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Health care system discussions

Like a Rolling (Gall)Stone – Conclusion

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Thursday

It started out as a repeat of Wednesday. A lab tech drew blood around 5am which turned out to be yet another set of troponin ($254.00) and lipase ($197.00) levels and a third comprehensive metabolic panel ($202.00) and CBC ($92.00) plus $37 just for the honor of sticking a needle into my veins.

Meghan arrived at 6am to give me my daily Protonix® for reflux; Katrina would bring me the rest of the medications after shift change. This time I balked at the Lovenox.

“Do I really need that? I’ve been out of bed several times and I move around when I’m in bed, so I’m not really going to throw a clot.”
“Ok, well, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want it. I’ll let the doctor know.”
“While you’re at it, how about asking him to get rid of the telemetry monitor since we know I didn’t have a heart attack and this thing is probably costing someone a lot of money.”

Telemetry was $122.00 per hour and the total charge was $2,074.00 with another $2652.00 “room charge” tacked on.

Then the Parade of the Grey Coats started.

I don’t remember much of what the hospitalist said, aside that my lipase level was back to normal, and he would be talking with the surgeon about our conversation. Peg arrived shortly after he left.

I’m really not sure why the gastroenterologist showed up because he had nothing useful to say. Probably it’s because he could bill $366.30 for the initial consult and $192.03 for the follow up visit. He told me to make a follow-up appointment with him in four weeks, advice I promptly ignored because I’d already made an appointment with my own gastroenterologist to arrange another colonoscopy.

My cardiologist, Dr. McGuinness, recognized me immediately when he arrived. He is also my sister-in-law’s cardiologist, in the same group as her “electrician,” and he is beloved by staff and patients. He should give seminars on bedside manner and patient communication.

“It’s good to see you. I wanted to let you know your stress test was negative. I heard you might be having your gallbladder out soon.”
“Yes, I talked with Dr. DeBouw last night; he should be coming around this morning so we can finalize a plan.”
“There’s nothing more for us to do, so we’re signing off. I hope surgery goes well.”
“Thanks. It was good to see you.”

 Peg was in a good mood. However, Katrina, who must have sensed a critically low level of turmoil, arrived to top off the tank.

“Dr. Warner, the hospitalist, said he talked to Dr. DeBouw who said he would talk to you downstairs in pre-op before surgery.”

Peg and I looked at each other.

“Where did you leave it last night?”
“He was going to talk to me this morning about doing surgery now or schedule it for a couple of weeks later as an outpatient.”
“He didn’t say ‘We’re going to take you to surgery tomorrow,’ did he?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I hope he’s better in person because right now I’m not happy.”

If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy!

This could have been problematic. Insurance companies don’t like to pay inpatient rates for outpatient procedures unless done as an emergency, in which case one has to have been formally admitted. Peg had called the claims department on Wednesday and, as of 3:40pm, they had only received notification of my emergency room visit. They weren’t aware that I’d been held for observation, nor whether I’d been admitted. The person in claims said, “Some hospitals are better than others.”

Peg asked Katrina: “Who can I talk to about this? Utilization management?”
“That would be a good place to start; you can call the operator and they’ll connect you. You can also talk to the unit manager. I think she is on the floor today.”

Hospital Utilization Management (UM) departments are the bane of every physician’s existence. Utilization reviews ostensibly increase efficiency in hospital care and decreases revenue loss from unreimbursed charges by reviewing care for “medical necessity” and decreasing “length of stay.”  Physicians see UM as people paid to tell us what we’re doing wrong and why we should toss patients out “quicker and sicker.”

Peg called UM and got voicemail, which didn’t improve her mood. I called Katrina back into the room.

“Would you do a couple of things for me? First, have someone get ahold of Dr. DeBouw and let him know we want to see him here in the room, not in pre-op. I don’t know if there’s been a problem with communication, but I think it’s tacky to assume someone has agreed to surgery without a final discussion. Then can you find the unit manager because trying to talk with someone in Utilization Management was a bust.”

I sensed some annoyance, but she agreed to contact him. A few minutes later she returned and told us he was on his way to the hospital and would see us before his first surgery.  I hated to be demanding, but this is why physicians and nurses need to be on the other side of the bed. It gives the perspective one wouldn’t get without being subjected to the indignities inflicted on the great unwashed.

Dr. DeBouw arrived about 30 minutes later. He reiterated what we had talked about the prior evening, including the risks of becoming seriously ill while waiting to do surgery as an outpatient.  Peg was happy again. 

Someone from patient transportation came to fetch us around 12:30pm and took us to pre-op holding where patients are prepped for surgery. If you’re lucky, you’ll be put into a 10×12 ft. cubicle with a sliding glass door and a privacy curtain. There’s enough room for the gurney, a small wall-mounted desk and cabinet, an I.V. pump and one family member sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair. The back wall usually has a fluorescent light bar, a wall-mounted monitor screen, and a “medical headwall system” which has outlets for oxygen, “medical air” suction and electricity. Often there’s a self-inflating resuscitation bag and mask hanging on the wall just in case someone codes in the room. Otherwise, you’ll likely be in a ward with several patient areas separated by curtains, which is also how most Post Anesthesia Care Units (PACU) are set up.

A lively nurse peeked around the curtain and said, “Your doctor will come and talk to you before we take you back.”
“Uh, we talked with him upstairs about thirty minutes ago.” Geez, doesn’t ANYONE communicate around here?
“Ok then, that makes it easier. What’s your name and date of birth? And what are you having done?”

If I’d thought more quickly, I might have made some smartass comment about having a Cesarean section for twins, but I was really tired and just wanted to get on with it.

The anesthesiologist followed. Anesthesiologists range from gregarious back-slappers through personable, reassuring people to grumpy assholes who speak in grunts. The stereotype of anesthesiologists are physicians who, much like emergency room physicians, prefer short-term, intense patient relationships, minus the need for engaging or conversing.

“What’s your name and date of birth? And what are you having done?” He wouldn’t be the last person to ask me that.

After identifying my name, my quest and my favorite color, I told him about my paradoxical reaction to Versed (midazolam), a benzodiazepine used for sedation for procedures, such as colonoscopies or minor surgeries that don’t require general anesthesia. I’ve been given it for two colonoscopies and my eyelid surgery; apparently, I tried climbing off the table for the first two and a nurse had to hold my head for the third. I don’t remember any of this because Versed puts one in a little black room without anything to distract, like elevator music.

“They gave me 6mg when I had my eyelid done.” (The usual dose is 2mg.)
“What??? That was wrong! If the usual dose doesn’t work, giving someone more certainly isn’t going to help.”
“Well, they ended up giving me propofol.”

He made a note in my chart and left. A few minutes later the Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist (CNRA) came into the room. For the uninitiated, a CRNA is a registered nurse who has gone beyond a Bachelor of Science in Nursing (BSN), earning a Master of Science in Nursing (MSN) and completing two to three years of anesthesia training. They’re often supervised by anesthesiologists in large hospitals, but often practice independently in smaller, rural hospitals. They are cheaper to train than physicians and their salaries, while substantial, are much lower than anesthesiologist salaries.
I like CNRAs because I don’t have to deal with an outsized ego. With few exceptions I’ve found them to be a joy to work with.

Then the moment of truth arrived. I kissed Peg as they wheeled me out the door and down the hallway. Then down another hallway. And another. By now we should have reached the next county. Finally, they pushed the gurney into the room, and I climbed onto the operating table. The anesthesiologist put a mask over my face and told me to breathe deeply.

I heard, “How are you doing?”
“I’m still here.”
Not for long, sweetheart.

I’m thoroughly fascinated by general anesthesia. You’re out like a light and before you know it, you’re in the PACU babbling like an idiot. My prostate surgery took three and a half hours, but it felt like ten minutes to me. This was no different. When I woke up in recovery, I asked myself am I dreaming? I’ve had fairly vivid dreams that are almost indistinguishable from real life until I finally wake up. I asked “am I dreaming” out loud but there was still no answer. Slowly things started to come into focus, and I suspected I wasn’t in the OR.

