Pharmacopia of Love

For those of you who have been following my Diverticulitis Scare 2006 local newsflash saga, my CT came back pretty clean.

In fact, it came back so clean, that no diverticuli were noted.

So what the fuck was the hospitalization all about? Did they just pretend to see diverticulitis?

Obviously, there was something very wrong with me then, as evidenced by a) the pain b) even more pain c) diagnostic criteria.

But what's with the now-you-see-it-now-you-don't diverticuli? Huh?!

It's kind of like someone doing an echo and saying, "Oh geez, you have really bad aortic regurgitation, we may need to replace that valve." And then someone else comes along and says, "Huh. Echo looks fine to me."

Apparently I'm just chock-ablock full of idiopathic surprises--last summer it was a ridiculous wheal-like rash all over my limbs and torso that no one could figure out the cause of (which was fun, because they also didn't figure out that methylprednisolone would be a nice thing to give me until about a week into the whole, miserable ordeal.)

Now I have this weird disappearing out-pouching of my intenstine, which supposedly isn't even there any more, so let's just give you anti-spasmodics and call it IBS.

Uh, okay.

I feel like a little old person, doling out all my gut medicine: here's the prevacid for the ulcer prophylaxis, and here's the dicyclomine for the gut motility, and where'd my fiber drink go?!

I'm pretty sure if I had been born in the 19th century I would be one of those fussy, primping society ladies who had "weak constitutions" and became "hysterical" ever so often. I would insist on having my own special fainting couch for just such occasions.

I would have made a really good invalid/recluse.