… WHICH MEANS YOU REALLY DON’T SINCE THIS IS THE ER AND WE DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL WE’RE TALKING ABOUT.
And so that was my diagnosis. Hemorrhoids. The Terminator ER Dr. explained this to me while wadding up his EXTRA-LARGE examination gloves and throwing them away. Of course, he was wrong. Of course, this misdiagnosis cost me a pretty penny. Look, the ER is a great place when you are having a heart attack or stroke. Or your kid breaks his ankle at the Saturday morning soccer game. But for a guy who has excruciating pain every time he goes to the bathroom, a lot of diarrhea and some pretty high fevers there is not much they can do. At first I didn’t understand this. Couldn’t they see the agony I was in? Didn’t they know my GI Dr. TOLD ME to report there and seek their help? Or know how sick I constantly felt? How my son knocked on the bathroom door and asked in a scared little voice, “Are you okay, dad?” That two seconds later my wife was knocking on the same door asking the same question? How my family warily regarded me as I emerged from that twisted little room I had renamed “the torture cell”? Where I was punished by some evil overseer I had never even had a glimpse of? My wife remarking on how drenched my clothing was. The sweat beading off my forehead in huge drops. How tired I looked? Honestly, the ER doesn’t care about any of this. I quickly got schooled in the workings of the Emergency Room. Sadly this is why, later when my disease progressed and I started having higher and higher fevers, I didn’t even bother going. Three other times I would go to the ER. Twice they gave me some fluids and pain meds and brought my fever down and then said there is nothing else we can do for you. One other time I was again misdiagnosed. I will write more about that ER Dr. later. I harbor a particular distaste for that man and when I write that entry you will understand what I mean by distaste. So, my visit with the Terminator ER Dr. was over. He made sure I understood to follow through with my scheduled colonoscopy, told me to have a great afternoon and sent me on my way. At least he didn’t pat me on my ass when I left like he was my coach or something. “Good play, man.” To be honest, I was kind of relieved. I mean I didn’t have some incurable disease. I had hemorrhoids. Awesome! According to the commercials you just buy some paste type stuff, lather it up all nice and good down there and then “Bam” good as new. (I promise you, my naivety is really an endearing quality.). As we were exiting the ER we rounded a corner and there on a gurney against a wall was the creepy Gremlin thingy. He had a wide shit-eating grin on his face. He sat up and raised his arm and again began waving his finger in No-No fashion at me as we walked past him.