Mystery illness

For well over a month, I’ve been dealing with some sort of illness. And I say “some sort of illness” because no one seems to be able to figure out what it is.

Could be standard pneumonia.

Could be a form of pleurisy.

Could be bubonic plague.

Who knows?

When I initially went to the emergency room back in July, I was experiencing stabbing pains all over my upper body and my breathing was labored. If I walked from one side of the room to the other, the sounds I made were reminiscent of Joseph Merrick being chased through the streets of London in David Lynch’s The Elephant Man.

So, the medical team did CAT scans, DOG scans, X-rays, and bloodwork. After several hours, they said I had pneumonia.

Maybe.

“We’re gonna treat it like pneumonia,” said the attending physician. “At least it seems like pneumonia. So we’ll put you on antibiotics and go from there.”

Five days of antibiotics and I really couldn’t tell much difference. Some days the pain was much less than other days, but I was always extremely tired.

Thus, a follow-up visit to my doctor was in order. I described my symptoms, and then underwent an EKG. After that, it was off to the lab for more bloodwork.

Because I’m a curious little fellow, I watched carefully as my blood was drawn. The phlebotomist filed up nine vials. You read that correctly … nine.

I didn’t even realize I had that much blood in me.

Afterward, I was told I needed to schedule yet another CT scan, followed by a thoracentesis (fluid drawn from the lungs) by a pulmonologist, and finally a PET scan, which I assume is a natural  progression from the CAT and DOG scans.

This is where things get interesting.

The idea is to have these procedures done quickly so a course of treatment can be determined. I’ve learned that the medical profession’s definition of quick is very, very different from mine.

I did manage to get the CT scan with contrast set up for this Wednesday, and that is to be followed by the thoracentesis.

To speed things along, a call was made to the pulmonologist.

After providing my name, age, social security number, date of birth, next of kin, family medical history, marital status, insurance information, favorite Muppet, chronological list of movies in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and whether I think there should be a remake of The Incredible Mr. Limpet,  I was told that the next available appointment was in October.

“Is there anything sooner?” I asked. “I really don’t feel good and I’d like to find out what I’m dealing with. Plus, I need to know if there’s any point in ordering more running shoes … right now they’re just sitting in my cart.”

Perhaps, they said, there would be a cancellation and I could have it done in September. But that still seems like a long wait.

Surely there’s some pulmonologist walking around with a needle who has 20 minutes to spare. I mean, he or she can even do it on their lunchbreak; I don’t mind if they eat a sandwich while they stick me.

If an earlier time does come up, they’ll let me know through the “patient portal.” As you might know, this is the preferred method of modern communication. However, when I tried to log on, it kept locking me out, telling me my information was incorrect.

A call to the help line revealed that my address was listed as somewhere in Florida ( I live in Alabama.)

“You have me confused with Tommy Tuberville,” I said. “He’s the one that lives in Florida. Here’s my correct address.”

And now, I guess, we wait.

Hopefully by the time they get around to my thoracentesis, the results from my CT scan with contrast will still be valid. And once that’s done, then I can move on to the PET scan, which I assume will be scheduled sometime in December.

It’s all very frustrating. I’ve spent most of my life in very good health, and now I can’t really do much of anything until and unless they pinpoint my problem.

I’m so desperate I thought about checking the Department of Health and Human Services for advice, but realized RFK Jr. would advise me to rub a dead raccoon across my butt cheeks and lick a frog.

All that said, I’m getting impatient … impatient enough that if you’re a pulmonologist on lunchbreak next Thursday or Friday, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.

I’ll be glad to meet you at Subway – and I’m buying.