One Half of a Splendid Spleen
September 5, 2002
A week ago I had a splendid spleen. Now I don’t. The healthy whole has been reduced by half, thanks to an event the doctors called a “splenic infarct.” As is the tendency with medical jargon, the term is entirely too impersonal, too mechanical, too bland. My guess is that “splenic infarct” is a term coined by someone who never had the unfortunate experience. It is an experience I would not wish on anyone, with the possible exception of the phlebotomist who woke me three time the first night I spent in the hospital.
Pressed for details, the doctors explained that an artery feeding my spleen became blocked, cutting off the vital flow of blood. They interrogated me regarding blows to the abdomen (none), heart problems (none) and recent trips to the tropics (none). The medicine men were mystified. Not quitters, however, they proceeded to unleash their daunting arsenal of diagnostic artillery. After three CT scans, dozens of blood tests, miles of EKG tracings, frequent groping and an internal echocardiogram, the medicine men were still mystified. Evidently, six days of searching wore them out. On the seventh day, they rested and sent me home.
I was glad to get home, tired and weak as I am. My dog greeted me at the door with extraordinary enthusiasm, barking and bouncing and running about. A friend once told me that to a dog, every return is a resurrection. I know this is not true. My dog responds to a routine return with a minimum of interest. But today fit the description. Today, to the dog, I was Lazarus stumbling forth.
While the doctors discovered no cause for my trouble, I discovered I am an abominable patient – demanding, curt, restless and occasionally rude. Fortunately, my wife was often at my side to mute my bad behavior. I complained about nearly everything – the insipid food, the lumpy beds, the poor television reception, the endless interruptions at all hours, the inconsistent air conditioning, and the irritating drone of the IV pump. The nurses and nurse’s aides took it all with good humor and did not retaliate. When I am well again, I must go make apologies.
Being home is the best medicine. I hurt less, my appetite is returning and my attitude is improving enormously. I expect that eventually I will see a silver lining to the experience, appreciate the doctors’ diligence and be grateful for all the effort expended. I may even forgive the phlebotomist.
A week ago I had a splendid spleen. Now I don’t. The healthy whole has been reduced by half, thanks to an event the doctors called a “splenic infarct.” As is the tendency with medical jargon, the term is entirely too impersonal, too mechanical, too bland. My guess is that “splenic infarct” is a term coined by someone who never had the unfortunate experience. It is an experience I would not wish on anyone, with the possible exception of the phlebotomist who woke me three time the first night I spent in the hospital.
Pressed for details, the doctors explained that an artery feeding my spleen became blocked, cutting off the vital flow of blood. They interrogated me regarding blows to the abdomen (none), heart problems (none) and recent trips to the tropics (none). The medicine men were mystified. Not quitters, however, they proceeded to unleash their daunting arsenal of diagnostic artillery. After three CT scans, dozens of blood tests, miles of EKG tracings, frequent groping and an internal echocardiogram, the medicine men were still mystified. Evidently, six days of searching wore them out. On the seventh day, they rested and sent me home.
I was glad to get home, tired and weak as I am. My dog greeted me at the door with extraordinary enthusiasm, barking and bouncing and running about. A friend once told me that to a dog, every return is a resurrection. I know this is not true. My dog responds to a routine return with a minimum of interest. But today fit the description. Today, to the dog, I was Lazarus stumbling forth.
While the doctors discovered no cause for my trouble, I discovered I am an abominable patient – demanding, curt, restless and occasionally rude. Fortunately, my wife was often at my side to mute my bad behavior. I complained about nearly everything – the insipid food, the lumpy beds, the poor television reception, the endless interruptions at all hours, the inconsistent air conditioning, and the irritating drone of the IV pump. The nurses and nurse’s aides took it all with good humor and did not retaliate. When I am well again, I must go make apologies.
Being home is the best medicine. I hurt less, my appetite is returning and my attitude is improving enormously. I expect that eventually I will see a silver lining to the experience, appreciate the doctors’ diligence and be grateful for all the effort expended. I may even forgive the phlebotomist.
posted by Jimbo | 4:03 PM
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