Or…I should’ve chosen the colonoscopy.

||| ORCASIONAL MUSINGS BY STEVE HENIGSON |||

A few weeks ago, I told you about my very clever way of avoiding the perils and discomforts of colonoscopy: I contracted pneumonia. But it turns out that I wasn’t clever enough by half. My body decided, all on its own, to add pericarditis to the mix, and then it threw in pericardial effusion as a bonus prize.

I guess that definitions are in order. Pneumonia? Lung infection. Both lungs, in my case. They fill with semi-liquid crud, and breathing becomes difficult, but coughing becomes frequent and painful. Pericarditis? Infection of the pericardium, the sack which surrounds the heart. It becomes inflamed and filled with fluid, and the heart struggles to pump blood, and wants to quit its job and retire to Florida. Pericardial effusion? Liquid of one sort or another keeps invading the pericardium, and keeps the heart feeling very annoyed.

Thinking that my problem was merely a heart attack, our EMTs shoved me into a helicopter, and sent me off to St. Joseph’s in Bellingham. But no, it really was pneumonia, for which St. Joe’s filled me full of antibiotics. Those antibiotics had the interesting side effect of promoting diarrhea, so, much too frequently, I experienced the incomparable pleasure of gasping desperately for air as I went galloping toward the nearest toilet. After four days of this, the medication had finally worked its magic, and I was sent home.

But then the pericarditis made itself known. That was much less of an emergency, so the ferry system carried me off to Island Hospital in Anacortes. I can tell you with complete confidence that Island Hospital is my resort hotel of choice, not least because the food is really good. Island Hospital’s physician told me one of those things that a patient never wants to hear: “Your case is…interesting. Really, really interesting.” But even so, four days later I was on my way home again.

A day later, the EMTs were back. I was once again having sharp, unrelenting chest pains. “Heart attack,” they said. “To St. Joe’s,” they said. Heck no, I said. Anacortes, please. And so, once again I was stuffed into a helicopter. This time, the whirly-bird had serious problems with shake, rattle, and roll. Now, I know that a helicopter is merely an assortment of associated parts, all flying in formation, but on this trip the judder, clank, and shake was just a wee bit overemphasized. I must admit that we did land safely, though.

This is when the pericardial effusion showed up. The pills to reduce that little number had me filling Mr. PeeBottle about every half hour, but at least there was no running and no shortness of breath. And, as usual, four days later I was home again. Home now included a source of oxygen, to which I am still connected by a long tube, and the requirement that I spend the vast majority of my time in my most comfortable chair, unmoving and resting, probably for the next two months.

My first visitor, during my convalescence, was my dear friend Pat. She looked down at me, temporarily anchored to my chair and tied to my source of oxygen by that long tube, and she said, “You know, you should’ve chosen the colonoscopy.” And, of course, she was right.


 

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