St. Paintrick's Day
Mar. 18th, 2009 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grammarwoman…aka WOE IS ME. No, scratch that: RAGE IS ME.
So the husband has been having some back pain since last Thursday, of the twingy, "Getting older sucks" variety. Monday, I got a call from him nearly in tears at work, as the pain had abruptly gone to 11. I made an appointment through the Patient Advisory Nurse, hoping that meant we would see someone with the know-how to Make It Stop, Dammit, rather than (in)Convenient Care, where if it's not cold/flu/mucous-related, all too often you get the "Well, you'll need to make a referral."
So of course we drew a Nurse Practitioner, who told us flat out, "I'm not sure why they assigned you to me, as I can't really do anything for you." (I've got nothing against NPs in general, as I appreciate the opportunity to see SOMEONE when I need medical care pronto, as opposed to being fit in sometime the next week. However, when it comes to pain, please assign me or my loved one to someone who can fucking prescribe the good drugs, OK?) She chided us for not having a family practitioner (I've got a gyno, the Emperor has a peds doc, and the husband hates going for medical help, so bite me), got him into the system to see a doc later in the week, and then scribbled down a couple of prescriptions. One was for Flexeril, and the other turned out to be for Naproxen, which the husband had specifically told the NP he didn't want as it had been known to give him the jitters. Again, FAIL.
Three hours later, the drugs had done nothing to ease the pain, and after trying the Patient Advisory line again and having to call back when they failed to return the call in a timely manner, we decided to go to the Emergency Room. We were very grateful that![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
leiaorgana_73 had stopped by to borrow some DVDs, as she agreed to be impressed into Emperor-watching service.
The ER was the usual interminable hell. There was a half-hour wait to get an exam room, then another half-hour to have someone come check on us, then another gap for the doctor who blew off my husband's concerns, ordered a shot, and then breezed out again within 5 minutes. The chipper little nurse who showed up to escort us to X-Ray nearly got her head snapped off, but really, was it that great an intellectual stretch to think that maybe my husband wanted the pain shot first? So then we waited for the shot, and then the X-Ray, and then the doctor again who said there was nothing visibly wrong in the X-Ray, but prescribed some vicodin and physical therapy.
After swinging through a Walgreens to get the prescription filled (am I just crazy in thinking that a hospital, I dunno, might actually have someone available around the clock to prescribe meds?) and a McDonald's to put something in the husband's stomach to cushion the Vicodin's blow, we finally got home. Total trip: 3 hours. And the ER is about 15 minutes from our house. NYARGH.
The husband has stayed home from work since, and the pain has thankfully not spiked that high again. However, there have been several tense, snippy moments, as he doesn't have the greatest tolerance for pain, and I don't have the greatest tolerance for someone else's crap when the full burden of the household falls on me.
So yeah, our house is not exactly a bundle of fun right now. I did have the snerkworthy pleasure of sending the Emperor to daycare on St. Patrick's Day in orange, as I completely lost track of the day. (Hey, it's the right color for my family, good Protestants that we are.) I was minorly relieved to see that there were small specks of green on the shirt when I picked him up. It's not like he cared; he had too many tales to share of the "apricot" that visited his class. (Translation by way of the teacher: leprechaun. Even when corrected, though, he drifted back to "apricot".)
I am also cranky because I finally got an appointment with my brilliant hairdresser (again, thanks toleiaorgana_73) yesterday, and not a single damned person at work noticed or mentioned it. Considering she cut off 10 inches of ratty hair, leaving me with a cute shoulder-length bob, I'm a bit insulted. (You see? I am occasionally capable of breaking out in Fits of Girly.)
Bah. Now it's home to Mr. Cranky after picking up his son, Stubborn Boy. Yesterday's conflict of the wills came when the Emperor lost TV privileges before dinner for hitting a friend. It escalated to no dessert and no after-dinner TV when he was a brat following that announcement. Then he was an absolute sweetheart for his bath and bedtime, thank Zod. I think tonight there will be wine (and hopefully not whine) with dinner.
