Danaclot, the heparin drip stick

Once again, I was a heparin hostage.

It all started last Sunday. Recovering from my most recent adventures as Blood Clot Boy, I felt some sharp pains in my chest, on the right side. The stabs only happened when I would take a deep breath, laugh, cough, turn in my sleep or see naked pictures of Rush Limbaugh which apparently are being sent as some really nasty computer virus.

Oh, sure. I could have just taken more cough drops, slept completely still (AKA funeral practice), stopped breathing (also funeral practice) or logged off the laptop where I was being lured by the sexiness that is Rush. But, being told that blood clots are nothing to sneeze at (or cough, breathe or turn), to be on the safe side I called my doctor's office. They got back to me in a half hour and suggested I go to the emergency room for some tests.

Well, until Friday afternoon I was embedded in the hospital. I just gave myself a shot in my belly fat - a trick you jock types with 6-pack abs can't do. So much for your muscles. But I thought belly shots were supposed to be fun.

Here's how I wound up being held captive by the Catholic hospital and now giving myself expensive liquid blood thinner for a few days.

First, if you want to get attention in the ER, just say they magic words, "chest pain." I barely had time to pee when they called my name and whisked me off behind a curtain. I told them my history and they ordered up a bedisde chest X-ray and a CT scan. Interestingly, this gave a woman from the billing department time to ring up my $50 copay - and to inquire about making my $250 copay on my last stay which ended on Feb. 13. Talk about a short billing cycle.

Aside from that, so far, so good. It only took about 40 minutes to get to the spinning ways of the scanning machine. Only thing is the dye didn't take, so the test results were no good.

I had to wait another hour or so for a VQ scan (and isn't med-speak hot?). They had to call in someone to do it, then had to find someone to read it on a Sunday afternoon. The test pretty much confirmed there was a clot on the lung - but without the CT they weren't sure if it was my old friend from February or a new pal along for the fun of a party by my ribs.

Since they weren't sure, the ER doctor talked with my doctor and a hematologist and presto, I was going to be admitted. By now it was after 3 p.m. To kill time, if not me, I was having fun listening to the other ailments: a kid with an ear infection; two bladder infection cases; a dude embarrassed by the knee surgery he had for skateboarding, and more so about the apparent infection setting in around the incisions; a blue collar type with an infected corn; and an elderly woman with her insulin needle stuck in her belly.

I was back in a room by 6 p.m. Good thing I had that Egg McMuffin on the way to the hospital as there was a SNAFU with my food and I didn't get fed again until 7 or so. And I was hooked up again with my old friendly nemesis, the heparin drip, there just in case I was throwing clots again, like an angry rock star had invaded my venous system. Throwing Clots. Good album title.

The hematologist stopped in to talk with me as did a few friends, including a Facebook buddy o' mine, a doctor who was nice enough to bring backup grub as I waited for my misplaced meal (which never showed up - I got stew instead).

While chowing on couscous I learned they were making sure I didn't have a fresh clot, which would mean getting a filter placed in my groin, which sounded a little too S&M for my tastes. But as my doc buddy pointed out, I could be starting the latest trend of body jewelry - and I am all about being on the edge. if not looking like The Edge.

Ever try to sleep in a hospital? How many times did you pee? Did you take a dump? Let's take some blood samples. And your bed makes electronic burping noises as it adjusts to your every movement. Surprisingly, somebody waking you from a deep sleep seems to do wonders for your blood pressure. My best readings came scared away - 116/56 if I remember correctly.

Ever given 14 blood samples before 6:30 a.m.? I felt the love Billy Bob Thornton must have had for Angelina Jolie. I also realized that drawing blood must be a thankless job. It's vampire-like waking people, tying off their arms, searching and pricking their veins, honing samples, dealing with bio-waste, then heading off with the push cart to the next room.

Devoid of my hemoglobin, I needed food - which could be the title of my biography. In this case it meant waiting 90 minutes for breakfast. To the hospital's credit, complaining about the service actually resorted in prompter meals the rest of my stay - and a $5 cafeteria gift certificate for my troubles.

