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October 1, 2000
ACT VI: Hope
Thankfully, my mom was willing to tell me what to do because at that point, I was so frustrated and in such pain I was ready to retire to the parlor with a penknife and a ladle to try and get the gallbladder out myself.
Enter Dr. Margules, my hero. He is doctor to my parents and three of my five siblings. I have no idea why I didn't just give in and sign him up
as my primary care doctor when we moved out this way...I certainly know him, having crossed paths with him in countless hospital rooms,
examining rooms, emergency rooms and even at Aunt Marilyn's funeral.
Luckily, he had office hours in town that day. Soon enough, Andy and I were on our way to his office, which is right down the hall from the inept Dr. Al.
After examining me (and showing Andy the location of all of my major stomach-area organs, much to his delight), he produced the results of the tests I had taken the day before. I have no idea how he obtained them...but I'm glad he did.
"Lookie here," he said, waving a test result at me. "You have gallstones!"
I took it, read it, didn't understand it, and passed it back.
"I know. But Dr. Al said the gallstones aren't the problem."
"Well," he said diplomatically. "I'm not going to cross swords with anyone here. I see a person in front of me having a gallbladder attack. You can make it through this one, but it will happen again. You can wait 5, 10, however many years to have your gallbladder out. You can have as many of these attacks as you can stand. But it's going to have to come out eventually. If I were you, I'd do it while you're young and healthy."
"My gastroenterologist told me I'd probably need to have it out at some point," I said.
"Is this your first attack like this?" Dr. Margules asked me.
"Yes."
"Do you want another one?"
"No."
He waited, letting me make the decision myself. I looked at Andy, then said, "OK. Let's get rid of it."
"Great!" he said, picking up the phone. "I can call a surgeon right now." He described a couple of different surgeons he knew, but we told him to go ahead and call whoever he felt most comfortable with.
Soon enough, he was yammering away with a receptionist, getting me hooked up to see Dr. Allyan the next day. I couldn't believe it. This guy did not mess around. God bless him.
Oh, but it wasn't over. Next he called my pharmacy and asked about what types of painkillers they had in stock. He found a nice strong one, and made sure they could fill it right away for me. Then we went out in the hall to look at his datebook.
"I'm going to scrub in on your surgery," he said, "so let's pick a date."
"Why are you going to..."
"I'm going to be there," he interrupted me, fetching a pad of paper and a pen. "I just am. Now, I'm free next week on Monday morning, Tuesday is my day off but if you need me you need me... and on Wednesday all day. There!" He held up the paper. "Give this to Dr. Allyan when you see him. If he has any questions, he can call me."
Andy asked if he could polish Dr. Margules' halo, and we were off. Off to obtain prescription drugs and to worry about surgery that might happen as quickly as next week.
ACT VII: The Surgeon and The Aftermath
The next morning we drove to St. Therese Hospital in Waukegan to visit the surgeon. I was very anxious and wanted to be comforted, but I found that the surgeon wasn't all about hand-holding. He was a nice enough man, but we were only in his office for about three minutes...not a lot of time for comforting, petting, reassuring, or any of those things surgeons aren't paid to do. Dr. Allyan's receptionist told me she'd call the next day to tell me when my surgery would be. And that was that.On the way home from the hospital, I began an internal debate. It was Thursday, day four of my gallbladder attack...which would be worse? Living with this excruciating pain? Or going through another surgery?
Here's the deal. I am terrified of having surgery. Before the gallbladder incident, I had three major surgeries. With each one,
I was more and more freaked out. You'd think it would be the other way around...that it would get easier instead of harder.
It's not the idea of going under the knife that scares me...it's how I feel when I wake up afterwards. I hate the feeling of being semi-awake, but not being able to fully snap out of it, and not being able to go back to sleep, either.
I know, I know, I have the control issues. But the thought of undergoing surgery and then having to wake up in the recovery room, then being wheeled up to my room and then having nurses poke and prod and try to talk to me...oh my God. It makes me want to lose it. Even now, knowing that there is NO SURGERY IN MY FUTURE, that the gallbladder surgery is OVER, I am getting anxious and fretful.
Anyway.
Between Dr. Margules and Dr. Allyan, I had good drugs and the rest of Thursday was peaceful. So was Friday, until I received a phone call in the afternoon.
"Hi, this is [whoever] from Dr. Al's office. She wants you to know that your tests all came back negative and she wants to know how you're feeling!"
"I'm working with another doctor," I told her, somewhat rudely. I mean, it was FRIDAY...three DAYS after I'd frantically tried to contact her. Was I really supposed to have waited three days to be dealt with?
"What?"
"I'm working with another doctor, so please tell Dr. Al that she doesn't need to bother with me any more."
"I'm sorry. I don't understand..."
Oh, I was getting pissed.
"I SAID that I'm working with another doctor. Thanks anyway."
"So...but...how are you feeling?"
"Fine. Thank you." I hung up.
And that's the last I've heard from Dr. Al or any of her henchmen.
Later that day I learned that my surgery was scheduled for a week from Monday, which would be September 25. I began to psyche myself up for surgery and continued to take my pain pills, just in case...
Unfortunately, the next attack came quickly...and this time, the pain pills were as effective as Dr. Al's communication system.
This attack was more than I could handle.