If I ever wrote a book, and I have no plans to, but if I did, I think this should be the title.
I was released from the hospital today after going to the ER on Monday. I was having issues breathing and had gained a significant amount of water weight in a short period of time. The doctors did what they always do, looked at me like I was an alien, then admitted me so they could administer a drug that, may or may not, have helped me, and could have quite possibly killed me, but hey, being the risk takers they are, they took a chance.
Thankfully they didn’t kill me, but it didn’t appear that the drug they were giving me, that was suppose too allow me to shed the excessive amount of water weight, was working either, according to the scale. According to the scale, I gained .45 kg (about a pound) from Monday evening to Tuesday morning, and from Tuesday morning to this morning it appeared I lost .5 kg (a little over a pound). Kind if makes you go…hmmmmm, doesn’t it?
Like the nice, compliant patient that I am, I sat and waited for my doctor to come and see me to let me know if I would be able to go home today or not. While I waited a Heart Failure Educator came to visit me. Actually, it was the same one that visited me yesterday. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any educational material on the type of heart failure I’m in, because, well, it’s kind of rare…Restrictive Cardiomyopathy secondary to Amyloidosis; nope no pamphlet for that. We chatted a bit yesterday and she figured out pretty fast that I knew more about my heart failure than she ever would, so we kept it short and she moved on to her next victim. This morning, I think she was a bit surprised to see me again (I had to change rooms) so she had me sign something saying that I had been thoroughly educated on the subject of heart failure and went on her way.
Later, a petite, older woman came to visit me, the Nutritionist. I spoke with her yesterday as well, and we determined then that I was eating a proper diet, and there wasn’t much, if anything I could change other than maybe giving up Jolly Ranchers, which would happen over my dead body. In all seriousness though, she felt my diet was a bit limited but because of how my body seems to react to food these days she understood my limitations and didn’t begrudge me a few Jolly Ranchers now and then. Again, because I changed rooms, I don’t think she knew who she was coming to speak to today when she entered my room. All she knew was that the resident doctor wanted her to speak to a patient about entering an obesity program. She sat down and almost did a double take, looked back at her notes then back at me. She told me the doctor thought I needed to be in the hospitals new obesity program, but quickly said that his recommendation was totally inappropriate, apologized, and excused herself. I couldn’t help but wonder if he made the recommendation before he knew the scale was broken? Regardless, it was still a little inappropriate if you ask me.
Finally the young resident entered my room and sat down in the chair at the foot of my bed. Before I could ask him anything, he gave me the amount of fluid I had taken in during my stay and the amount of fluid I was able to shed, and based on his math, I lost about 10 lbs in 48 hours. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said…”Sorry, our scale was broken…” If it had not been for the fact that I had preemptively packed my bags, and they were between him in the chair at the foot of my bed and where I was sitting, I might have flown across the end of the bed and started pummeling him about the head and shoulders. I bit my tongue though, and I didn’t say anything sarcastic or rude. I did ask him why he referred me for an obesity program, and instead of recognizing his error, he decided to defend himself and give me a lecture of the importance of keeping my weight down “if I might receive” a heart transplant in the future. He also informed me that because of the type of heart failure I have (restrictive cardiomyopathy) I may consider seeking out palliative care in the future to help me be more comfortable as it progresses since cardiomyopathy patients rarely get heart transplants.
It took all the will power I had to just smile and sign the discharge papers and get out of there before I hurt the poor young doctor. He had a snooty British accent, the bedside manner of a rodent, and was so baby faced I doubt he’s even started shaving yet! Needless to say he is very young, and not the most experienced doctor, so I spared him the severe tongue lashing. I decided to leave it for the next grouchy lady to cross his path, and may the Lord be with him!