and radiation$$ to ‘shrink the tooma’… I was like, no, cut out the fucker, even if you have to take the whole fucking airbag and we’ll talk poison$ later. Back n forth… til I asked if he’d check my psyche record. He said no, and I told him that if he didn’t acquiesce, that two days from then, I’d have a ‘gun cleaning accident’ where I ‘accidentally’ shot myself with my pistol while cleaning it.
He looked at me and was like “You’re joking but of course.”
Me: “Check the record doc… you got 48 hours.”
I got up and left.
Next day at 0830 I got a call with the surgery scheduled. They did a lobectomy. Whole lower half of my left airbag. Guess he read the psyche file Aye?
Fuck it. It’s why God gives you two.
And now? that was 2011… 10 years later and I’m still good.
Thing is, what Docs and shit forget, my body my choice.
Amazing how when it’s abortion that comes into play, but vaxxes and anything else, Follow the Science!!! unless it goes against the Church of Covidiocy. Fucking Aye. It also, I notice really irritates the Docs, especially the younger ones when I tell them point fucking blank: “You know what, despite alllll your vaaaaaaast experience, I personally have been inhabiting this particular meatsack for the past oh, say about 51-52 years… I’m pretty sure I know how it runs, and what it takes to keep running…”
They don’t like hearing that… Doctor/God Complexes I’ve noticed. And the current crop of young croakers? Nope, not having it. I’m sticking with my current frumpy 50 something South Korean Doctor at the VA who’s of like-mind with me. She’s great… Engrish not so much, but still, she is awesome and I dig dealing with her. Hard enough to find a sawbones that’s competent, nevermind one you can joke with.
So yeah. Now, humorous story during that particular shitshow. Day 5? 6? Can’t remember the -exact- date but I was feeling better, leastways as good as a dude flooded with some of the strongest antivirals and antibiotics there are out there. Vankomycin being one name I remember. I literally had two IV bags for a while. In each arm. They had switched me to just one arm-one bag that particular day, and I was now ambulatory to be able to use the shitter. I also was fortunate to not be wearing the normal hospital gown, but my gym shorts and a Harley T. Much more comfortable. Anyways…
Got to be around 2am, oh dark motherfucking early. I had, that night done a ‘deal-deal’ with the nurses. Being in the iso-ward, and being under intense almost-dead care, I kept getting woke up like every two hours for bloodwork and like all the checks and stuff… I managed to con the nurse into scheduling the checks at the beginning of the first two hours, and then at the end of the other two hours, giving me about 4 hours uninterrupted sack time. I was really looking forward to it.
Cut to that 2am timeframe. I get woke up by someone literally yelling and screaming to beat the band. Like mad crazy expletives, hollering, general stuff of someone completely losing their collective shit.
Queue now-outraged Big Country.
I get up, highly and potentially lethally annoyed. I grab my two lil stands, one that has all the monitoring equipment, BP, pulse, big 1 foot by 1 foot cube with a small screen on it. Looked a lot like this:
So, I roll it, and my IV on another lil stand, just like it out to the door.
Now, I’m in the isolation overpressure ward.
Each room is theoretically sealed, and overpressured. Leastways it was when I first went in, (I think… good drugs and being at death’s door sorta leaves me a bit fuzzy on the whole thing)… anyways, two doors, an ‘airlock’ arrangement. I go through the first, and listened at the next. I can hear the nurse frantically calling for help, and calling for -anyone- I also hear one of the neighbors apparently. Ranting/Raving… “I’ve got a knife!!!!” That sort of stuff. He’s lost his shit or something… the PA starts calling a Code Gray, which I guess is code for ‘dangerous nutjob?’ Not sure… either way I roll out because that’s the stuff I deal with, and I was pissed at whomever fucked up my planned 4 hours of quality rack time.
I get out to find a Barney Fife/Paul Blart dude struggling with some hazmat gear, and old(er) dude with what appeared to be a butter knife in his hand, wearing the hospital assless gown, and raging and waving the blade… the two nurses look at me, and they looked terrified.
I started grinning
The inner voice went: “Oh joy! MAAAAAAAY-HEMMMMMMM!”
I looked over at dude, looked at Barny Fife and the nurses. Everything sorta kinda -stopped- I lifted up the monitor stand, and kicked the base off of it. Made for a good war club. I snarled “Get back in the fucking room!”
Dude deee-parted with haste.
I must have had glowing eyes or something. I was ready to use that monitor like a fucking club man…I was so pissed off at the time… like probably up to that point the angriest I’d ever been that I could remember. That being said, the best thing is that after that lil interaction? Man, the nurses were so happy/grateful… Extra dessert? No prob. Fluff the pillows? Absolutely. Got all the perks that I could out of it, and they made sure after that I got the 4 hours nightly by arranging the meds/bed checks/other stuff so’s I could sleep.
Give a little, get a little. Too bad I was still married at the time. I wouldn’t say there were offers, but the body language and whatnot pretty much showed I could have gotten a bit mor comfortable if I’d been leaning in that direction if’n you dig what I’m saying.
So, sorry for the late poasting. South Tampa had a huge internet outage for quite a spell. Two and a half hours of nada but the fon. At least I still got paid, and got to get some minor biddness out of the way. Speaking of which, I finished dude’s rifle.
Testing it this weekend, hopefully shipping it shortly after.Came out really nice
So, more to follow, More Later I Remain The Intrepid Reporter