The Bloody Doors Off

Have I told you about the time I had pancreatitis?

Okay. The second time.

Because it wasn’t properly diagnosed the first time.

Because pancreatitis pain begins radiating through your lower back and not, one would assume, the digestive tract.

It fucked me up for 3 days the first time.

I have a memory of a Skype call (something to do with theatre, that’s how vague it is). No. It was a cold read of an extremely early draft of A Song For Rachel. Like, second draft?

This was. Hmmm. Between 2008 and 2011.

So yeah. I could barely move I was in so much pain. But the emergency room doctor diagnosed it, the night prior, as muscular spasms and prescribed a painkiller that didn’t help.

That was wintertime.

Yes.

Because it was spring when it hit me the second time. I’d been at Sunday dinner with my family (mom & Larry, Kevin, Wayne, Donna, their kids). Same back pain. Only got worse as Kevin drove me home. Stopped off at a pharmacy to get Motrin. I barely made it to the couch in my Greektown one-bedroom. I laid down and an hour later the pain ratcheted up to a nine.

I called 911, they sent an ambulance. I got wheeled into Michael Garron Hospital shortly after midnight. I spent hours screaming in pain before they’d give me relief. One CT scan later, and I was being admitted.

Thank god for morphine.

I was in there for five days. They never did figure out what was wrong. They said a lot of people who have pancreatitis suffer long-term. I was one of the fortunate ones.

Wait.

That might’ve been the third time.

I once ended up at St. Joseph’s because I couldn’t digest my food. They had to pump my stomach.

Nah. I don’t think that was pancreatitis.

That was in the 90s.

Fuck. I’m one lucky sunovabitch.