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At the urging of several friends, the health care debates and in a hope that this might help someone, I am finally telling the story of what I went through. It is a true story, very long and covers many issues that maybe pertinent to the current health care debates. I will not say it is or isn't. I have seen government run health care and I have seen private run health care, both have problems and some advantages. I will let you decide.
Please forgive me for its length. It covers many, many years and has many details that are pertinent to the story.
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As a child growing up, I was taught that Doctor's were great men that I should look up to.
It was reinforced at a young age (about 4) when I had an accident and tore my tear duct. The Doctor managed to save my eye sight and (from what I understand) created the first surgery to repair and place the tear duct back.
Eventually, this pedestal that Doctors had been placed on was ripped away in the worse way.
At the age of 19, I was still my Father dependent and going to military Doctors. So, when my appendix became inflamed, I had emergency surgery to have it removed. There were some problems and I became infected and spent about a week in the hospital on antibiotics.
A few years after this, I joined the USAF and after training ended up at an ATC (Air Training Command) base. As an Airmen, I was constantly mistaken as a student. Students that were new to the Air Force did not get the same privileges as permanent party.
I was in good shape. I ran each day and did other exercises, I was on the squadron softball team (I was actually a player/coach), I was on a bowling league, played flag football and did many other things with the people in our barracks. I felt as if I had made several friends and we were never lacking for things to do. At the very least, we would go to the Airmen's club, hang out, play pool or just dance and party.
The day before my nightmare started, was like most Sundays. I had softball practice followed by a bunch of us going to the club for the two for one steak night. After dinner we met in the club and had several beers dancing and pool games.
When I woke up that day, I had a mild headache and my stomache was just this side of praying to the great white porcelain god. That was unusual, because I had only had about four beers and although I had attained a buzz, I had not over indulged to a point of making myself sick.
I got ready for work and head out. After a few hours of working, they sent our office home due to some work that needed to be done by the civil engineers and I went back to the barracks. By the time I arrived, my nausea had grown exponentially and eventually led to me losing it. Tis was followed by an extreme urgency of my bowels.
As I sat on the toilet, I felt as if I was having diarrhea, but when I got up, all I saw was bright red blood. This was followed by needing to throw up again and that too was full of blood.
I immediately got up and went to the hospital. I did not own a car at the time and I had to ride the base bus. Each bump, turn, and stop hurt like hell. It was as if someone was stabbing me in the gut. Yet, I had always had a high threshold for pain and was able to make it without screaming out - I was biting my tongue though.
When I arrived at sick call, I was the only person there. It was afternoon and most individuals going to sick call had already been there.
For those who have been through these cattle calls, you know that it is an assembly line. They check your blood pressure, temperature and fill out your "chief complaint." This is followed by a long wait (even if you are the only one there) and then you get to see the doctor.
This meeting was extremely frustrating and being a new Airman, I had little clue as to how to deal with officers, much less doctors. In this case, the doctors were officer and made it even more difficult. Remember, I believed doctors were great men. To top this off, my basic training said you followed orders and when you had only nine months in the military you had little experience as to how to deal with officers.
To put it bluntly, the doctor accused me of wanting to get out of training. He did not listen to my heart, he did not listen to my gut, he did not touch me at all. There were no tests, there were no x-rays and played down what I had told him about the blood in my stools and vomit.
Eventually, he told me I would not know what blood in my stool would look like and called it a virus. He told me he was going to "give me the day off that I wanted" and sent me back to the barracks. I rode the bus back and silently cried at the pain I was having.
I spent the rest of that day and that night lying running back and fourth to the restroom. I found myself sobbing at the pain and praying that it would end.
The next day, I got up and went back to sick call. The idea of the bus and how painful it had been, brought me to the decision to walk to the hospital. It was only about six blocks away, so I cradle my gut and carefully walked. At several points along the way, I stopped and sat down and let the pain subside. No where along the way could I stand straight. Still, the six blocks took me over an hour to traverse.
Little did I know that my forced walk would convince the doctor that I was not that bad off.
The Tuesday morning cattle call was the same as the prior day. Just more people waiting then myself. Again the Doctor did not do any test, x-rays, or even listen to my heart. Again, the doctor did not even touch me. Even though it was a different doctor.
I told him about the blood and he told me that I would not know what blood in the stools looked like. I pushed the issue and asked why my stools were bright red. He immediately called me "Airman" in a show of rank and authority and explained that if I had blood in my stools, it would be black and tar like.
I told him I was vomiting and could not hold anything down. He told me I needed Pepto Bismol and that I was just dehydrated. Then he told me that it was 104 degrees in the shade and that I should have been drinking more water. He asked me how I had gotten there and I told him how. He just laughed.
With that, he sent me back to the barracks. I tried riding the bus again, but it was painful that I felt as if I would pass out more then once. I finally gt off and practically crawled the two blocks back to my barracks. I felt the tears coming down my face and took deep breaths. I finally, figured that I was making a bigger deal of it then it must have been. If I was really that bad off. The Doctor would have put me in the hospital. Wouldn't he?
My room mate brought me some Pepto, but I could not keep it down. I tried to drink some water and could no keep it down either. Through the day and into the night, I found myself passing out.
For Wednesday Sick Call, I talk a friend into taking me to the hospital. It was more of the same. The ride was painful, but not as bad as the bus had been. The sick call was another doctor that did not listen to what I said. He excused the blood in my stool as the Pepto.
The difference was that this time the doctor ran a urine test and found my white count was extremely high. He called it Mono and tried to send me home again. The problem was that it was against the regulations, because I had come to the hospital three days in a row. I soon found myself in the hospital.
I thought I would finally get some relief. I had no idea that relief was not in sight. I had no idea that my intestines were spliting wide open and that I was bleeding internally.
PART TWO:
