Spending the Night in the ER

Well, the title of this post just oozes with optimism, now doesn't it? But somehow, despite spending roughly five hours in the emergency room last night, I still remain overwhelmingly positive about my recovery. There really is no turning back now.

Around midnight, my sleep (a rather sound one, too) was broken by the intense burning in my throat and esophagus, and the ever-enjoyable feeling of a knife stabbing me in the back. These are precisely the excrutiating symptoms I had been feeling before, and this time we followed Dr. K's advice and headed for the ER.

Given that I am a pretty tough person (thanks to years of sports, a tough-skinned father, and some brutal "I- don't-care-about-the-pain-just-do-it" coaches), I have had very few visits to the ER during my 28 years. I am more inclined to sit on a very serious injury or illness for a long period of time rather than to rush in to the ER or to a doctor for help.

I should note that this is exactly the mentality that perpetuates my eating disorder. Hunger pains? Just ignore 'em and go run 13 miles! Lightheaded from no food? That's ok, you're super woman, remember?! That shooting pain in your shin? Your bones aren't fracturing, just suck it up!

Yeah. It's working real well for me, let me tell ya.

I digress. Back to the ER visit...

I sign the clip board (M., age 28, anorexic- purging subtype, severe esophageal and back pain,) and am taken back immediately. Given my naivety related to the Ways of the ER, I think to myself: "Awesome, I don't even have to wait. In minutes I'll be lying down and pumped with painkillers to make this hell go away."

The nurse takes my blood pressure and temperature. She asks me to rate the pain on a scale of 1-10. Despite the stabbing sensation in my back, the fact that I am seconds from vomiting on the floor, and can hardly sit up straight, I tell her "um, maybe like a 5?". The Mr. shoots me a look of death. He knows I have no concept of pain, and my response is grossly underestimated.

"Ok, you can have a seat in the waiting room."

Well, shit. So I'm not being seen right away. Should've known better.

We take a seat amongst the late-night ER crowd: the college girl wrapped in a blanket who looks like she has gone days without so much as brushing her hair, the child screaming in Spanish to her mother, the wheel-chair bound older woman passed out with her mouth open.

The pain hits me hard. I instantly regret telling the nurse it was only a 5 on the stupid scale of 1-10. I get angry at them for even using that godforsaken subjective system of evaluating pain. I imagine the hoards of people with runny noses who have entered the ER and proclaimed "It's a ten!" to be moved up a few spots before me on the triage list. I decide I played that hand wrong. Crap.

Many, many curse words and an hour later, I am finally taken back to a room. I curl up in a ball on the bed while The Mr. tries to finagle the gown to fit me. He gives up and just throws it on top of me to cover my body.

Enter Hot Doctor. Great, I think. I have to tell Hot Doctor all about my stomach issues. He asks the standard set of questions, and comes to the one I never know how to answer (and I doubt any anorexic, bulimic, or EDNOS patient does): "Any vomiting recently?"

"Um, like intentionally or unintentionally?" I'm not sure if he has read the clipboard and seen "anorexia- purging subtype" written next to my name.

He looks puzzled. "Um...I guess just vomiting at all?" (He clearly has not seen the clipboard).

"Yes. Some intentional, some unintentional." I leave it at that. He makes some notes and then leaves the room.

When he returns it is my chance to explain this whole thing. I tell him I am normally not the type of person to just run into the ER for pain, but that Dr. K has requested I do so. I explain the pain I'm in as best I can, trying to fight the urge to downplay it (my natural reaction). They do some chest X-rays, hook me up with an amazing little concoction that numbs my esophagus the whole way down, and an anti-nausea medication. I pass out on the bed.

Several hours later, I am discharged, referred to the GI specialist I am seeing Thursday anyhow, and told to get in touch with Dr. K. The pain had subsided for the most part, and I was free to go home and curl up in my own bed.

As I sit here blogging, the burning has stopped. However, the sharp back pain continues and this is Dr. K's main concern. When it comes on, it comes on strong and it is not easily sent away.

Despite the pain, trip to the ER, and overall fatigue I'm feeling from that experience, I still remain optimistic today. I plan to pop some painkillers and head off to see LA this afternoon no matter what. I've emailed Dr. K and Dr. Joe to keeep them in the loop (although they will probably get the medical records from the ER anyhow) and we'll go from there.

This time, I'm not being knocked down. Sure, there are many physical signs of the abuse my body has endured in the last year, and they need to be dealt with. But I intend to keep moving forward and using this time to break free of my eating disorder for good this time.

I also secretly imagine Dr. Joe sitting at home, jabbing a voo-doo doll in the back with a pushpin, thinking to himself: "I don't want her to forget just yet!"

Bastard!