One thing about having pulmonary problems: you're not in pain. Yes, there are times when you can't breathe, but there's never any actual physical pain. Except, of course, the pain that comes as a result of what the doctors do to you. In spite of Dr. Youngblood's insistence to the contrary, the procedure hurt like hell. Whenever he poked or prodded me trying to mine my butt for marrow, I felt it a shooting pain down my leg. And he poked and prodded me for a good ten or fifteen minutes. As it turned out, the pain I had to endure during the office visit was, unfortunately, only the beginning. "You'll feel a little sore for a few days," said Dr. Youngblood. A little sore. Hmmm. Not the adjective I would have used. My tush was so sensitive I had a hard time sitting, but the real challenge came at night. I was in extreme pain and could not find a comfortable position in bed. If I changed position in my sleep, the pain was so intense it would wake me up. I began to suspect that something was rotten in Denmark. Or something like that. I mean I started wondering if this was what he meant when he said a little sore, or was something wrong? My son-in law Yehuda came by one day and I had to ask an embarrassing question: would he look at my rear end and see if it looked okay (you can't check your own, you see. That's one reason I never understood the expression "watch your back"...it's a physical impossibility). So I lowered my pants and Yehuda, in his inimitable way, said "holy @*%#&!!!" He informed me that my backside was now host to the Mother Of All Hematomas. My rump, he said, was red and blue and purple and looked something like an eggplant. I thought he was exaggerating. He told me to smile and hold still, then he pulled out his cell phone and snapped a picture. A photo of my posterior for posterity, as it were. When I saw the photographic evidence, I realized that "holy @*%#&" was indeed an appropriate response. I called Dr. Youngblood and told him. He seemed unimpressed and somewhat blase'. So I sent the picture to his cell phone. Five minutes later he was standing in Chayie's living room; I think I actually scared him. He was surprised, he said, that there was that much bleeding, but he was quite certain it had stopped. I wanted to tell him that if I were to bleed to death that night, I'd be sure to tell him the next morning that he may have been a smidge wrong. But I didn't say that. I behaved. Remind me next time: if the choice is listening to the advice of an experienced physician who knows my medical history in his sleep or taking my chances with some wet-behind-the-ears guy who thinks he knows it all and can do no wrong, always go with the young whippersnapper...NOT!
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| Disclaimer: Not My Butt. |
One thing about having pulmonary problems: you're not in pain. Yes, there are times when you can't breathe, but there's never any actual physical pain. Except, of course, the pain that comes as a result of what the doctors do to you. In spite of Dr. Youngblood's insistence to the contrary, the procedure hurt like hell. Whenever he poked or prodded me trying to mine my butt for marrow, I felt it a shooting pain down my leg. And he poked and prodded me for a good ten or fifteen minutes. As it turned out, the pain I had to endure during the office visit was, unfortunately, only the beginning. "You'll feel a little sore for a few days," said Dr. Youngblood. A little sore. Hmmm. Not the adjective I would have used. My tush was so sensitive I had a hard time sitting, but the real challenge came at night. I was in extreme pain and could not find a comfortable position in bed. If I changed position in my sleep, the pain was so intense it would wake me up. I began to suspect that something was rotten in Denmark. Or something like that. I mean I started wondering if this was what he meant when he said a little sore, or was something wrong? My son-in law Yehuda came by one day and I had to ask an embarrassing question: would he look at my rear end and see if it looked okay (you can't check your own, you see. That's one reason I never understood the expression "watch your back"...it's a physical impossibility). So I lowered my pants and Yehuda, in his inimitable way, said "holy @*%#&!!!" He informed me that my backside was now host to the Mother Of All Hematomas. My rump, he said, was red and blue and purple and looked something like an eggplant. I thought he was exaggerating. He told me to smile and hold still, then he pulled out his cell phone and snapped a picture. A photo of my posterior for posterity, as it were. When I saw the photographic evidence, I realized that "holy @*%#&" was indeed an appropriate response. I called Dr. Youngblood and told him. He seemed unimpressed and somewhat blase'. So I sent the picture to his cell phone. Five minutes later he was standing in Chayie's living room; I think I actually scared him. He was surprised, he said, that there was that much bleeding, but he was quite certain it had stopped. I wanted to tell him that if I were to bleed to death that night, I'd be sure to tell him the next morning that he may have been a smidge wrong. But I didn't say that. I behaved. Remind me next time: if the choice is listening to the advice of an experienced physician who knows my medical history in his sleep or taking my chances with some wet-behind-the-ears guy who thinks he knows it all and can do no wrong, always go with the young whippersnapper...NOT!
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