And while I'm under the influence of numerous narcotics, I discuss the significance of the Obama-Castro handshake with the cardboard cut-out ...

Merry Christmas.

Now that we got that out of the way, let' start.

A few weeks ago, I was rushed into an emergency surgery. IT. WAS. NUTS. So, what happened exactly? I will start from the beginning and keep the long story long.

One Wednesday night I ran ten miles at the gym while watching the Blazers/Thunder game. Now basketball isn't really my thing, but in efforts to expand my dating pool, I've decided to start following basketball so I can woo all the gents during basketball season. I mean, football season is coming to an end and baseball is still some time away, so I'm left with basketball to fill in this void. But, yes, on this particular Wednesday night I ran ten very fast miles while watching this nail biting game. Blazers won. RIP CITY.

The following day at work my left side started hurting. However, with having my hometown high school friend, Tony, flying in that night, I didn't really give much thought to the pain as I figured I just pulled a muscle or something. Clearly, I was too busy doing what any good host would do: I was planning our Holiday Ale Festival activities. The next day at work I noticed that after I ate lunch, my side ache got worse. At this time, a colleague subtly suggested that I might have digestive issues. And without any further thought or assessment, I decided that I HAD digestive issues. With this self-diagnosis, I was kinda relieved that I figured it out.

After work, Tony & I proceeded with our Holiday Ale Fest plans and we had spectacular time. We sampled some beer, ran into some friends, broke up a fight, and I got beer spilled all over me while I was trying to break up that stupid fight. Did I mention that it was like 20 degrees? And that it snowed earlier? And yeah I am now soaked in cold gross candycane beer. But that didn't stop me from getting a chili cheese dog. I mean, nothing could get in the way of me getting my chili cheese dog. No fights, no beer spillage, and definitely no digestive issues. So I eat my chili cheese dog, we continue tasting some more ales, and I'm still soaked in candycane beer. We leave.

In a ton of pain still, I finally go to Zoom Care the following morning. Pretty much Zoom Care is to a hospital as a 7-11 is to a grocery store. One hundred and thirty five dollars later, the Zoom Care fake doctor tells me that she doesn't know what is wrong with me. In her expert opinion, I shouldn't eat and I should go to the emergency room immediately. No thanks. That advice is stupid. So what do I do? I go across the street and get some good southern style brunch. AFTER BRUNCH, I called my primary care physician aka my dad's best friend and detail him my symptoms and such. He details me back a plan of action to rule out that digestive self-diagnosis theory. In carrying out this plan, I went to the nearby grocery store to pickup some Miralax and milk of magnesium. As I have these laxatives in hand, I run into a former classmate. Lovely. Absolutely lovely. After the awkward catch-up, I purchase my laxatives and head home. I do as the doctor instructed and watch the new Star Trek movie as I wait out the process. And may I kindly remind you my poor friend Tony is with me this whole time.

Because the waiting process took several hours, we are now HOURS late to my friend's holiday party. Seriously, body what shitty timing you have. I have a friend in town and a holiday party to attend. But all I could do is wait. So the process happens and the pain is still there. Whatever. I'm over this business. It's Saturday night! I have a party to party at. We go. And we party like it is twothousandthirteen.

Blahblahblah. Partypartyparty. We go home.

Sunday. My pain is UNBEARABLE now. I update my dad's BFF on my medical whatnots and finally at this time he advised me to go hangout at the emergency room. Damn. Well this sucks. Looking through my planner, I'm trying to budget time to go to the ER. Tony is still with me. We still have some things on the agenda like go to the indie book store, get some donuts, happy hour, watch a flick at my favorite beer theater, and send Tony on his way back to California. All very important, you see. Looks like I'll be making a trip to the emergency room around 11pm.    

11pm, I go to the emergency room as scheduled. Five hours, two CT scans, and several naps later, the doctor tells me he has no clue what's wrong with me. He does assure me though that I don't have any digestive issues. Self-diagnosis fail. Having no clue what is wrong with me, he did notice a blob of some sort on my scan. He tells me that it is an abdominal mass. "Maybe it's cancer. But maybe not. You should go see this specialist this week and he can better help you." Really, dude? Maybe it's cancer but maybe not? Great, just freaking great. Now I'm flipping my lid and freaking the fuck out, you see.

Later that afternoon, my two girlfriends, Taylor & Kate, take me to the specialist. As we are waiting in the lobby, they both bust out their knitting gear and start knitting away. What? I get handbands and scarves out of it. Double what?  Some medical forms and minutes later, I get called. I follow the nurse back and go into the examination room. They do all the regularly stuff, check my vitals, ask me questions, take my pee, and such. The resident doctor comes in and asks me several more questions. I finally interrupt him and ask him what's been on my mind all day: DO I HAVE CANCER? He says maybe, he isn't sure. SERIOUSLY, DUDE? SERIOUSLY? You are a doctor in a bowtie. What do you know? He knows to ask me questions. And he asks me if I've ever been pregnant. No. The first day of my last menstrual period. Two weeks ago. If I'm sexually active. No. He then looks at me. Turns his head sideways and clarifies "no, no or kinda no." Umm. No, no or kinda no? What sort of question is that? Did my doctor really just ask me to clarify my sexual activities with a no, no or kinda no description. No, no. Thanks for the reminding me of my nonexistant sex life, ps. How about I ask you a more important question, how the fuck do you think it is okay to be wearing a ridiculous pee yellow with white polka dots bowtie? No, no or kinda no. Go fly a kite.

