Part III: Gallbladder Disease

It was at this point that most people I think would tend to quit. Andy and I had tried our best to secure diagnosis and treatment for some disorder that was affecting me, and yet, our efforts were thwarted at each turn. With a heavy heart I turned toward my family and advice from home to help recover from whatever dastardly disease was attacking my insides.

Hope was restored after speaking to a doctor in the States. He recommended a series of blood tests and x-rays that would help determine the extent of my difficulties and hopefully guide some sort of treatment plan while still allowing me to remain in Grenada and study for my various exams.

So, after completing my Neuroscience midterm after only 1 hour (those of you who have never taken neuroscience should scoff lightly at this remark – with 80 questions all requiring some serious second and third order logic and mental capacity, it was no small feat) I proceeded again to the on-campus clinic.

Armed with notes from my doctor and more information, I got to see a different doctor than the one who originally prescribed antibiotics for my virus. After reviewing what I told him, this doctor decided that the gastroenterologist at home was mistaken, and instead of the tests my doctor wanted preformed, I would instead be receiving an ultrasound of my gallbladder in order to rule out gallbladder disease.

Normally, I wouldn’t mind such a simple deviation from the plan, but the fact that he completely ignored everything I had said and just made his own plan, I was a little upset. Additionally, getting an ultrasound required getting an appointment somewhere in the city, taking the bus, getting copies of the exam, bringing them back the next day and hoping the doctor would read them and find the problem.

The last straw had been reached and broken. After consulting several students and family members and doctors, it was decided I would fly to Miami to see a real doctor and be treated in a real hospital. I booked the tickets, got my walking papers from the university saying I would be missing a few days and left the next morning.

My mom met me in Miami and we went to the nearest recommended hospital where we were met by a GI specialist recommended by my doctor from Milwaukee. He admitted me to the hospital and ordered a series of tests designed to test my mental stamina. Well, actually, I had to drink the contrast for an abdominal CT, which was horrible, and then prepare myself for an upper-endoscopy the next morning, all while knowing I had not moved my bowels in ten days. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling well at this point.

The CT went well and the contrast worked miracles on my slow-moving intestines, increasing their secretion and moving fluid very quickly from one end to the other. This adequately prepared me for the new experience in the morning. The endoscopy was pleasant; I don’t remember a thing.

But, as a result of my slow moving bowels and the lack of information from the blood tests and a negative scope and cat-scan, I was given a wonderful medication called magnesium citrate. This works to essentially remove everything from your insides. I can say that after two doses, I was lucky to have insides left!

Unfortunately, after all this work, the doctors in Miami did not understand the fact that I did not live in Miami and needed to get back to school at some point. After arriving on a Wednesday and having my round of exams, they wanted me to leave the hospital on Saturday and come back on Monday for another procedure. I explained that I didn’t exactly have that luxury; they just suggested I spend Sunday in the hospital and have the exam on Monday anyway.

My mother and I had hit another last straw. We decided to head to Milwaukee to be treated by doctors who knew me and would be willing to help. Sadly, this was on the same day that I was still working out the magnesium citrate, and it was still working. It was an airplane ride that I am not interested in remembering!

After returning to Milwaukee, I saw my GI specialist and he recommended that I have what would come to be my most fun procedure yet: a colonoscopy. The truth is that I have absolutely no memory of the procedure (but the pictures from inside my bowels are pretty sweet), but I have a complete and horrible memory of taking the Fleet’s phospho-soda the night before and preparing my body for the procedure. The Fleet’s works about ten times better than the magnesium citrate and it works a lot faster. I was in some pure agony about twelve hours; then I got my versed on the table and was out. My next memory is of my dad asking if I thought I could walk to the car.

After all these tests and all these doctors, no one had found anything. It was suggested I head back to school with some new medications and tough it out until the end of the semester. Since there were only two months left, I thought that it shouldn’t be too hard and that I would be able to handle the regimen of medication and get through it.

What a foolish thought.

Part II: The Downtown Medical Centre

When we last parted ways, I was recovering well from a viral or bacterial infection in my throat. The good news is that, in Grenada, we don't need no stinkin ' lab tests to determine the actual nature of the illness, we just indiscriminately treat with antibiotics. I'm sure that my local intestinal flora and fauna were thrilled with that decision.

Medically, after recovering from this illness, I was doing pretty well. I was enjoying, as much as could be expected, my second term at medical school. This current term has a more interesting schedule than would be considered common for most university students. We take Neuroscience and Physiology for the entire semester, one lecture of each of these classes per day. Additionally, for the first three weeks of classes, we took Genetics. This entailed two lectures of per day. We then took the final exam in genetics and are officially the world's most knowledgeable geneticists, or something like that.

