Last week I found myself suffering from rather severe abdominal pain. Recalling ominous stories of bursting appendices and kidney-stone shredded urethras, I decided, after several days of consistent discomfort, that I should see a doctor. In the five years I’ve been at MIT, I have gone to see a doctor exactly three times: first for a splinter I got on the docks near the boathouse, second for a cold, and, finally, last week for this abdominal pain.
When I went for the splinter, the nurse had a real bitch of a time trying to remove it. Pinching failed, tweezers failed, more pinching failed. She injected my thumb with a numbing agent. Then tried gouging with tweezers. A noteworthy crater had been dug into my finger before she finally resorted to using a hypodermic needle to pry the wood from my thumb. When I returned four years later for a cold, they said, “You have a cold. You should take something for it.” That was the extent of their advice. So, you can imagine my skepticism as I went to MIT Medical last Thursday. I think that’s a good way to preface this story.
I explained to the nurse that I am lactose intolerant, and therefore quite familiar with the trials and tribulations of indigestion. This, I explained, was different. She asked me to rate the pain from one to ten. “What does that scale mean? Is 1 like ‘itchy wool sweater’, and 10 is like ’sudden genital amputation’?” I paused, but she just stared, waiting for a number. “Six,” I shrugged. She sent me to the lab, where they had me sit in an elevated chair reminiscent of a shoe-shine chair in a train station, but in which they did not clean my sandals, but rather stabbed me so that I would bleed. Then they asked for my pee.
The lab results showed nothing of particular interest. The nurse, a friendly gentlemen with whom my interactions had only begun, suggested that he perform a rectal exam to rule out a prostate problem and to check for… well, whatever, I don’t remember. I was still stuck on the part about having my rectum examined. So he had me strip down and lie on my side, facing away from him. (Colin, I’m sorry if this brings back painful memories.) He slipped on a rubber glove, lubed it up and… I considered making a joke about him at least buying me dinner first, but it turns out that I just don’t feel like being funny with a man’s finger in my butt.
He found nothing in my butt, which was a relief. I considered making a joke about… but the memory of the experience was too fresh. It wasn’t funny. He called in a surgeon to examine me. This surgeon also could conclude nothing, and so I was referred to a hospital. I drove over to Mt. Auburn Hospital, which is affiliated with Harvard Medical School. There, they planned to do an ultrasound. Depending on how that went, they said they might do a CT scan, as well. A nurse led me into the room where she would do the ultrasound.
Me: “So, you’re going to tell me if I’m pregnant.”
Nurse: “Yup. So, who’s the father?”
Me: “Don’t get me started.”
But she had, of course. The warm gel slathered on my stomach and watching my innards on a monitor got my humor center to come out from the sheltered corner in which it had been cowering.
Me: “Please don’t tell me the gender of the baby.”
Nurse: “OK, I won’t.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Nurse: “You’re welcome. So, are you a single parent? Wait, I’m sorry. That question is too personal.”
Me: “I had a rectal exam today. Nothing is too personal.”
She laughed, and continued the process of cataloguing and photographing each of my organs. Kidneys, spleen, heart, liver, and so on.
Me: “Am I pregnant with a chicken?”
Nurse: “That’s your pancreas. It’s one of the best pancreases I’ve ever seen. I should call some of the interns in and tell them, ‘this is what a pancreas should look like.’”
Me: “It looks like a chicken head.”
She commented on what she supposed must be my healthy diet, and said she saw nothing wrong, but would have a doctor look at them. The doctor found nothing, and indeed noted that I looked quite healthy. “But,” I objected, “I am in pain!” Thus, they began the process of taking a CT scan. First, I had to drink a big glass of what the doctor described as “Hawaiian Punch, spiked with something.” I considered making a joke about date rape being illegal in this state, but a quick glance at the older woman sitting near me in the waiting room told me it was the wrong audience. The drink was spiked with something, indeed: it plowed through my digestive system like an elderly driver through a farmer’s market. Next, they hooked me up to an IV. The drink was meant to make my digestive system glow, while the IV would make my circulatory system glow.
For the record, when a nurse asks you to “pull down your pants” in the context of an initial examination, he means everything, including boxers. When the nurse asks you to “pull down your pants” in the context of a CT scan, she does not mean boxers, too. Just shorts. It would have been good for me to know that.
The CT scan showed that some of my abdominal lymph nodes were swollen. Nothing more. My doctor at MIT Medical asked me to come in the next morning, when they took more blood, and asked me to provide a stool sample. Ew. By the time I pooped in a cup for them and got that back to the lab, which was a few days later, the abdominal pain was already subsiding. I concluded that there was nothing these doctors could do for me, and certainly not before the results of this poo analysis.
The story ends rather anticlimactically. I haven’t heard back about the status of my poo, but otherwise I am in perfect physical health. My blood pressure is low but healthy. I have no blood or urine problems. My organs are worthy of textbook portrayal. My digestive and circulatory systems are devoid of abnormalities. My abdomen felt better all on its own, and my faith in the medical profession slipped down yet another rung.
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