Gus is Hazardous To My Health, Part One

Sorry I've been absent so much lately. I know I usually neglect my blog, but this time I have a great excuse: surgery!



Last month, I got bitten on my right middle finger by Gus. It wasn't really his fault. He had met Grover for the first time and was scared and stressed out. I tried to pick him up to comfort him, which was a HUGE mistake. He nommed on my finger, hard. I remember thinking, "Wow, I wonder if he hit bone? That hurts!"



Anyway, I'm not one to go to the doctor unless I absolutely have to. I figured I could tough this thing out. But, the thing was, in a few days I was driving to Iowa to sing in one of my best friend's wedding. After hearing horror stories about cat bites (everyone seems to have one), I actually called my doctor, whose nurse practitioner called in an order for the antibiotic Augmentin. I didn't want to be waking up in a hotel in Iowa with a raging fever. I'd have been totally screwed. S0 I was really proud of myself for taking the very adult step of asking for antibiotics. Heh.



Well, that finger hurt like h-e-double-hockey-sticks for a good week. After that, it finally healed up but was still red and swollen. I said to myself, "Aw, it's just a soft tissue injury; those take some time to heal. It's totally fine."



Let's fast forward a month post-injury. Said finger just looks kind of gross, with a big red bump on it. (Like alien babies are going to pop out at any time. Seriously, it looked weird.) My friend Amanda, who is a vet tech, looked at it and said, "Jen, that doesn't look right. You seriously need to go to the doctor." I said, "Nah, it's totally fine, it's just still healing." Amanda: "No, really, I think it's infected." Me: "...really? Crap. Ok, I'll call Monday."



So Monday morning, I did what any responsible adult would do, and called my doctor one month too late. I got in right away with the nurse practitioner, and I left for my 10:30 am appointment expecting an unpleasant lancing session on the abscess followed by a round of oral antibiotics. Oh, sweet, naive Jenny. (Pats self on head.)



The nurse practitioner, Liz, got me set up for a lancing, but opted for my doctor, Dr. Moss, to perform the actual procedure. It really should have been my first clue when both doctors looked at it and gave me their concerned doctor face. But it was still totally fine, really.



The lancing didn't hurt at all, just the stupid numbing injections beforehand. What up with that? I wanted to watch Dr. Moss cut into the abscess to see all of the cool pus come out, but only blood came out. Hmmm... Dr. Moss already had said he was sending me to an orthopedic doctor, so I knew this might be worse than I thought. I was told I had an appointment at 1:15. That day. Ugh.

All of the orthopedists in our area belong to one big conglomerate called OAK, in a massive building in Bradley. It's practically it's own hospital. And super intimidating. I waited for about forever and finally met the surgeon, Dr. Jones, who I swear doesn't like me. He had on his grave face, told me how serious cat bites are, that I should have gone to the hospital right away, shouldn't have waited a month, and shouldn't keep the cat. (Grrrr....) So, after about a one-minute examination of the finger, I was off for an x-ray. Then a wait for an MRI. In the meantime, Dr. Jones tells me the only option is surgery, two days from then. What??? Like, surgery surgery? Yep. Are you stupid? (I already know you are.) Didn't you pay attention when I said surgery? (This is me imagining what my doctor was saying/really thinking.)

So, after the boring and very not scary MRI, I was done for the day, but had to return in the morning for MRI results and pre-op instructions. At that time, I was told again how stupid I am, and that my stupidity had led to a bone infection, which would require them to bring in an infectious disease doctor. And would require six weeks of IV antibiotics. The surgery itself, though really quick, would require scraping the bone, which would in turn require general anesthesia. Like, general general anesthesia? For real? Yes, general anesthesia. You really don't want to be awake for this (And are you stupid? I SAID, general anesthesia!).

But what about my precious vocal cords? General anesthesia generally requires intubation, or more simply put, a plastic tube shoved down your esophagus...past your vocal cords. To Dr. Jones' great credit, he took my concern seriously (after all, I sort of attempt to make a living with those things), and agreed to avoid intubation if possible.

So I left the appointment in mostly a state of shock, because all of this was progressing so fast. Soon came a call from the hospital to pre-register me, and then I found out I had to go to the hospital for pre-admittance testing. That was no biggie, since I'm not afraid of needles and donate blood on a (fairly) regular basis. So then I'm less than 24 hours from my 10:30 am surgery--my first ever--and I am starting to FREAK OUT. Anyone who really knows me knows I am not a calm person. If I can worry about it, I will. So I went home to await my doom.

Coming next: the surgery and the aftermath. With pictures, if you'd like.

P.S. Please forgive any typos. I only have 8 fingers and giant club to work with.