Little did I know I would be here until Friday waiting for the levels of blood thinner A (heparin) to reach a certain level, while blood thinner B (coumadin) was reintroduced into my system. Well, there was that and an electrocardiogram, and a CT scan of the pelvis, and more bloodwork, and, best of all, a colonoscopy - all in the name of ruling out culprits in the case of the mysterious clottings.

If only it were like House, right? It would because I ate a parasite-bearing goldfish as a dare in college, and that, combined with an allergic reaction to the laundry detergent used by the Boeing CFO with whom I was having an illicit affair while on a trip to Hong Kong, led to dangerous blood clots typical of such combinations.

Nay - and luckily - cancers of various organs have been ruled out, to which I will be eternally grateful that I currently have good health insurance that allows me to do what the doctor asks.

What fun it was to drink a chalky mix for the pelvic CT scan. That was practice for downing the godawful gallon of electrolyte-laden joy that is the prep for the colonoscopy.

Now drinking a gallon of pretty much anything is going to leave you feeling, well, crappy. And that's exactly the goal here. You can pretend its KoolAide with the little flavor packets, but not really. The trick is to chug two pints at a time, then rest for 15 minutes or so. When you chug, you don't really have time to taste. I took two hours to finish thee foulness, and then it was off to the races.

TMI HERE: The first lap took about a half hour - and not too brag, but there was a bit too much water in the bowl for what I'm packing, so every time I would flush, I'd get this cold, tingling sensation between my legs (similar to the reaction of seeing those aforementioned photos of Rush Limbaugh). But flush I did and did and did and did and did as the magic fruit punch cleansed the colon to the point water was coming out of my ass.

It's a sexy way to spend an evening. Fittingly, I had American Idol playing in the background.

Four hours later, I was pretty much tapped out.

Oddly, they insisted on asking me how many times I went to the bathroom - to which I replied, just put the damn infinity sign on your chart. Hard to keep track to which nurse or aid I made the comment, as they seem to be on odd rounds. You get used to one or another, they leave you for another floor, another shift. There has not been one here dealing with me the whole time - and I wasn't even whining like the old lady down the hall one afternoon.

I felt sorry for her at first, but man she had a potty mouth. Imagine your grandmother saying "Get me out of here. Get me the fuck out of here" in a cry that was part hurting geriatric, part cat in heat, part that mean old lady in a scary movie.

But back to my screen test. All crapped out, I waited in anticipation, if not diapers, for my extreme close-up with a camera. It was supposed to happen at 9, but because of my heparin being shut off late, it was pushed back two hours, which was about 24 hours since my last meal.

I had to strip down to just a hospital gown (I had been wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt), which for some reason made me have a desire to head to an Old Country Buffet. Instead, I was wheeled to the staging area. They sprayed my throat with something that tasted like how a Toyota dealership smells. Nobody but me got that. In a move many people who have heard my bad jokes would appreciate, next they put a bit in my mouth.

And that's the last thing I remember before waking up watching my insides on TV.

Tipsy, I think I said something like, "Hey, so that's what my colon looks like. Pretty cool. Will anyone cuddle with me when this is over?"

But just like when I went to that frat party when that football player slipped something in my drink, I was left mostly naked under a blanket in a cold room for a half hour before I was sent back to my room.

Parched and famished and feeling hung over, I still was not allowed to eat. They even alerted food services not to take my call. The reason - I had no gag reflex. No joke needed, eh?

But 28 hours later, I fueled up my belly, mostly with good things as I was told I had no potentially problematic polyps, but needed more fruit, fiber and vegetables in my diet. Just nothing too seedy to fill some colon pockets.

Imagine that - a muddling middle aged suburban American male being told he needed to make better dietary choices.

Still, no answer for the clots, so I was sent home on folic acid (No, I AM NOT PREGNANT!), antacid, warfarin and, for the time being Lovenox shots. A pack of 10 goes for $200 on some insurance, so it's like drinking downtown. Me, I got the HMO price of a mere $50. Monday I learn if I can go back to being on just one thinner.

I remain a clotted mystery. My hematologist is still on the case. Maybe I should fess up about the goldfish and the sexy CFO so he can solve this mystery.