We swiftly (as in, the morning after our genetics final) transitioned into Immunology. So, at that point, we were taking Immunology, Neuroscience and Physiology, one lecture in each class per day. We were lucky enough to finish Immunology on Monday of this week with our final exam. This of course transitioned smoothly into Parasitology, a class in which I had my first two lectures this morning. We will finish Parasites in three weeks and then have a week of solely Neuro and Physio as we prepare for their respective final exams.

One could assume that this has been an interesting schedule to follow. Rest assured, we have also continued to randomly have Clinical Skills this term, and they have continued to impress, canceling lectures without informing the student body and demanding written reports of cases that they have, in fact, already written for us. It's been great!

So, during all of this greatness, I began noticing some problems with my digestive tract. Specifically, I was becoming increasingly nauseous, both during the day and during the night. I would wake up at night and feel like throwing up, but nothing would ever happen. It was like being stuck in the worst hangover, without a headache, just totally unable to eat. In fact, when I felt hungry and tried to eat, it just made things worse. It felt as though my entire intestinal system was rebelling against me and there was nothing I could do about it.

After several weeks of increasingly bad symptoms and the lack of any sort of recovery, I, along with the help of my friends, decided it was time for action. Instead of visiting the on-campus clinic, I would make my way to the Downtown Medical Centre and see a competent doctor there; someone who could order blood tests or x-rays or general medical things and get me back on my feet.

And so, on a Wednesday, I called the clinic and scheduled an appointment with Dr. Friday, for Friday. Already I was feeling better. It was almost as though I couldn't lose with this sort of luck, having a doctor named after one of the best days of the week. I even called back on Friday morning to confirm said appointment:

- "Hi, my name is Patrick and I'm calling to confirm my appointment with Dr. Friday this afternoon."
- "No problem, just come on in."
- "So, the doctor is there seeing patients right now?"
- "Yes, and you are on the schedule."

It's as though all my cares were vanishing in the wind. Only one problem remained.

- "So, where are you located?"
- "Well, do you know the market hill? Near the big hill road?"
- "Oh, of course, are there any other landmarks you can give me?"
- "Sure, it's down the block from the jewelers."

I can already tell that this is going to go well. So, Andy (who has graciously agreed to drive me, while using Angie's car) and I hop into the car and attempt to navigate our way downtown. In Grenada, there are only about three named streets, and everything else is just by landmark. To get downtown, one must follow the Main Road around the Carenage and through the Tunnel. Well, we managed to find the tunnel on the second pass of a one-street, going behind a grocery store and through an alley. Fortunately, the one-way tunnel took us right into the heart of St. George's and we were able to drive straight through the entire city center without once seeing the Downtown Medical Center.

Finally, we found it. It was located on a hill (big surprise), right next to the huge outdoor vegetable market (another amazing discovery). The big problem at this point was that there were no places to park. So, after all the work we put into actually finding the place, we decided to drive back out around the Carenage (leaving town by about two miles) and catching the Reggae bus back downtown. All the while, of course, I was feeling sick and the two of us should have been studying for the neuroscience midterm we were due to take the following Monday.

Finally, we were able to find the clinic and entered through a non-descript door on the second floor. I walked to the receptionist, said I was there to see Dr. Friday, gave my name, and she politely told us to have a seat while waited. This was at approximately 2.00pm. Finally, around 2.45, she said, "Are you hear to see Dr. Friday?" Almost speechless, I responded, "Yes, I had an appointment."

"Oh," she replied, "Well, the doctor isn't here right now, but he should be back at 3.15." I seriously thought I was going to have a heart attack while sitting in the waiting room - and I was there for my stomach! Andy and I briefly conferred and we decided since it had been so much work getting down there that we would stick it out and wait until the doctor arrived.

As 3.15 turned to 3.45, the receptionist thought it would be a good idea to ask another pertinent question, specifically, "Are you here for medical treatment?"
- Wait, what? "Yes, I'm here to the doctor."
- "So, you need medical attention, is that why you're here?

Oh my God. "Yes, I am here to see the doctor about a medical condition." For those of you who haven't been to Grenada, this might seem confusing. Wait, this is confusing. What the hell was she saying?
- "Oh, OK. Well, he still isn't here, but it should be soon. Can you please fill out this card indicating your contact information and why you are here?"

Again, Andy and I decided that we would wait slightly longer to see what would happen. Finally, a doctor walked through the door and went into his examination room. I asked the receptionist how long she thought it would be before I got to see him (keeping in mind that we still had our neuroscience midterm the following Monday). She replied that although he indeed was a doctor, he was actually the dermatologist and would be seeing all the other patients in the waiting room before me. If I still wanted, I could pay the fee and see him after he was finished with everyone else in front of us.

It was at this point that we decided it was time go! We took the reggae bus back to the car and headed back to campus, having accomplished nothing but frustration during the entire afternoon and falling further behind on our studying. Welcome to Grenadian health care.