So, two weekends ago I left work on Thursday knowing I wouldn’t be back until Monday. Ah, a three day weekend! My wife’s office was paying for our hotel Thursday night, and my Platinum Reward Points were paying for Friday and Saturday. Woot free room!
Saturday rolled around, and I didn’t feel right. I was starting to have trouble breathing, couldn’t bend over, couldn’t get comfortable. I texted my wife the following:”Don’t feel good got to lay down can’t go out for beer and pizza with the guys”
That’s all it said.
My wife, knowing me as she does, immediately picks me up and without asking drives me straight to the hospital. What can I say, she knows me well. If I can’t make it to beer and pizza with my old college buddies, I’m on death’s door.
I was having an attack of infectious pericarditis. The sack around my heart was infected and swelling up, causing such sweet blessed pain that I couldn’t even enjoy a beer.
No big deal, right? After all, once they did the CT scan and realized what they were dealing with the doctors gave me ibuprofen and knocked that shit right out. But they admitted me anyway.
There was a shadow that just happened to show up in my pancreas. They weren’t even looking there. Malignant Mucinous Tumor was the word I kept hearing. Oh shitkittens. My son is only 8 years old. I can’t have pancreatic cancer.
My wife and daughter cried, my parents drove hours to see me, my friends spent part of their weekend in the hospital with me to assure me everything was fine. I just ignored the whole thing because after all, I can’t die, right?
I got the biopsy results back today and they reveal no cancer in the tumor (somehow it is called a syst now, even though it’s still the same shitting little thing). I’m probably not going to die from this. I’ll probably see my boy grow up to break my heart in some way.