I saw a recovery room nurse next to the gurney, making notes in the laptop sitting on the bedside table. I put my hand on her shoulder to make sure she was real. She took my hand away and looked at me.

“You’re in recovery. Do you need anything?”
“How about a beer?”
“No, there’s no beer”
“I want a beer.”
“Nope, no beer.” Well, THAT sucks!

I became aware of a rhythmic beeping sound above my head and to the left, the pitch of which began to slowly decline.

“Take a deep breath.” 

I did and the pitch rose. I nodded off and the pitch dropped.

“You have to breathe. Take a deep breath”

The beeping sound was coming from the pulse oximeter, a device which measures the percentage of blood oxygenation saturation (also known as O2 sats) through a small sensor clipped to one’s index finger. Anything above 98% in a healthy person is normal. I’ve had lifelong asthma and chronic inflammation, so my sats run around 95% on a good day.

I looked over my shoulder; my O2 sat was 89% and going down.  I took a few deep breaths and it rose to 98%. Every time I heard the pitch going down, I looked at the oximeter and adjusted my breathing because I don’t like being yelled at even though I know I’m just fine. I’m not breathing deeply because I just had three tent stakes thrust through my abdominal wall and I was breathing anesthetic gas, which I could still taste an hour later.

“Would you like some ice chips?”
“Yes, please.”

She dumped a spoonful of ice chips into my mouth which I savored, waiting for them to melt instead of chewing.

“Can I have more ice?”

Another spoonful of cool, wet ice chips. I could hear several people at the desk discussing Portillo’s, a well-known Italian beef joint in the area. That sounds good. Portillo’s and a beer.

Dr. DeBouw talked with Peg after he’d finished. My gallbladder was “ugly” and there were more stones marching down the cystic duct, so taking it out was prudent. He said surgery was “textbook” and took about 20 minutes. If recovery went well, I could go home later in the afternoon and have anything I wanted for dinner, even steak.

That sounded good, but someone hadn’t bothered to tell PACU or the floor to which I was going to be transferred. Normally, one goes from PACU to another outpatient area where the staff assesses one’s fitness to go home. “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.”

Patient transportation took me to the fourth floor and dumped me off in a room the size of a storage closet. There was barely enough room on either side of the bed for one person. Someone had dutifully filled out the white board facing the bed with pertinent information like my nurse and her in-house phone number, my physician and what tasks had been scheduled for the next 24 hours. My new young nurse, Ashley, and her equally young assistant bounced into the room, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, even though their shifts would end in a couple of hours.  Ashley immediately hung a fresh I.V. bag (another one hundred fourteen bucks a bag and another $753/hour for the pump).

“Let’s get you settled in…”
“Uh, I’m not planning on staying here for very long. Dr. DeBouw said I could go home this afternoon.”
“Uh… Well, let me check on that. I thought you were going home tomorrow morning.”
“Not if I can help it. I’ve been here long enough.”

She left the room, presumably to call my surgeon and confirm that I was indeed getting out of Dodge and returned in a few minutes.

“Yes, you can go home but before that you have to eat something, urinate and walk without difficulty.”
“Ok, well I peed while you were gone. If you want me to walk, let’s go now!”
“How about I have you order something from the menu, and we can walk while you’re waiting for it.” (Being able to order something charitably called “room service” is a recent development in hospital management. It’s still hospital food and sucks more often than not.)

Surgeons often inject long-acting anesthetic into the tissue around the trocar sites; I wouldn’t feel any pain until the following morning. I got out of the bed with little effort, grabbed the I.V. pole and led my nurse and her assistant out the door. I went down the hall and circled the nursing station at a brisk walk, the two of them marveling behind me as if Christ had just healed the cripple

“Well, just look at you go!”

You’re young and you think I’m ancient, but your perspective of age will change in about forty years. People in their sixties are no longer hanging out on Death’s doorstep. Neither are many people in their eighties.

My “dinner” arrived shortly after we returned to the room: desiccated grilled chicken and that tasteless broth I’d experienced the day before. The only saving grace was a small carton of Luigi’s Lemon Italian Ice. Very tasty.

Ashley bounced into the room again.

“We’re trying to contact the hospitalist because he has to approve your discharge?”
“Why? The surgeon already discharged me. Why would the hospitalist care if I’m gone?”
“Well, we just have to do it, but it shouldn’t be long. He’s already left the hospital but we’ll page him.”

After waiting another 45 minutes for the hospitalist’s blessing and satisfied that I met the criteria that would keep them from being sued for discharging me too early, they gave me the requisite discharge and follow-up information. Patient transportation wheeled me to the main entrance, stopping at the canopied walkway leading to the parking lot pickup point. He must have been tired after a long day.

“Can you make it from here or do you want me to wheel you out?”
“Nope, I’ll take it from here.”

I got into the car and Peg drove off. We stopped by Walgreens and picked up my prescription for hydrocodone tablets (I used only one), then Portillo’s for a beef sandwich before going home to my own bed. But no beer.

Here’s the damage:

DescriptionCharges
Hospital$47,914.92
ER Physician $1,264.00
Medical Group Physicians $1,850.01
Outside GI Consultant $558.33
Surgeon $2,900.00
Surgical Assistant $1,450.00
Anesthesiologist $2,475.00
CRNA $2,475.00
Radiologist $488.00
Pathologist $73.00
TOTAL$61,448.26
Medical charges May 4-6, 2021

I have good insurance which paid for most of this. We still had to pay more than $2400 out of pocket, but Peg is fortunate enough to have a Health Savings Account (HSA), which is funded with pre-tax dollars. I reached my deductible before the anesthesia group submitted its bill for both the anesthesiologist and the CRNA, $2475 each. So much for CNRAs being cheaper.

I can afford this but millions more can’t. It’s unconscionable that the richest country in the world won’t provide universal health insurance coverage. I don’t see that happening until Millennials and women run government.

(If you are interested in seeing how a gallbladder is removed laparoscopically, check out this video: Laparoscopic Cholecystectomy for Symptomatic Cholelithiasis – Extended L. Michael Brunt, MD, Section of Minimally Invasive Surgery, Washington University, St. Louis, MO.)

Sad Gallbaldder Plushie from The Awkward Store, courtesy of my wise-ass daughter. Now why didn’t I think of this 20 years ago?

Like a Rolling (Gall)Stone – Part Deux

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Wednesday

Morning started at 6 a.m. with the Procession of Medications, a pill to prevent reflux, and my nurse noting my lipase level was down to 2,000. A tech took my temperature, blood pressure and pulse oximetry. The day shift nurse, Katrina, brought more meds around 7:30 a.m. which I took with the water I wasn’t supposed to be drinking.

“Uh, didn’t they tell you not to drink?” Nope, this is the first I’ve heard.

She also injected a dose of Lovenox®, an anticoagulant to prevent a deep vein thrombosis (DVT), because it had been ordered, not because I really needed it. I didn’t have the presence of mind to question it because I was tired but it seemed superfluous. My risk for a clot was low since I hadn’t had major surgery, I wasn’t bedridden, I don’t smoke and I’m not pregnant. Yeah, I’m old and fat but so what? (I refused it the next day, which is good because that little sucker was $119!)

An hour later a woman from Respiratory Therapy, who looked and talked like the commandant at a German women’s prison, appeared with one of the newer brand name steroid/long acting bronchodilator inhalers. Remember what I said about hospital meds costing a lot more? This one retails for about $450 and lasts 14 days; the hospital charged $570. My generic version, which lasts a month, is $40 with GoodRx®.

“I have an inhaler for you and I’m going to teach you how to use it. You pull back the cover and it’s very important that you hold it correctly with the vent side up. Then you take a deep breath and hold it.”

I pulled out my albuterol rescue inhaler. “I’m a physician. I’ve been using inhalers for a long time.”

She snapped at me. “You should NOT have your own inhaler! We are responsible for you and must know every medication you are taking! Another respiratory therapist would turn you in.”