Bowtie finishes up his questions and leaves. Thank god. Several minutes later, the attending doctor, who is the real doctor now enters the examination room with bozo no, no or kind, no bowtie. Real doctor informs me that he's looked over my charts and scans and tells me that I just might have a runner's injury. Resident bowtie is now LAUGHING hysterically. I'm not shitting you. So, I look the attending straight in the eyes, and ask him SO I DON'T HAVE CANCER? He says, no. But he orders me a third CT just to be sure. Bowtie is STILL laughing. How this dude with his wardrobe choice and bedside manners is a doctor is beyond me. But whatever, I'm just stoked that cancer is now off the table.

Tuesday. My attending doctor calls me. And without any hesitation he tells me that I have an abdominal aneurysm. WAIT. A. MINUTE. I thought it was going to be a runner's injury. Yeah, he was shocked too. Way to give me a soft landing. "Hi, Ugly Dress --- so you actually have an abdominal aneursym the size of a tennis ball. It's alarming. You gotta get surgery."

I don't know much about aneurysms except that every patient in the television shows Grey's Anatomy and Scrubs who had an aneurysm died. So, naturally, I freak out and cry. The attending doctor manages to calm me down and actually explain what's the situation. Turns out that it is not as bad as the melodrama shows. .

Several hours later, we decide to get sushi. We includes my knitting hen girlfriends. As soon as I get to Jenny's house, the surgeon calls me and tells me that he just called my dad and that my dad is catching the first flight up because I need to go into surgery tonight. The first flight up is tomorrow morning. Umm. (1) Kinda weird a doctor who've I never met is telling me about my dad's itinerary and (2) way to tell me I need surgery. I ask what any responsible mindful person in my condition would ask: can I eat my sushi first. No. I cannot. Gotta get to the hospital stat. Gotta have surgery tonight. Got it. Sushi, mushi. Clearly, the hospital is the place to be. And bless Taylor & Kate's hearts for giving up their sushi plans to escort me to the hospital.

It's 8pm. We are now at the hospital. I check in. The administrator leads me to my room. As we are walking we pass a room with this old man crying for help. Literally. "Help me. Someone please help me. Please help me." The administrator instructs us not to worry about the crying old man. Totally. Twilight Zone-esque, I know.  

I get to my hospital room. And a nurse enters. First she prohibits me from eating or drinking anything. Yikes. Things have come a long way from no sushi. But she provides me with a mouth swab in case I get dry mouth. Awesome. I change into the hospital gown, get settled, and the whole medical team is doing their thing: vitals, blood work, charts, questions, blah, blah, blah.

Chrissy, Matty, and Matty's life-size cutout of himself join my hospital party right as I'm about to get carted away to get another CT. With three CTs within 18 hours, I'm a pro by now. 

FOURTH CT SCAN LATER, and I'm back to my hospital room. And It's the 6 of us: me, Taylor, Kate, Chrissy, Matty, and Matty's cut-out. They are all eating and drinking like hospital royalty. I guess I will just swab away like a mere peasant then. So the six of us hang out and watch the Mandela Memorial on TV. And DUDE. Obama and Castro shook hands! For reals. Wows.

Sometime during the Mandela Memorial, my interventional radiologist comes in and speaks a million miles a minute with this and that and I don't even know what. I stop him and introduce myself, then I ask him what an interventional radiologist is, then I ask him what the plan of action is, then I ask him when I can start running again, then I ask him to call my dad. All very important questions. I know.

Interventional radiology is like surgery but less invasive. He plans to go through my groin artery to my spleen artery and coil up the aneurysm leak. At this time I learned I really have a pseudo aneurysm because it already started leaking or something. I don't even know. My spleen is dying or dead. And that is why I was in pain. My dead spleen will remain in my body. My situation is very critical. And he already called his surgical crew. I will be summoned into the operating room as soon as the crew is ready. I will be conscious throughout the procedure/surgery/whatever but I will be pumped full of drugs. I can start running in about week, if all goes well. And he will call my dad. Okay, sure, I got it all I guess. Yeah right.

He leaves. We resume watching the Mandela Memorial.

It's 11:15pm, and the crew is ready for me. I say bye  to my friends and send them home. I go under the knife. I'm awake. And I'm high. Two hours later, the procedure is done.

I return to my room. The Mandela Memorial is still on TV. I'm bed ridden for the next 8 hours. The Matty cut-out is in the corner of the room spooking each staff who enters. It keeps me company. And while I'm under the influence of numerous narcotics, I discuss the significance of the Obama-Castro handshake with the cardboard cut-out.