It was a Saturday night, and I was wrapping up a shift. My second job is working as a server at a local independent restaurant - I really enjoy it and it brings in some great extra money. This night was no exception, it had been a good night, some laughs and some eyerolls, but a good time.
I was struck suddenly with a rolling, intense headache. It moved across the top of my head, right where a headband would sit, and then settled into something of a dull ache. I decided I wouldn't stay to sit and have a drink, but go home, take some meds, and go to bed. I did all that, and was bothered all the next day when the headache persisted. It was bad, unlike any headache I could recall ever having before. It would stab at me with particular force when I was changing positions - sitting to standing, getting up from laying down, etc. I took it as easy as I could that day, and hoped that Monday would be better.
But Monday wasn't really better, and I decided I would try to go to the doctor. I'm not really much of a go-to-the-doctor person, usually. Especially not for something like a headache. But this one was pretty bad, so I decided I should go. I worked from home and got an appointment with my primary care practice in the early afternoon. They ran through the battery of neuro tests, looked at my eyes, confirmed I didn't have a stroke (smile big! stick out your tongue!), and otherwise poked and prodded, both literally and metaphorically.
Then they asked: "Would you say it feels like the worst headache of your life?"
And I thought about it... Such dramatic and absolute statements go against my grain. Ever? I thought? Have I EVER experienced pain worse than what this has felt like for the past couple days? I don't really think I have...
"Yes," I said. "I think it does feel like that."
Apparently, those are the magic words. Doctors take them very seriously and they want to get aggressive about follow up and getting more information.
So they sent me to the local Emergency Room for a CAT scan.
A side note about local ERs...
There are not enough beds, there is not enough staff, the problems they seem equipped to deal with are relatively minor, and it is probably always extra terrible on a Monday. Or so it seemed to me when I rolled in.
Back to my story...
I drove myself over to the local hospital and checked in. My doctor's office had called ahead to let them know a little bit about what was going on. Despite the advanced warning, it was still busy. I did all the various check-ins and waited for a few minutes before being taken back to a bed. Not a room or a private space, but a bed in a hallway, since all the rooms were in use. I sat on the bed and people-watched, noticing the comings and goings of the elderly, the intoxicated, and the injured. Eventually the imaging tech came to get me and I walked into the suite where they conducted a quick scan of my head.
I walked back to my hallway bed and waited, thinking it would probably be a while before they had capacity to check out my scans.
About 20 minutes later, however, a young, clean cut doctor came to chat with me. He squatted across from my hallway bed and introduced himself, then said:
"So we have the results of your scan and we found an abnormality on your brain."
I don't know what I was expecting. Hadn't I had terrible pain? Hadn't it seemed like a medical mystery as I aced every "test" that the doctors gave me, but yet something was clearly still wrong? I felt like I was in the first 5 minutes of a TV medical drama, when no one could figure out what was wrong with the person, but that 5 minutes was lasting all day and stretching into the night.
I stumbled through some responses to the doctor. "Um, okay... Okay... I just... Okay. So... Um... What... Okay..."
They acknowledged they don't have the equipment or expertise to continue my care there, so they wanted to send me up to another hospital. They have a great relationship with Brigham & Womens, they tell me, so they'll probably get me in there.
Still fighting the surreality of it all, I ask if I should make an appointment for tomorrow, or drive up today?
No no, they tell me, they'll send me by ambulance.
I call Derek to fill him in and ask him to bring me a cell phone charger, my glasses and contact lens solution, and whatever else I might need for a night in the hospital. And ask that he come sit with me until I have to go.
He does, of course. Fighting his own panic and uncertainty, he hurries over and we sit together on my hallway bed, quietly freaking out. It gets to be 5:00 or 5:30, and I send him home, hoping to keep things as normal as possible for the kids.
And then the ambulance arrives.
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