Now she reminded me more of General Burkhalter from Hogan’s Heroes. Turn me in? What is this, Stalag 17? Are you going to send me to the Russian Front?

She watched while I inhaled like toking from a bong, then put it in a plastic bag which she placed on the shelf below the TV. “Someone will come back tomorrow for your next dose.” You think I’m so stupid that someone has to watch me? 

No, it’s because the hospital can charge $424 to “administer” the medication and $323 to “demonstrate” how to use it! What the hell do people without insurance do with those kinds of charges?

The Parade of the Grey Coats began around 9 am. Doctors (usually men) in white coats often cause spikes in patients’ blood pressures, so now most wear either grey or blue lab coats to minimize the psychological trauma. Or maybe it’s because white coats are a bitch to keep clean. (I have a royal blue lab coat with a Grateful Dead patch on the pocket.)

The internal medicine hospitalist showed up first. Now, I’m not sure what a hospitalist does other than generating revenue and confusion while making it possible for office-based internists to never set foot in the hospital. I’m sure I’ll get a lot of shit for that but my sister-in-law’s experience with hospitalists, who are usually much younger than the seasoned staff physicians, was exasperating.

He asked me to recount the events that ended with my admission, the third request if you’re keeping count.

“How are you feeling?”
“Better than when I came in.”
“Well, your lipase levels have come down nicely to around 2,000 with the I.V. fluid flushing it out. Do you mind if I examine you?”

He poked my abdomen in a few places. “Does that hurt?”
“Not much but you’re not as rough as the ER doc last night. Do you know Dr. Nell?”

He chuckled, “Yes, I like her, but she can be a little, uh, enthusiastic.” That’s a polite way of putting it.

“Your lipase levels suggest you have pancreatitis. You’re not an alcoholic and you don’t smoke so it’s likely caused by gallstones. That pain you had may have been a stone passing, especially since it didn’t last too long and you’re feeling better. I’m going to order an ultrasound of your gallbladder. We might be able to send you home later today, but we’ll have to wait for the GI guy to see you.”

We interrupt this tale for a moment of education and enlightenment.

THE PATHOPHYSIOLOGY OF BILIARY PANCREATITIS 

The gall bladder is a pear-shaped organ that lies below the liver. It stores and stores bile, which digests fats. Bile leaves the gall bladder through cystic duct. The pancreas also secretes digestive enzymes through the pancreatic duct which joins the cystic duct, forming the common duct. Both empty into the duodenum through the hepatopancreatic ampulla, also known as the Ampulla of Vater (Darth Vater?), which is controlled by the Sphincter of Oddi. Sounds like something out of Norse mythology.

The gall bladder also provides a source of income for general surgeons when it becomes inflamed (cholecystitis), full of stones (cholelithiasis), or both. Stones form when, for unknown reasons, stuff in bile crystalizes and forms gallstones, in much the same way stuff in urine crystalizes to form kidney stones. If a stone gets stuck in the common duct, it blocks secretions from both the gallbladder and pancreas, resulting in gallstone pancreatitis, which is what I had. Pancreatitis can also result from excess alcohol consumption, smoking, prior abdominal surgery, obesity, infections, injuries, and pancreatic cancer.

Abdominal ultrasound is the easiest way of finding gallstones and often cholecystitis, as inflammation thickens the gallbladder wall. Other, and far more expensive, diagnostic methods include nuclear medicine scans, Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI), or Endoscopic Retrograde Cholangiopancreatography (ERCP), looking directly into the duct with an endoscope.

A common home test for cholecystitis is consuming a greasy meal which results in excruciating upper abdominal pain; however, this is not medically recommended.

Now, back to the program already in progress

Peg arrived around 9:30am.

Did I ever mention Peg hates hospitals? No, she REALLY hates hospitals. Her mother said, “Hospitals are where you go to die.” If Peg has the big one at home, she wants me to just hold her hand and stroke her arm until she passes. Then, and only then, can I go through her office looking for the lam money.

She also thinks there is a lot of waste and abuse, albeit mostly inadvertently because no one thinks about cost in a hospital. This is largely true. I worked for a staff-model HMO thirty-five years ago. “Managed care” was withholding care from patients for profit and employed physicians weren’t good enough to work with “real doctors.” Forty years later most physicians are employed by heartless entities, and I got the last laugh.

“So, what’s happened so far? I talked to your nurse about 5:30 this morning and she said you had a good night.”

“Yeah, my lipase level has come down to two thousand something. I saw the hospitalist earlier; he thinks I have pancreatitis from passing a gallstone. He ordered an ultrasound and said I might get to go home…depending.”

“Do you have any pain?”
“No, I feel pretty good right now.”

Just then a guy from Patient Transportation appeared in the doorway. He took me down for ultrasound on my bed, reversing the previous night’s course. I stared at the ceiling again as we went left out of my room, into the elevator, down to the first floor, out and a couple of left turns before backing me into a cramped ultrasound exam room. The ultrasound tech introduced herself, squirted warm ultrasound gel on my abdomen and started the exam. About fifteen minutes later she finished.

“And….?”
“You’ve got gall stones, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“My lips are sealed.”

As the transportation guy wheeled me out someone from nuclear medicine said: “We’re going to see you later.”

Once back in the room I told Peg what we’d both suspected. Then the gastroenterologist showed up – not exactly a fount of wisdom. At his request I repeated the events of the previous 12 hours for the third (or was it the fourth) time. He pushed on my abdomen, and I winced.

“Well, at least it’s in the right place. Your ultrasound showed you’ve got gallstones. We’re going to get a CT (Computed Tomography) scan to confirm the diagnosis and a general surgeon will see you later today.”

“Ok, how about not giving me another liter of fluid? I’ve had three in the past ten hours, and I’ve been peeing every two hours.”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. We’ll also try you on clear liquids.”

Peg and had a discussion after he left.

“You told me it didn’t hurt, and you told him it did.”
“It didn’t hurt when you asked me. It hurt after he reefed on it because it’s inflamed, not because I’m lying to you.”
“Getting a CT scan to confirm what we already know is a waste of money! The ultrasound showed you have gallstones; a CT scan is redundant. It’s not going to give any better information. And THIS is why healthcare is so expensive!”

Peg had a point. If you’ve already made the diagnosis with a $1,000 ultrasound scan, why tack on another $3,000 for a CT scan to tell you the same thing? If an ultrasound might be difficult because of extreme obesity, then just do a CT. (Side note: Later that day the general surgeon told me the CT scan was used because ultrasound can’t evaluate the pancreas very well for things like fluid collections or tumors, which is important when considering surgery.)

We saw the cardiologist next and recited my history for the fifth time. I recognized his name; he is the “electrician” who did my sister-in-law’s cardiac ablation. She absolutely loves him, and his partner is my cardiologist, so I trusted whatever he had to say.

“Your EKG and troponin levels were normal. You haven’t had a recent stress test and we’ll have to clear you if you’re going to have surgery.”

I had a stress test in 2017 because I’ve no reliable family history and I was going to start work as a hospitalist. Unfortunately, a normal stress test doesn’t mean you won’t drop dead a few weeks later like Tim Russert.

There are two ways to do a stress test. The time-honored tradition is to hook a patient up to a 12-lead EKG, run him or her on a treadmill until the pulse is at least 130, and see what happens. ST segment changes suggest coronary artery blockage. (So does grabbing one’s chest and having the big one.) The test runs a few hundred bucks.

The other way is a cardiolite stress test, injecting the subject with a radioactive tracer and scanning the heart before and after the treadmill. A decrease in uptake after exercise suggests blockage and may indicate which artery/arteries are affected. The tracer and scan add several thousand bucks to the procedure, even though it is of questionable benefit in someone who has no history of coronary artery disease. Coronary angiography, injecting dye through the coronary arteries, is still the definitive test for detecting blockages.

