Vicodin and Temper Tantrums

The week started out pretty okay...  Then went into the crapper pretty fast.

I found myself in a city two hours away with a freaking gallstone attack.  If you've had one, you know the fun of which I speak.  If you haven't had one, you do not want to know the fun of which I speak.

I don't even want to talk about the details because I've had to repeat them several times already to my boss, clients, loved ones, and the nurses/doctors.  I'm rather tired of talking about the details.  I'm rather tired, actually.

And not entirely proud of myself.  When I got to my doctor's office, I had the preliminary bs with the nurse.  She was not one of his two regular nurses.  In fact, I think she must be the spare that is kept in the back of the clinic to do paperwork because compassion and common sense are not in her skill set.

First she weighs me -- which always makes me hate the nurse for thirty seconds.  Although -- today -- showed I'd lost some weight.  yay.  Before she takes my vitals, she wants to know why I'm there.  Again, I don't feel like sharing all the details since all you need to know is that, by the time my fanny is in that chair, I've been dealing with this pain for ohhhh .... 33 hours (which I told her) and I've slept for maybe ohhhhh .... five hours during that 33 hours (which I told her).

Onto the vitals and the interrogation:

Nurse:  Wow.  Your blood pressure is high.  Do you take blood pressure medicine -- should we be looking at that, too?

SS: [sliding my bleary, red rimmed eyes to her and trying to desperately telepathically communicate to her that she is a stupid bitch]  I do not take blood pressure medicine.  Do you see that on my chart?  And wouldn't I have elevated blood pressure because I've been at a level 8 pain for 33 hours?



Nurse:  [nodding emphatically and quite innocently]  You're right.  That would have an impact.  Nowwww.... Lessee what else....  Do you smoke?

SS:  Yessssssssss [and if I could light one up just so I could put it out in your ear, I would]

Nurse:  How much a day?

SS:  [drawing in a deep, shuddering breath and thinking it's the only thing that has kept me from killing myself or someone else for the past two days.  Calm down, SS, these inane questions will be over in a couple of moments -- they're part of her script]  A pack a day.

Nurse:  Would you like to quit?

SS:  Ye...  NO!  You know what?  I'm tired.  I'm hungry.  I'm in a whole lot of pain.  I haven't pooped in two days and -- at this point -- a big fart would probably do wonders for me.  So, for the love of everything that is good in this world, just click whatever fucking answers you want because all I want is for the doctor to see me, send me to a surgeon, and to have my fucking gall bladder cut out of me!  This is so seriously not the time for a PSA on the dangers of smoking to my health.

I believe the technical term for the nurse's expression is "shocked."

SS: [sitting back and crossing my arms across my chest]  If you can't tell, I'm really really cranky.   I probably shouldn't have expressed myself in such a manner -- but it didn't seem to be clicking with you that I could be feeling impatient and that your regular script didn't apply.

Nurse:  [leaning forward and patting my hand]  It's okay.  I have my cranky days too.  We'll get the doctor in here right away.

She should have said, "Get a hold of yourself you bitchy whore.  I'm just doing my job."  I would have deserved that.  I was still leaning back in my chair, arms crossed as she waddled out the door -- cheerfully humming.  As she exited, I was thinking, "If they do not set me up with six pounds of whatever marijuana she's smoking, I'm going to seriously lay on the floor and throw a tantrum in the waiting room."

Luckily the doctor distracted me with a Vicodin prescription.  Who woulda thought Vicodin also cures temper tantrums?  I didn't even tell the doctor that the nurse is a huge pot head.