All We Need Is a Doctor's Approval

Upon taking up residence in the hospital room, two things quickly become clear. Most immediately and least importantly, my new roommate is in a lot of pain. This guy is clearly in agony, leaving Sib4, my sister-in-law (SiL2) who has joined us, and I to chat quietly while desperately trying to ignore the sounds of agony coming from the other side of the curtain that separates us. 

Second and of greater consequence, nothing can happen until the doctor approves it. So while the nurses and patient care technicians are busy getting me situated -- trading my street clothes for hospital pajamas; taking my blood pressure, temperature, and pulse; etc. -- they can't a) give me any more painkillers, b) tell me what to do about the insulin shot that I would normally be taking at this time of day (except to tell me not to take it), or c) get me started on the colonoscopy prep that is the next required step in this little adventure. 

So basically, we're in a holding pattern waiting for the doctor. 

After a couple of hour the nurse reports that the doctor has approved painkillers (Yay!). Can't say I'm a fan of the woozy feeling that comes when the shot hits, but that passes after a few minutes and for a couple of hours thereafter what Sib4 has taken to calling my "labor pains" disappear. Unfortunately, still no word on the insulin or colonoscopy prep.

At 9:00 visiting hours are over so Sib4 and SiL2 have to leave. Now it's just me and the roommate. Naturally, since he still seems to be completely consumed by his pain, I continue to ignore him. (That's what I tell myself, anyway; in truth, I probably would've ignored him anyway.) But it's not like I'm alone; the nurses and PCTs who keep wandering in to check on the one or the other of us are making the room feel a bit like Grand Central Station. 

Finally, at midnight, the hospitalist arrives. We chat about my diabetes and she figures out the adjustment to my insulin dosages to compensate for the fact that I won't be eating for awhile. Then she talks me through the plan for the colonoscopy. I can't eat or drink anything for the next twelve hours, aside from the liters of colonoscopy prep which I will drink by the cup full ever fifteen minutes until it's gone. (That's okay. I didn't really want to get any sleep tonight. I'd much rather stay up all night drinking medicinal nastiness and running to the bathroom.) By late morning tomorrow, everything should be clear and I'll be ready for the colonoscopy. 

It certainly sounded good in theory.