Bottoms up!
So the husband has been having some back pain since last Thursday, of the twingy, "Getting older sucks" variety. Monday, I got a call from him nearly in tears at work, as the pain had abruptly gone to 11. I made an appointment through the Patient Advisory Nurse, hoping that meant we would see someone with the know-how to Make It Stop, Dammit, rather than (in)Convenient Care, where if it's not cold/flu/mucous-related, all too often you get the "Well, you'll need to make a referral."
So of course we drew a Nurse Practitioner, who told us flat out, "I'm not sure why they assigned you to me, as I can't really do anything for you." (I've got nothing against NPs in general, as I appreciate the opportunity to see SOMEONE when I need medical care pronto, as opposed to being fit in sometime the next week. However, when it comes to pain, please assign me or my loved one to someone who can fucking prescribe the good drugs, OK?) She chided us for not having a family practitioner (I've got a gyno, the Emperor has a peds doc, and the husband hates going for medical help, so bite me), got him into the system to see a doc later in the week, and then scribbled down a couple of prescriptions. One was for Flexeril, and the other turned out to be for Naproxen, which the husband had specifically told the NP he didn't want as it had been known to give him the jitters. Again, FAIL.
Three hours later, the drugs had done nothing to ease the pain, and after trying the Patient Advisory line again and having to call back when they failed to return the call in a timely manner, we decided to go to the Emergency Room. We were very grateful that
leiaorgana_73 had stopped by to borrow some DVDs, as she agreed to be impressed into Emperor-watching service.The ER was the usual interminable hell. There was a half-hour wait to get an exam room, then another half-hour to have someone come check on us, then another gap for the doctor who blew off my husband's concerns, ordered a shot, and then breezed out again within 5 minutes. The chipper little nurse who showed up to escort us to X-Ray nearly got her head snapped off, but really, was it that great an intellectual stretch to think that maybe my husband wanted the pain shot first? So then we waited for the shot, and then the X-Ray, and then the doctor again who said there was nothing visibly wrong in the X-Ray, but prescribed some vicodin and physical therapy.
After swinging through a Walgreens to get the prescription filled (am I just crazy in thinking that a hospital, I dunno, might actually have someone available around the clock to prescribe meds?) and a McDonald's to put something in the husband's stomach to cushion the Vicodin's blow, we finally got home. Total trip: 3 hours. And the ER is about 15 minutes from our house. NYARGH.
The husband has stayed home from work since, and the pain has thankfully not spiked that high again. However, there have been several tense, snippy moments, as he doesn't have the greatest tolerance for pain, and I don't have the greatest tolerance for someone else's crap when the full burden of the household falls on me.
So yeah, our house is not exactly a bundle of fun right now. I did have the snerkworthy pleasure of sending the Emperor to daycare on St. Patrick's Day in orange, as I completely lost track of the day. (Hey, it's the right color for my family, good Protestants that we are.) I was minorly relieved to see that there were small specks of green on the shirt when I picked him up. It's not like he cared; he had too many tales to share of the "apricot" that visited his class. (Translation by way of the teacher: leprechaun. Even when corrected, though, he drifted back to "apricot".)
I am also cranky because I finally got an appointment with my brilliant hairdresser (again, thanks to
leiaorgana_73) yesterday, and not a single damned person at work noticed or mentioned it. Considering she cut off 10 inches of ratty hair, leaving me with a cute shoulder-length bob, I'm a bit insulted. (You see? I am occasionally capable of breaking out in Fits of Girly.)Bah. Now it's home to Mr. Cranky after picking up his son, Stubborn Boy. Yesterday's conflict of the wills came when the Emperor lost TV privileges before dinner for hitting a friend. It escalated to no dessert and no after-dinner TV when he was a brat following that announcement. Then he was an absolute sweetheart for his bath and bedtime, thank Zod. I think tonight there will be wine (and hopefully not whine) with dinner.
Bottoms up!
