Everyone has a purpose in this life. Sometimes I think mine may be to give medical staff something funny to talk about over break, MashaAllah.
My doctors are trying to figure out if my POTS, progressive weakness & neuropathy are caused by an underlying auto-immune disorder, which isn’t entirely unheard of. One of the way they’re doing this is through a lip biopsy.
So I went in for a lip biopsy on errr… two days ago, and the procedure was very simple. The surgeon gave me some lidocaine, then he took a pair of scissors and cut a tiny piece from the inside of my mouth. Then I wondered why they called it a lip biopsy if they didn’t take anything from my lip.
Then, he gave me three stitches and said, “All done! We’ll get back to you with the results in about a week!”
So I stood up, said thank you, and walked out.
I made it as far as the reception before I passed out. It was awesome. One second I was like Excuse me, can I pay my bill? and the next minute I was all like Floor, Y U No hold still?
I was standing in line when my ears started ringing and I noticed darkness closing in around the edge of my vision. I managed to hold on to the counter and mumble “I’m going to pass out…”
I don’t know what the receptionist said in reply, because after that was all cold, dark, and miserable. Passing out is only fun in movies. In real life, it’s feels like falling straight down into a cold, dark, nauseating chasm. When I opened my eyes I was in a bed surrounded by confused looking nurses, since they worked in the outpatient clinic, not the ER. My surgeon’s nurse was there too, and when I opened my eyes she said accusingly, “You said you were ok!”
I apologized to her. And to the other nurses. And to my surgeon, as well as the ER doctor when they were able to wheel me down there. I’m not sure why I felt so guilty, but my fuzzy brain felt as though I had sorely inconvenienced them by passing out in the middle of the hallway- like any polite person would have gone and discretely passed out behind a potted plant so as to not disturb anyone.
I called HF, and he hopped into a taxi and brought the entire entourage to pick me up. The kids oohed and aahed at the BP and heart rate machine. Khalid and Iman tested their own blood oxygen levels repeatedly.
HF made small talk with the doctor, who was a distinguished looking African man with curly white hair and sense of humor.
“Your wife says this happens to her sometimes. It’s from the POTS. She’ll be ok.”
“I know,” HF said, shaking his head at me. “She does this just to get my attention.”
“All wives are like this,” the doctor smiled, winking at me.
We went home, had HF’s parents over for dinner, and I guess the kids were put to bed but I wouldn’t know, because I fell asleep before 8pm. And that’s my medical misadventure for this week. The End.
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