The charge for an outpatient study is considerably less than doing the same thing in a hospital:

Itemoutpatientinpatient
Treadmill$325.00$1,200.00
Tracer$720.00$918.00
Scan$1,634.00$5,532.00
Interpretation$300.00$300.00
TOTAL$2,979.00$7,950.00
Cardiolite Stress Test: Comparing outpatient and inpatient charges

A nuclear med technician came in with a syringe containing the isotope in a shielded container and transportation took me down in a wheelchair instead of a gurney. This time I could at least see where I was going. The cardiac evaluation unit was below the first floor and reminiscent of the Batcave.

One of the women in the scanning room explained the procedure, then had me lay on the slightly uncomfortable scanner bed.  The initial images took about six minutes, then they wheeled me across the hall to the treadmill room. Another tech applied twelve more EKG leads on my chest and abdomen, on top of the six leads I had for the portable monitor. The woman running the test explained what was about to happen.

“You’ll be on an incline on the treadmill. It will start out slowly for a few minutes, and then I’ll increase the speed until your heart rate gets to 130. You’ll have to keep that pace for at least a minute. Try to go as long as you can. When you need to stop, I’ll slow the treadmill for a one-minute cool down phase.  I see you have exercise-induced asthma. Do you have an inhaler?”
“Yes, I do but the respiratory Nazi told me I shouldn’t have it in the hospital.”
“Well, she’s wrong; we like treadmill patients to have their inhalers on hand.”

Left hand, have you met right hand?

The incline was fairly steep, more than I’ve ever tried at home. I held onto the bar across the front of the treadmill to keep from falling backwards. The pace was manageable despite feeling I was hiking up a mountain.

Then, to quote Emeril Lagasse, she “kicked it up a notch.” Actually, several notches. It didn’t take long for me to hit the target heart rate. I managed two minutes at that speed before I told her I had to stop.

“Are you having any pain or trouble breathing?”
“No, I’m just way out of shape and too old for this shit.”

I went back into the scanner for about three minutes before being wheeled back upstairs. I napped for a while, while Peg sat in the corner playing with her Kindle and looking at the news feed on her phone. I figured no news was good news.

The day nurse came in a little after 1pm to tell me the CT scan was scheduled for around 4pm and I’ll get oral contrast to drink around 3pm. The guy from transportation arrived a little before 4, followed by the nurse.

“Wasn’t I supposed to drink some contrast?”
“Uh, you didn’t get it?” Would I be asking you if I had?

She sputtered a bit and disappeared, possibly to give someone an ass-chewing, and to get the CT scan rescheduled. Peg rolled her eyes.

“If you were just a regular patient, you would have gone for your scan without asking any questions. They would have done the CT, discovered you didn’t have the oral contrast, and sent you back upstairs, and repeated it later. And you wonder why I hate hospitals.”

I saw the surgeon around 6:30, after Peg had gone home to feed Baxter. We hit it off immediately. He extolled the virtues of removing gallbladders with a laparoscope and I told him about assisting on an open cholecystectomy when I was an intern. Back then they made an autopsy incision from the breastbone along the right rib margin, then pried the muscles apart to get to the gallbladder. The guy I helped with was fat and needed a very large retractor called a Joe’s Hoe for exposure. Yeah, it looked like one could till soil with it.

“There are two options. The first is to have the surgery since you are already in the hospital, and you’ve gotten cardiac clearance. The other option is letting you go home and scheduling this as an outpatient. I’d recommend doing it now because we know you have gallstones and you’re likely to have another attack within three months. It’s better to take care of it now, because I’ve seen people wait and then come in with a necrotic gallbladder. They end up in ICU on I.V. antibiotics and sometimes a ventilator because they are really sick.”
“My wife works long hours. I need to talk to her and make arrangements. What is the chance of passing another stone in the next two weeks?”
“It’s likely pretty low but not zero. You might want to just get it over with.”

Well, that sounded good to me; I wouldn’t have a lot of time to think about going under again. We talked about my prostatectomy; he said taking out my gallbladder wouldn’t take as long, and I could probably go home a few hours later.

“I know your surgeon. We’re actually very good friends, even if he did go to Ohio State.”
Oh God, he’s a Wolverine. They can be sooo insufferable! But he seems like a decent guy.

“In the meantime, you can have a clear liquid diet tonight. Don’t have anything after midnight in case you decide on surgery. I have one case in the afternoon.”

I called Peg.

“He said we can do it now or do it later. I told him you had to work and could we do it in a couple of weeks. He said we could but there was a chance of another attack before surgery.”
“Well, what do you want to do?”
“He’s coming back in the morning and you’ll probably be here before him, so you can ask him any questions. If I do it tomorrow, I won’t have a lot of time to think about it.”
“I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

Katarina brought me two cups of contrast just before 7pm.

“Drink these now and I promise you’ll be downstairs for your CT scan around 8pm.” Well, this better happen!

Someone arrived just before 8pm and took me down to the CT room. It was cold, probably to protect the equipment which can become very warm. The tech who met me was a scruffy guy who reminded me of the dude that drove the school bus down to the water when a bunch of us went canoeing at Turkey Run State Park in Indiana during college. (His “mandatory safety instructions” were “If the brakes go out on this bus, put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye!”)

“Marian will help you lay on this skinny bed while I get everything set up. I’ll let you know when I push the I.V. contrast because your head will start to feel warm and then you’ll think you’ve peed your pants. You’ll have to hold your breath a few times but that doesn’t last long. Do you have any questions?”
“Nope, let’s just get this done.”

The scan was as he described. I held my breath a few times while the scanner did its thing. The I.V. contrast created a brief sensation of warmth in my head and nether regions, passing quickly. I was back upstairs by 8:30 and I called home to say goodnight to Peg and to Baxter, who wasn’t taking this very well at all. He paced Tuesday night until 2am and this promised to be another fitful night.

Maybe tomorrow would bring a reprieve from all this fun and excitement.

JOIN US NEXT TIME FOR THE SERIES FINALE!

Illustration Credits: All © Can Stock Photo
Pancreas: Blambs
Pancreatitis: alila
Pear: yayayoyo
Burger and Liver: FabioBerti

Like a Rolling (Gall)Stone – Part 1

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Tuesday

One minute I’m sitting on the couch watching 911: Lone Star and the next we’re hauling ass down 22nd Street on our way to Our Lady of the Suburbs Hospital thinking I’m gonna die from a heart attack.

I’ve had one hell of a case of reflux from three decades of stress, heavy caffeine intake and being fat, so occasional epigastric “discomfort” doesn’t set off alarms. But this time the slight ache turned into a constant squeezing pressure just below my xiphoid, that triangular bone below your sternum (breastbone) and pain that ran up to my right jaw. I went to the dining room table and sat for about 10 minutes and, like every other guy facing the prospect of a life-altering illness, hoped it would go away.

It got worse.

Peg was on the phone with her sister when I said, “I need to go to the hospital right now!” I was clutching my chest and had that I’m-not-pulling-your-leg look.

“Oh, shit, I gotta go!” She hung up and asked, “Do you want me to call 9-1-1?”

Hell, no. My first and hopefully last ambulance trip cost about fifteen hundred bucks and we could get there faster by driving. We got into the car and for once Peg didn’t drive like my grandmother. We were at Highland Avenue in about five minutes; the hospital was another five minutes south.

I thought back to the time Peg’s mom Gloria took Michele’s husband to the same hospital with his second heart attack. She didn’t like the maniacal drivers on Highland and took the back way through Finley Square Mall. Despite being potentially on death’s door, Dave still had the presence of mind to backseat drive.

“This isn’t the way to go.”

Gloria snapped, “Well this is the way I go!”

Best not to piss off the woman who has your life in her hands.

Peg pulled into the circular drive at the Emergency Department entrance. I got out and slowly walked into the reception area, still clutching my chest. The pain wasn’t as bad, but it hadn’t gone away. Peg said, “Possible MI here!” which impressed no one behind the glass.

“Have you been here before?”
Does it fucking matter right now?

Peg whipped out the all-important insurance card while I grabbed the nearest wheelchair. A few minutes later someone came out to reception and wheeled me through the ED double doors. The desk clerk, whose duties include traffic control, said, “They’re just finishing cleaning up nine. You can take him in there in a couple of minutes.”

