Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Fistulatoma

On March 12th a wonderfully annoying yet totally uncooperative vein in my upper left arm was moved about an inch West.

If is now called a Fistula.

At least that's what the doctors like to call it.

Those high priced experts with their fancy-schmancy medical terms.

Once a 17 gauge needle was inserted, allowed to chug for two hours, and then removed, the dialogue changed.

It was now a Fistula with a Hematoma.

Or a Fistulatoma.

Yes, I made up a word. And its mine. You can't have it. And you wouldn't want it.

Dr. Drew (I named him thusly because he could be Dr. Drew's twin) didn't think that term was very funny.

I've been on a wonderful soup of Vicodin, Extra Strength Tylenol and Norco since the Fistulatoma began, I have to find amusement when I can.

The procedure was performed by Dr. Arnett (that's right, he looks just like Will Arnett) and I will remember him for the remainder of my life because he congratulated himself on a job well done when I visited his pristine office a few weeks after the surgery.

Yes. Your pomposity has etched itself upon my long term memory and it will remain there festering because once that appointment was over, you said you didn't need to see me again.

You also won't refill my Norco.

Both Dr. Drew and Dr. Arnett are friends. As most doctors in Nephrology seem to be.

They both have extremely beautiful wives who are also doctors.

I don't fault them for that. Doctors are much more impressive than guys who tell you who's coming up in the next music sweep.

Right after eighteen minutes of commercials, a jingle, a promo and another jingle to get you back into the music.

But I digress.

I've allowed the anger I had over this whole affair to evaporate into infinity, but I believe I made a good point today and it was tossed aside like all the tubing we patients go through endlessly.

Cleaned. Discarded. Recycled. I don't know what they do with it because I'm usually too tired following treatment to care.

One thing I don't care for though, is being dismissed.

I had my circular graft for thirteen years. Thirteen frickin' years. The last five on Dialysis.

It had been used years ago for five months before my second kidney transplant.

Since this Fistulatoma has been less than perfect, I brought that up.

"Well, we don't do those much anymore."

I love it when doctors say, "well" at the beginning of a sentence. It means they don't care for the question. And would rather be playing golf. Or riding horses. Or whatever else they do with the money they make managing my illness.

"Why not?" I asked with a staggered voice. I was pretty dizzy.

"We just don't."

And that was that.

So here I sit, in front of you, with a bum arm keeping me from my life.

Can't ride a bike. Or my scooter. Or lift weights. Or even swim.

All because someone thought it would bea good idea to give me a Fistulatoma.

This dollar sign is going to bed now. If I can get any sleep.

Remember? You wouldn't refill my Norco.