Warning: The following post is about all things GI. Leave now if you need to.
As some of you know, I've been struggling with an ongoing digestive problem, perhaps stemming from my ill-fated milk consumption in Guatemala, perhaps stemming from a generally messed up GI system and bad genes. But lately, I thought things were looking up. I no longer had amoebas, I could tolerate some dairy, the offending gall bladder was excised, I was no longer pregnant or planning to become so, and I figured my system would slowly start to heal. I was wrong.
Since having my gall bladder removed, I've been to the ER not once but twice, once for excruciating pain of unknown origin, and once just last month, for uncontrollable vomiting. After the first trip, I returned to my GI surgeon in late summer, who ordered a battery of tests (and then lost the results) and referred me to another kind of GI specialist, whose first available appointment was mid-November, which was then changed to mid-December. Aggravating.
And then I ended up back in the hospital, and I got really angry. Well, first I was really, really sick, but then I was angry. And I kept calling this new specialist's office until I finally got someone new and sympathetic and resourceful, who rescheduled me with another doctor for an appointment last week. Do you hear the heavenly choruses singing? My plan was to arrive at the office with printouts of all my test results, with all the questionable results highlighted, so we could avoid wasting "well, let's review your case" time and necessitating yet another meeting.
And yet, still, we wasted time, and the doctor was late even though his office called and asked me to come in early...so I could wait for him for LONGER? And after semi-listening and giving me lectures about physiology in virtual baby talk and poking my tummy a bit, he decided I had...wait for it...IBS. Umm, Doc, that's doctor talk for "we have no idea what's wrong." But he was so sure of his diagnosis, he was ready to prescribe me...wait for it again...anti-depressants. Umm, Doc, that's tantamount to saying "we have no idea what's wrong, but we're pretty sure you're imagining things" and that's just plain insulting.
Upshot? No resolution and still in GI limbo. LAME!