Even though I’ve done it a couple of times, I’m still not used to being the one being wheeled into an exam room. Usually, I’m the one strolling in after all the folderol is over and the patient is prepped. Now I’m the one climbing onto the gurney while a couple of people swarm around me like worker bees around the queen. 

My shirt came off and someone put EKG leads on my chest, a blood pressure cuff on my left arm, a pulse oximeter on my left index finger, a thermometer under my tongue and an IV catheter in my right antecubital space (elbow joint), one of the worst places to put it. A lab tech took several tubes of blood before the nurse ran heparinized saline through the catheter before plugging the end. I put my gown on sometime during this onslaught. Someone else came in for a nasal swab for a COVID test.

A tech did an EKG and I figured I wasn’t having a cardiac issue since he didn’t go running down the hall for the crash cart team. Modern EKG machines print out a preliminary reading; mine was normal sinus rhythm. A radiology tech pulled a portable x-ray machine into the room, put a plate behind me and said, “Deep breath and hold it.” Imaging is all digital now; no more 55-gallon drums full of used x-ray film. The image appears on a computer monitor and the ability to zoom in and out means the radiologist doesn’t have to squint nearly as much.

The nurse started taking a history of my episode; this would be the first time of many that I’d recite the same story. This is not surprising since patients will tell nurses one thing and doctors something else. My story went like this:

“So, tell me what brought you to the hospital / what happened / what’s been going on?”
“I was sitting on the couch about a half hour after dinner and started to feel this pain right here (points to mid-epigastric area) that felt like someone was squeezing me really hard. I waited about ten minutes thinking it was going to get better, but it only got worse, so we came here.”
“When did it start?”
(Looking at the clock) “About 30 minutes ago.”
“Did the pain go anywhere else?” This is important because cardiac pain generally radiates to the left jaw and/or the left arm.
“It went up into my right jaw.”
“Any nausea, vomiting, sweating?”  The first heart attack admission I saw when I was a 17-year-old hospital orderly was sweating like a pig*. Some have nausea and/or vomiting, making them think “it’s just a little indigestion.”
“How do you feel now?”
“Better than I did before I came here but it still hurts!”

*Before someone says, “Pigs don’t sweat,” that phrase came from iron smelting. Molten iron poured onto sand forms “pig iron” which resembles a sow and piglets. Moisture from the ambient air condenses onto the “pigs” as they cool, which looks like sweat. I didn’t know that before, and now you know it as well.

The nurse left and the ED physician, Dr. Nell, walked through the privacy curtain covering the exam room doorway. She was short and stocky with short blond hair peeking out from under her surgical cap; her last name suggested she was of Eastern European descent. She asked me “So, what happened?” (Go up two paragraphs for the recap.)

Before I answered I made a point of telling her I was a retired physician. Normally, I don’t advertise but I’ve found it comes in handy since physicians don’t treat their brethren with the same dismissive attitudes and skepticism reserved for the great unwashed.

She began her examination by listening to my heart and lungs, then pushed on my abdomen REALLY hard, like one of the old Soviet Union’s female weightlifters.

“AAAAAH!”
“Does this hurt?”  Well, now it does!

She was quiet for a few minutes.

“You don’t have any of the classic heart attack signs like sweating or nausea and your EKG is normal, so it might be GI. I’m going to try nitroglycerine to see if it makes any difference while we’re waiting for your labs to come back.”

She left and a few minutes later the nurse returned with a small oval pill in a medicine cup.

“Put this under your tongue.”

Nitroglycerin is a vasodilator, a substance that relaxes smooth muscle and blood vessels, increasing blood flow to coronary arteries and is absorbed more rapidly from the mucous membrane under the tongue. The tablet itself irritating if left in one place too long and tastes like crap after disintegrating.

A few minutes passed and I didn’t feel any different. The pain had been slowly ebbing since I’d arrived, and my blood pressure dropped slightly. Dr. Nell returned.

“Did the nitro do anything?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think it would.”
“Yeah, neither did I.”
“Well, your troponin levels are stone cold negative, so I don’t think you’re having a heart attack.”

Troponins are proteins released into the blood when heart muscle is damaged. During my internship forty-some years ago we used to measure blood levels of lactate dehydrogenase (LDH) and creatine kinase (CK) when evaluating heart patients, but levels can be elevated with damage to other tissues. Troponins are much more specific.

She continued: “If it’s not cardiac, we start thinking of other causes, specifically gastrointestinal. Esophageal spasms (painful contractions of the esophagus) can mimic cardiac pain. We’ll have a GI evaluate you, but I want to try something else in the meantime. I’m going to give you a solution to drink.”

My nurse returned with a little turquoise container resembling a salad dressing packet, containing a solution of antacid and viscous lidocaine, a topical anesthetic. “We call this Magic Milk.”

I’m probably not going to like this, am I?

“It’s a combination of lidocaine and an antacid. You’re probably not going to like it.”

I’m used to downing Bicitra, something we gave to women before doing an emergency Cesarean section after a long, fruitless labor. It’s a solution of sodium citrate and citric acid with a fluorescent yellow-green appearance and tastes like thick, unsweetened Mountain Dew®. A friend of mine compared it to battery acid, but it cooled the burn expeditiously. It would probably be even better over ice with a little gin or vodka.

I tossed it back like a tequila shot, grimaced, and then roared, causing Peg to immediately panic.

“Are you OK??? Is something wrong???”
“Yeah, this stuff is really awful!”

Dr. Nell returned about 15 minutes later.

“Your labs are normal. Your EKG and chest x-ray are normal. I don’t know what’s causing the pain but it’s not likely cardiac. We’re going to keep you overnight and get consults in the morning.”

A woman from Admitting came in with a tablet and had me sign several forms, including “You’re responsible for any charges not covered by insurance. Don’t be a deadbeat or Vinnie will come visit you.” My nurse hooked me up to a telemetry EKG monitor. I got another wrist band and someone from transportation started pushing me down the hall.

I’ve seen friends and family in this hospital, so I knew my way around a bit, but that was walking upright. It’s almost impossible to know where you are looking at the ceiling, passing under fluorescent lights and acoustic tiles. Left, then right. Down one hallway, right and down another. A bell announced the elevator’s arrival; two bumps as the cart rode over the entrance.

A short trip up and I was on the 5th floor. The transportation dude wheeled me into the observation room.

“Can you make it to the bed?” Yeah, I’m not dead yet and I’m not as old as you think.

After I got settled I looked around at the luxury that was the observation room. I’d bet the Cook County jail had better holding cells.

There was a single hospital bed in what used to be a double room, a bedside table next to the bed, and a single utilitarian vinyl-upholstered recliner in the corner. A laptop was bolted to a mobile desktop between my bed and the bathroom wall. I think there was an unremarkable print on the wall, the kind whose eventual familiarity drives one insane. The walls were painted in either celery or baby diarrhea brown which, combined with the yellow tint of the fluorescent lighting, made the room even more dismal. The mattress was lumpy and about two inches thick; it alternately inflated and deflated in different spots, probably to prevent bedsores or blood clots in skinny, immobile old people. One could probably die from despair in here.

My nurse, Meghan, came in shortly to get me settled. She was tall with dark brown hair, grey eyes, not much of a butt and yes, I could be her father or grandfather. Just because I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu. What the hell else am I gonna do at 11:00 pm after thinking I was going to go to the Great Beyond?

We chatted a bit between the obligatory nursing documentation questions, including going through my medication list for the third or fourth time. Here’s a hint: if there are any meds you can do without for a few days before you get back home, don’t mention them. The hospital will give them to you while charging outlandish rates.

About 1am she came in and said, “Your lipase level came back 30,000 and the doctor thinks it might be pancreatitis, so we’re going to start I.V. fluids.” (Lipase is an enzyme the pancreas secretes to break down fats in one’s diet; an elevated level indicates inflammation from a number of causes, including alcoholism, gallstones or tumors.)

