By Garret Leiva
Herald Editor
Funny how a microbe or two million can bring a grown man to his knees — or more precisely the prone position on a hospital gurney. By funny I mean the hilarity that ensues when your body temperature hovers between delusional and 104 degrees Fahrenheit.
Laughter might be the best medicine but I'd opt for an IV antibiotic over 600 cc's of lame Internet jokes from Uncle Phil. Besides, try finding an HMO that will spring for a cable pay-per-view comedy special as part of your hospital bill. You're more likely to suffer the pains of "Saved by the Bell” reruns.
Before all the blood cultures, chest x-rays and round-the-clock vital checks, there was a little bug bite. A raised mark on my foot that caused subcutaneous swelling and suspicion on my wife's part. Given that I could still cram on a shoe and the foot was still attached, I was reluctant to visit the doctor. However, my homeopathic solution of rubbing some dirt on it was deemed insufficient treatment.
The fact that after six years of being listed as a patient my doctor's office had no file on me spoke volumes about my medical history. However, in the next 48 hours its heft — and content — would rival a Stephen King manuscript.
After the usual prodding and poking, the diagnosis is cellulitis, which I think is Latin for there is no generic or Canadian Internet drug available. I'm also given a tetanus shot, since I mentioned that while getting out of the lake over Father's Day weekend I found blood on the top of my foot. As a precaution, the shot contains a vaccination against diptheria, tetanus and pertussis — the last of which I believe weakens the immune system, making it susceptible to Paris Hilton references.
Unfortunately while my foot is on the mend, the rest of me is falling apart.
It's four o'clock in the morning and my teeth are keeping me awake. My molars and bicuspids clack together like keys on an old Underwood typewriter. The bedsheet is pulled up to my neck as one half of my body roasts while the lower extremities need a defrost setting. I'm a 37-year-old man seemingly going through menopause.
While I've always been mathematically challenged — I'm among the 4/3 who have trouble with fractions — even I realize that rounding up the decimal point of a 103.9 temperature equals a trip to the emergency room. My family physician calls ahead which means skipping the potential casting call for "Sicko II” in the ER waiting room. After a battery of tests — thankfully none involving positive terminals or cold cranking amps — I'm wheeled upstairs. This will be my first overnight stay in a hospital, as a patient, since I had my tonsils removed — in 1979.
Held captive in my hospital bed by a raging fever and a nearby IV pole, I'm overly aware of broken bits of conversation in the hallway and beeps and blips of medical machines. Lying in a pool of my own sweat one thought comes to mind: why don't hospital gowns have pockets? Also, in the age of cutting edge biomedical technology why can't someone stitch together more than a minimal effort to cover up our gluteus maximus?
To pass time, I thumb through a National Geographic article on malaria with a picture of a mosquito magnified to the size of a cantaloupe; suddenly my foot starts itching
While I barely notice early morning blood pressure checks, I'm very in tune to the television down the hall. Actually it's the volume, a bit loud for daytime viewing, let alone 3 a.m. What really bothers me, however, is that for ten minutes I toss and turn trying to identify the movie. After consulting the Rolodex of useless knowledge — otherwise known as my brain — I come up with the answer: "Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.” Now if only I could get out my bed and crown Frodo with his remote control.
It is about this time that a mysterious cough joins in the feverish fun. As the maladies start stacking up, I figure I'm destined for the isolation ward; a bubble boy test case for medical students. At this point I'm ready for a face full of pillow a la Jack Nicholson in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” or at least a chocolate chip cookie sedative from the hospital cafeteria.
Then something odd happens: I start feeling better. The cough disappears — mine, not my roommate's that sounds like he's trying to dislodge a cat — and my fever is reduced to a low boil. The doctors conclude that I'm a victim of circumstance: a foot infection compounded by a nasty reaction to a tetanus shot. Five hours later I'm wearing clothes with buttons and zippers and breathing in fresh air for the first time in 46 hours.
A week later and the only reminder of my hospital stay is one last pill and the sticky residue of IV tape. Funny how the human body works — although I wouldn't call it hilarious.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com