Pancreatitis? The only person I ever saw with pancreatitis was when I was a resident. She’d been deposited in our Labor Unit because some genius in the emergency room figured the woman in triage was (a) female and (b) in pain, so she must be in labor. She was actually 49 and had acute pancreatitis; and our nurse manager reamed someone a new one. I wasn’t in that much pain, but even I realized 30,000 was, if not an error, something terribly wrong.

Whoever gave the order also wanted me NPO, nil per os, meaning nothing to eat or drink. However, no one passed that on to me, so I kept drinking all night. And, not wanting to be a bother, I’d unplug the I.V. pump when I needed to urinate, wheel it to the bathroom, do my thing and hook it back up before getting back into bed, after figuring out how not to get tangle in the I.V. tubing. Two days passed and NO ONE asked why the bedside urinal was never used.

The bathroom was another disappointment. Commercial toilets are wall-mounted and, if done more than ten or twenty years ago, were lower to the ground than today’s “comfort height” toilets. Hospital toilets also have a rod connected to the plumbing that pulls down to spray out bedpans. Whoever does maintenance put in a six-inch lift between the bowl and the seat to raise the height but neglected to caulk the lower part of the lift. Anyone peeing sitting down (including me because it’s easier since my prostatectomy), ends up drenching the floor. It took a few trips to figure out why my feet were wet.

The lab took blood sometime during the night, but I wasn’t aware of it and figured they’d taken it out of the I.V. port.  I wondered what fresh hell daylight would bring.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Featured image: Chest Pain.  © Can Stock Photo / yekophotostudio

Smallpox

VACCINATION CONSTERNATION

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On February 4, 1976, a nineteen-year-old army recruit at Fort Dix died of what the CDC determined was an influenza strain genetically similar to the 1918 H1N1 swine flu virus that caused a worldwide pandemic. Fearing another pandemic, CDC pushed for mass vaccination Then-President Gerald Ford (who facing re-election) figured mass American deaths would be politically unforgivable if nothing was done, agreed and fast-tracked a vaccine.

A few months later the pharmaceutical industry demanded federal indemnification against liability for any adverse reactions before releasing the vaccine. Then, as now, such a move created public suspicion and distrust of both the government and the vaccine. That skepticism was furthered after several reports linked the vaccine to recipients developing Guillain-Barre syndrome,  a rare disorder in which the body’s immune system attacks nerves causing weakness and sometimes paralysis severe enough to require ventilator support.

The pandemic never materialized as that flu strain was far less dangerous than initially thought. But the damage to the idea of vaccines being lifesaving miracles had been done.

That fall I had the dubious honor of being interviewed on camera by one of the local TV stations in Rockford, IL after getting a swine flu shot. When asked why I wasn’t hesitant to get the vaccine, I said something stupid like, “I should know about these things; I’m a medical student!”

But the real reason I got that vaccination and continue to do so was because I grew up during the 1950s and 1960s. Our parents lived through the times of no vaccines and witnessed the devastation. Immunizations were miracles of science and our parents were determined we would have a better (and healthier) life than they did.  

The current anti-vaccine movement started in the 1980s and has only grown since then, thanks to the Internet, anti-science politicians and Andrew Wakefield’s thoroughly discredited claim that vaccines caused autism. Most of those people either didn’t experience or chose to forget what life was like prior to vaccines, which calls for a review of pre-vaccine devastation.

In 1892 Canadian physician Sir William Osler called pneumonia “the old man’s friend” because it often claimed the elderly already suffering from debilitating disease. (Osler died of pneumonia in 1919.) Thirty to 40 percent of people who developed pneumonia died before widespread use of antibiotics. Even now, antibiotic resistance among the more than 90 serotypes of Streptococcus pneumoniae can make treatment difficult.

A polysaccharide vaccine against 23 streptococcal serotypes, PPSV-23 (Pneumovax ® Merck), was released in 1983. A pneumococcal conjugate vaccine (PCV7) was released in 2000; it was replaced in 2013 by PCV13 (Prevnar13 ® Pfizer). So now us old people can die of slower, more expensive diseases like Alzheimer’s, chronic congestive heart failure and cancer.

Smallpox, a contagious disease caused by the variola virus, produced fever, vomiting, generalized body aches and a characteristic pustular rash that frequently resulted in terrible scarring. Sometimes smallpox infections left the victim blind or dead. A vaccine became available in 1961 and was given until 1972 when it was declared eradicated in the United States. In 1978 Janet Parker, a 40-year-old photographer, was the last smallpox fatality.  The WHO declared smallpox eradicated in 1980.

All of us who received a smallpox vaccination have a cratered scar on our upper arms. Mine has all but faded but I wore it like a badge of honor.

Polio, caused by the poliovirus, is a disease whose symptoms range from none (75%), through common viral symptoms such as fever, headache, nausea and stomach pain (20%) to progressive, devastating neurological damage (5%). Many victims suffered weakened and deformed limbs or outright paralysis. (President Franklin Roosevelt was 39 when he contracted polio in 1921 and became unable to walk, but he hid it well from the public.) Sometimes the virus affected the ability to breathe, requiring patients to spend a good deal of their lives in an iron lung, long before the invention of modern ventilators.

Our parents were terrified because everyone knew someone who had contracted polio. People blamed cats, dogs, public drinking fountains, swimming pools and beaches for spreading polio before its fecal mode of transmission was identified. One of my high school classmates, born in 1954, contracted polio which weakened one leg. Sixty some years later he still wears a heavy leg brace.

Jonas Salk is remembered for created the inactivated polio vaccine (IPV) which was released in 1955. Albert Sabin created an oral polio vaccine (OPV), released in 1961. Kids my age got the OPV on a sugar cube that had been dosed with the vaccine. Currently IPV is the only vaccine available in the US but OPV is still used in other countries.

Diphtheria, a bacterial illness caused by the Corynebacterium diphtheriae, creates a toxin that destroys respiratory tract tissue. The resulting grey “pseudomembrane” makes breathing and swallowing difficult and gives the breath an odor described as a “wet mouse.” The toxin can wreck the heart, kidneys, and nervous system if it circulates in the blood. About 10% of victims died from diphtheria before a vaccine was developed.

Pertussis, also known as whooping cough, is a contagious bacterial respiratory disease caused by Bordetella pertussis. Infection produces a severe hacking cough that can last for 10 weeks, accompanied by a “whoop” sound with inhalation. Severe coughing fits can lead to fractured ribs. It was sometimes fatal in infants prior to a vaccine; it is still common in underdeveloped countries.

Tetanus, once commonly known as “lockjaw,” is caused by the bacterium Clostridium tetani, found mainly in damp soil. (My mother always told me one developed tetanus from stepping on a rusty nail, which never made sense. It was due to bacteria in the soil around old, rusty nails.) It produces a toxin that causes painful muscle contractions (tetany), often affecting jaw and mouth muscles.

DPT, a vaccine for diphtheria, pertussis and tetanus was developed in 1949, combining diphtheria and tetanus toxoids (inactivated forms of toxins) with killed pertussis cells. I got vaccinated when I was five years old and spent a couple of nights in the hospital after developing hives. I never got a tetanus booster after that, but the hives were more likely a reaction to the pertussis component. A newer vaccine, TDaP, which used pertussis antigens rather than killed bacteria (aP = acellular Pertussis) was released in 1981 and replaced DPT in 1997.

Measles is a very contagious viral illness caused by the rubeola virus which has gone by many other names: red measles; English measles; hard measles; seven-, eight- or ten-day measles. Infected people, mostly children, develop cough, fever, runny nose and itchy eyes followed by a generalized flat rash 3-5 days later. While most recover without any problems, measles complications include ear infections, bronchitis, pneumonia and encephalitis. (Adults often do poorly with childhood diseases, especially measles.) About 100,000 people around the world, mostly children under 5, die from measles every year. Measles was declared eliminated in the United States in 2000 but there were 1,282 cases in 2019, largely due to people lacking vaccination.

Mumps is a viral illness that causes parotitis (swelling of the salivary glands) but can also affect the breasts, pancreas, meninges (the tissue covering the brain and spinal cord), ovaries and testicles. Mumps used to be a common cause of aseptic (non-bacterial) meningitis and hearing loss in children before widespread vaccination. Death from mumps is rare.

Rubella, also known as German measles or three-day measles, is a viral disease that causes fever, headache, runny nose and a distinctive fine rash that spreads from the face to the trunk and then arms and legs. The infection is usually mild, and most children recover quickly, but complications include pneumonia leading to death, encephalitis causing deafness or intellectual disability, or a ruptured spleen. Up to 70% of women with rubella develop arthritis.

Congenital rubella syndrome (CRS), characterized by cataracts, congenital heart disease, intellectual impairment or hearing deficits, can occur in babies whose mothers contracted rubella during pregnancy. There were 12.5 million cases of rubella in the United States during the 1964-1965 rubella epidemic with a staggering toll.  Women lost 11,000 pregnancies from miscarriage, stillbirth, or abortion and 2,100 babies died after birth. Of the 20,000 cases of CRS identified, 11,000 were born deaf, 3,500 were blind and about 1,800 suffered intellectual disabilities.

Varicella (chickenpox), another annoying but potentially dangerous childhood infection, is caused by the varicella zoster virus (VZV). It produces small blisters that eventually turn into scabs. Complications include skin infections from open blisters, pneumonia, encephalitis, bleeding and sepsis. There were over four million infections and around 100 deaths annually before a vaccine was released in 1995. Shingles (postherpetic neuralgia) is a painful re-activation of VZV along nerve paths.

MMR/MMRV: In 1963 inactivated and live attenuated measles vaccines were released in the US.  The inactivated vaccine didn’t offer sufficient protection and was discontinued in 1967. The live attenuated vaccine caused fever and rash in recipients and was withdrawn in 1975. A combined measles, mumps, and rubella vaccine (MMR) was released in 1971; varicella was added (MMRV) in 2005.

Zostavax, a live, attenuated vaccine to prevent shingles, was released in 2006. Shingrix, a recombinant, adjuvanted zoster vaccine, was released in 2017, replacing Zostavax in November, 2020.

I had chickenpox, because DPT, polio and smallpox were the only available vaccines at the time. When a neighborhood kid developed chickenpox, other mothers would send their kids to a “chickenpox party.” We’d pass around a contaminated drinking glass to contract chickenpox and “get it over with.” Some parents still engage in the practice despite having a vaccine, thinking “natural” immunity is preferable.

I also had all the other childhood viral illnesses – measles, rubella and mumps. When I developed mumps, my mother chastised me for any activity, saying “You’ll be sorry if it goes down on you!” She was talking about mumps orchitis (painful testicular swelling from the mumps virus that can lead to shrunken testicles and, rarely, infertility) but I had no idea what she was talking about and she didn’t bother to explain. That I have three kids indicates no apparent gonadal damage.

MORBIDITY AND MORTALITY
BEFORE AND AFTER
VACCINE DEVELOPMENT

Other communicable diseases and vaccines

Hepatitis A, formerly “infectious hepatitis,” is an acute liver infection caused by the Hepatitis A virus (HAV). It is acquired by ingesting virus passed through feces, usually from contaminated food or water. It causes fever, nausea, abdominal pain, jaundice, and dark urine. Complications are rare but infection can lead to acute kidney failure as well as hemolytic and aplastic anemias. Fulminant hepatitis, which leads to liver tissue destruction, is rare and has a death rate of up to 80%.

A vaccine against HAV was released in 1996 and infection rates declined until 2016. The US has struggled with a Hepatitis A outbreak which began in 2016 and was linked to person-to person contact (drug use and homelessness) rather than contamination. There have been 37,121 cases reported across 35 states with 348 deaths as of December 18, 2020.

Hepatitis B, formerly “serum hepatitis,”is an acute liver infection caused by the Hepatitis B virus (HBV). It is acquired through

  • unprotected sex with an infected individual
  • sharing drug paraphernalia or personal items
  • tattooing with unsterile equipment
  • passed from pregnant mother to fetus
  • human bites

Signs and symptoms are the same as for HAV; however, about 50% of infected people may have no symptoms. Complications are similar to those of HAV; about 200-300 people die of fulminant hepatitis each year. A vaccine was released in 1986. It is recommended for all newborns and anyone not previously vaccinated.

There are about 800,000 to 1.4 million people in the US with chronic hepatitis with and additional ,5000-8,000 becoming chronically infected every year. Most annual deaths linked to HBV are due to the consequences of chronic infection: cirrhosis (3,000-4,000) and liver cancer (1,000-1500).

Hepatitis C, D and E are forms of viral hepatitis caused by Hepatitis C (HCV), Hepatitis D (HDV)and Hepatitis E (EV) viruses. There are no vaccines for these three viruses. HCV can be treated (the Hep C medication for which its creators incessantly run commercials costs $94,000) but there are none for HDV and HEV. HEV infection usually resolves spontaneously.

Employers often require healthcare workers to provide evidence of immunity to HBV and other communicable diseases prior to employment. I got the HBV vaccine in the early 1990s

Haemophilus Influenza type b (Hib) is a bacterium, not a virus. It primarily infects infants and children under 5 years, and can cause meningitis, pneumonia, bacteremia (bacteria in the blood), and epiglottitis, a potentially life-threatening swelling of the epiglottis. There were about 20,000 cases of Hib and 1,000 deaths annually before a vaccine was released. The polysaccharide vaccine released in 1985 did not work well in children under 2 years and was replaced with conjugate vaccines in 1987.

I recently got my first COVID vaccination; I’m a healthcare worker who still has contact with mostly older people. I expect there will be more adverse reactions reported as there’s a big difference between several thousand people in a vaccine trial and tens of millions of people being vaccinated.

None of us should want to live in a world in which easily preventable diseases with significant morbidity and mortality run rampant because we no longer have sufficient herd immunity.

Featured Image © Can Stock Photo / joloei

The Prostate Saga – Rehab

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WARNING: This post contains material of a sensitive and sexual nature. If you are easily embarrassed or squeamish, you might want to sit this one out.

I saw the Urology Department Physician Assistant the week after my surgery to take out my catheter. She gave me a prescription for 50mg sildenafil (generic Viagra) tablets and told me to take a half tablet every night “to keep the blood flowing” – a prophylactic Roto-Rooter®. I made an appointment with her and the Vacuum Erection Device Clinic for January as “the December clinic had already passed.” I was supposed to talk with the clinic about acquiring a “medically approved” vacuum erection device in January, but I pushed to get it ordered in December since they run upwards of three hundred bucks and I’d met my deductible for the year.

I got a mysterious text message from FedEx alerting me to a delivery from upcrx.com that required my signature. Often “signature required” means either someone is sending alcohol, or the IRS wants to do an audit. Google helped me find University Compounding Pharmacy in San Diego but did nothing to alleviate my confusion.

The package arrived the following week. I scrawled my name on the driver’s tablet and I now possessed my very own prescription “Austin Powers Swedish Penis Enlarger.” I wasn’t supposed to use it until after my postoperative appointment in January, and then only “under medical supervision,” lest I somehow injure myself.

I had an appointment in January with Dr. Fine for a postoperative visit. The PSA level I’d had drawn the previous week was undetectable; I’d get a PSA level done every three months for a year, then every six months if all went well.

He asked about my recovery.

“It’s going fine. The big incision burned every time I moved but that went away in a week and I used the Norco maybe three times. I got by on Tylenol. And I’m back to my pre-surgical level of incontinence.”

His eyes lit up!

“You should really see one of the pelvic physical therapists. There are a couple of people who specialize in male incontinence therapy.”

“I’m fine.”

“You really should consider it; nip it in the bud right now.”

(Like I have the time or inclination to have some dude teach me Kegel exercises, which I’d taught women for decades.)

“Ok, I’ll give them a call.” (No, I won’t.)

Many physicians are hardwired to offer as many labs, procedures, and referrals as possible. That is probably why sleep studies have been such a standard for anyone who is fat, diabetic, hypertensive, and/or chronically tired. He gave me the phone number which I tossed into the trash on my way to the car.

It’s been seven months since surgery; I don’t wear underwear shields anymore and the urgency is almost nonexistent. I may not be able to write my name in the snow but it no longer feels like I’m trying to urinate through a urethra in a death grip.

The following week I saw the P.A.  She had asked me to come in early because she had to go somewhere. Today she was a little frantic and hurried through her instructions.

“You’ll be talking to Jonathan about the vacuum. Stop taking the Viagra while you are using it. Try the Viagra after a couple of weeks. If you don’t see any results after several tries, it’s time to open this little white bag and take the pill that’s in there. If you’re still not getting any results after 2 months, you need to come see me. Here’s an instruction sheet. Now I have to go…”

My next stop was the pretentiously named Vacuum Erection Device Clinic. I figured I’d be in a classroom with several other men discussing our surgical recovery, led by a physician in the requisite white coat giving us a talk on the mechanism of tumescence and how our recent surgery had interfered with function.

Instead, I went to another room and met with the “physician liaison” (read: equipment rep).

“I’ll need to order your device and when it comes in, we can talk about how to use it.”

“Uh, I got it last month.”

“Ok, then. Here’s what you do. Put it over your penis. Pump the vacuum for five or ten seconds, then wait forty-five seconds. Release the vacuum, wait a minute, and then pump it again for five to ten seconds and wait forty-five seconds. Do that for 10 minutes a day. If you have any questions, here’s my card.”

I wasted an afternoon for this?

How an erection works.

The cross-section of the penis looks like a cartoon monkey face. The shaft of the penis contains two spongy cylinders, the corpus cavernosum; a sizeable artery runs through each. A vein flanked on each side by an artery and a nerve runs above the corpus cavernosum. All this is surrounded by a layer of fascia, like a hot dog casing. A third spongy tube, the corpus spongiosum, surrounds the urethra and runs the length of the shaft below the corpus cavernosum while the dorsal penile vein runs the length of the shaft on top. All this is enclosed in loose tissue and covered by thin, flexible skin.

The arteries in the corpus cavernosum normally aren’t fully open, which is why men don’t have permanent erections. When the brain is stimulated, a combination of nerve impulses and chemical signals open the arteries which fill the corpus cavernosum with blood. The engorged tissue presses on the veins, blocking return blood flow and, voilà, an erection is born.

It’s been suggested that men hit their sexual peaks at 18 and it’s downhill after that. Research, however, shows men’s testosterone levels peak in their 30s before gradually declining. Getting an embarrassing, spontaneous erection for no apparent reason disappeared by my late teens.  Sexual function can decline as early as one’s 40s; I started noticing a difference in my late 40s. Other things can affect sexual drive and function besides purely aging:

The nerve bundles required for achieving an erection are often damaged during a radical prostatectomy. Scarring around my prostate required taking out the neurovascular bundle on the right side. The left side was spared but the trauma from surgery is enough to keep the remaining nerves from doing their job. It may take up to two years before being able to achieve an erection with or without ED drugs. If that doesn’t work, the alternatives are injections into the penis or penile implants.

This is my device. It has both battery-operated and manual vacuum pumps which attach to an acrylic cylinder. There are five silicone rings (sizes 5 to 9); the cone is used to slip a ring onto the other end of the cylinder. The ring ejector twists to push the ring onto the penis before removing the cylinder to maintain the erection. The body shield is that circular thing resembling a old-fashioned floppy disk drive and provides a barrier to prevent scrotal skin from being sucked into the pump. The gel is used to form a seal around the base of the pump and to lubricate the penis; without it the penis will drag along the cylinder wall like an anchor on concrete.

Note to self: make sure to grab the correct white squeeze tube: the lubricating gel tube, not the menthol gel I use on sore muscles.

The Vacuum Erection Device, aka the “Austin Powers Swedish Penis Enlarger”

The caveats in the instruction manual were disturbing.

“Vacuum therapy may cause a small “blood blister” on the head of your penis. This is normal and not harmful.”

“The rings may bruise the base of your penis. Some bruising is normal and should not be cause for alarm.”

Wait, what? In what alternative universe is a bruised and blistered penis “normal?”

“If you wear a ring for more than 30 minutes, you may severely bruise or damage your penis.”

So, if that happens, do I just get a new one from Amazon with 2-day Prime delivery?

I looked over the instruction sheet I’d gotten from the P.A.

You were given samples of ED medication to try at your leisure. Please use the paper form you were given (to) track your response and side effects of each medication. The goal is for you to try one tablet every 3rd day followed by (significant) stimulation.

  • Tablets work better on an empty stomach
  • Tablets take one hour to become effective
  • Space out your trials by 2-3 days at the minimum

If tablets do not work, you may still have intercourse with the vacuum rubber bands.

Common side effects – headache, facial flushing, nasal congestion

If you are on Cialis and are experiencing leg cramps – Please stop Cialis immediately as Cialis can sometimes be linked to tendon inflammation, possible rupture.

Oh, goody!

I discovered the vacuum doesn’t work immediately, which was disappointing. One cannot hope to instantly inflate the penis like a balloon that a clown twists into animal shapes for kids at a party. At first it took fifteen minutes to achieve anything resembling an erection, which decreased to around five minutes after three months. The least they could do is make pumps entertaining with indicator lights and an alarm that goes off when one has reached maximum height (or is it length?).

Anyone who played with a vacuum cleaner hose as a kid knows it can inflict some pain if left on a body part for too long. Moving blood into a penis with negative pressure is an uncomfortable process and certainly not erotic. And few things are worse than having a large chunk of scrotal tissue suddenly sucked into the cylinder along with a testicle. The barrier did not help at all; it was too flexible and got drawn in as well.

It didn’t take long for one of the rings to break and the replacements cost twenty bucks each. I ordered a different kind of ring that looked like a flat, silicone bagel (the penis goes through the hole and the surrounding material blocks wandering skin, but it was for a rival brand and didn’t fit my pump. I found another type that looked more like a foam-lined chip clip (or a cigar cutter). I settled on a silicone loop I bought from Amazon.

The battery pump died after a month. The company said they’d send a replacement which never arrived, and I don’t feel like calling them again. The manual pump is equally effective but using it leads to spasms in my right thumb and pain in my right wrist, caused by old nerve damage from two separate lacerations. The recommended forty-five seconds on, one minute off did nothing, even after multiple attempts over three weeks. I finally just pumped and left the vacuum on for several minutes while amusing myself with my Kindle game. (I may not have sexual function, but at least I’m doing my part to delay age-related dementia!) My erections promptly deflated as soon as I released the vacuum, despite the ring. There was never sufficient rigidity to close off the penile veins.

I then tried using 100mg sildenafil without the pump or any kind of stimulation. I got a slight flush but nothing. A few days later I made another attempt. I got distracted doing other things but applied the pump three hours after I took it. I got a reasonable erection which again deflated after taking off the pump and using the loop. I tried the pump again and then manual stimulation which made it last a little longer but still wasn’t anything to write home about. And all this took about 25 minutes, not including the minimum one hour wait for the drug to take effect.

George Burns said, ““Sex at age 90 is like trying to shoot pool with a rope.”

But all is not lost. Men can have orgasms without an erection, although it may take some mental adjustment. If you’re a New Ager into Tantra (and you have a lot of patience), you can have an orgasm using just your mind. Radical prostatectomy removes the prostate and seminal vesicles, meaning there’s no more semen, along with the sphincter between the urethra and the prostate, which normally prevents retrograde ejaculation (semen going into the bladder instead of out the penis). The result is climacturia, the release of urine with orgasm and a common side effect of the surgery. One can prevent this with an adjustable loop around the penis, muscle training or surgery, but emptying the bladder beforehand is the simplest.

More information than you ever wanted to know, eh?

Finally, nothing is more important during post-prostatectomy rehabilitation than a loving and supportive partner. Peg says she would rather have me alive and annoying than six feet under, and for that I am grateful.

Monkey illustration © Can Stock Photo / yayayoyo