In the Vein of It

24 July 2021

I sat on the exam table in the “shorts” for the second time. The billowy shorts were made from the same type of material as those lovely blue hospital gowns. When I took off my pants, put on the shorts and looked down, I expected to see three other sets of legs popping out. Never in my life have a pair of shorts made my legs look slim. I nearly asked if I could take the shorts home, but then thought better of it. The volume in these shorts screamed, “large and in charge.” The nurse said the shorts were designed to be universal, for all sexes and all sizes. They literally defined the phrase “one size fits all.” I haven’t always found this claim to be true in the past, but this piece of clothing actually fulfilled its promise. 

In the same moment I realized I looked like a clown from the waist down, the doctor walked in. I had never been to a vein specialist before. I suppose I can check it off my bucket list now.  I felt ridiculous, sitting on that exam table in my special shorts, staring at a man who had gone to school for many years to be an expert on veins. For as long as I can remember, I have detested talking about veins. And don’t even get me started about looking at them. Now, I had seen all the veins on the outside of my legs and on the inside, thanks to a very detailed scene the ultrasound depicted on the monitor. That was a little too up close and personal for comfort. Today was the big reveal. What would my veins have to say for themselves in that ultrasound? 

At my age, 36, the odds of needing an ultrasound usually involved a new tenant taking up residence in one’s uterus. There’s no bun in this oven. My body simply had decided to act like an asshole. The pictures on the walls contained the human body and its entire vein system. I took note that there weren’t any cute babies on the wall, or in the waiting room. And I only had to take one look around the waiting room to understand that menopause was a distant memory for all of the female patients. Clearly, this wasn’t an office for that kind of ultrasound.

My PTSD came flooding back when I realized I had been in a situation eerily similar to this one.  Back then, I wasn’t there for problematic veins, instead, I was there for an unresponsive digestive system. Things in those days weren’t moving smoothly, if they were moving at all. Several doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong, so they told me to get a colonoscopy to rule out anything serious. I was maybe 24, sitting in a waiting room filled with three sweet elderly women who, combined, had at least 150 years on me. They smiled at me, regularly, and each of them looked worried that I had gotten lost and was in the wrong waiting room. Luckily, they were too polite to ask.

Back in my current exam room we didn’t discuss bowel movements, or a lack of bowel movements, we were knee deep in all things related to veins. At least it was a change of subject. Still fairly gross, but not as bad as talking about your stool with a stranger, or worse meeting the stranger who will be inserting a camera up your bum. So far, this time was automatically better because I hadn’t chugged gallons of sandy liquid that is required to consume 24 hours before a colonoscopy. I also didn’t have to station myself on a toilet for hours in order to pee all the contents of my colon through my butt. But the best part, at least for me, was not fasting for an entire 24 hours. I couldn’t help but think that things were looking up, even if I didn’t know why my veins had turned on me by growing new, painful clusters on my legs. 

The vein Doc asked me about my symptoms that led to the referral my doctor sent on my behalf. I told him I started noticing vein growth on my thighs. They no longer lurked under the surface like they were born to do. Now they were multiplying and spreading like wildfire. Then the new veiny areas began to look swollen. Once they started hurting, consistently,  I threw in the towel. Enough was enough. I wasn’t pleased with the presence of these trespassers changing the landscape of my legs. Plus, the pulsating pain was utterly too dramatic. They hurt when I was on my feet during my forty hour work week. Compression socks didn’t make a difference. They ached more if I didn’t immediately go home and sit. I resolved I didn’t have it in me to live by my veins’ schedule. No way was I prepared to obey the demands of  these newfound “diva veins.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you. The problem isn’t your veins,” the doctor said. That was the good news he had promised. Finally, a doctor was telling me something in my body was working. I made a mental note to pick up a scratch ticket on my way home. He went on to say that this conclusion simply ruled out one cause for the vein growth and pain. He said it could be a pinched nerve or some issue with the discs in my back. Funny he should mention that because I had just been to the chiropractor that morning to work out the kinks in my lower back and left leg. For the last couple of weeks I had the pleasure of sciatica pain. Christ, this kind of pain is a real overachiever. I had it standing, sitting, when I first woke up in the morning. Any hour of the day was fair game. He said the veins and the pain could have stemmed from the sciatica, which probably stemmed from something else. He wasn’t sure because he was a vein specialist and could only speak to that. He told me I’d have to go back to my doctor and start over to rule out other causes in order to figure out where the problem started. It sounded expensive. 

I asked if it could have something to do with diabetes. All roads commonly lead back to that. He hesitated. “I wouldn’t rule it out, but usually neuropathy damage starts in the feet, not in the upper half of the lower body.” Great, I thought. If it was diabetic neuropathy, my body couldn’t even get its shit together to fuck up properly. This was no time for my body to take a stand and mystify this doctor and whoever followed. I don’t know if it’s more annoying when your body doesn’t behave, or when your misbehaved body can’t even fail right. 

Often I try to imagine a lull period, when nothing else besides a deadbeat organ is going wrong with my body. Sadly, that doesn’t seem likely anytime soon. But at least because of that deadbeat organ, I met my out of pocket maximum for my insurance in May. I suppose having an expensive disease is the one good thing in a sucky situation like insurance. Well, that’s a stretch. Finding something positive about dealing with health insurance companies has been impossible in my experience. I’ll blow my wad, and then some, in the first few months of the year and then my insurance company will finally have to pay for something. And then, if all goes well, they should be covering the bill for all medical costs. Although, who knows, since I’m still receiving claims from Cigna, saying they won’t cover certain items from months ago. They send a bullshit letter explaining why something isn’t covered and a bill.

I guess when you’re a diabetic you’re always in the thick of it, especially when it comes to other problems in your body. That is, other problems besides your pancreas calling in sick every single day for three decades. Nothing was found on my colonoscopy, so the doctor told me I probably had incredibly slow digestion because I was diabetic. Fucking great. I wanted to say thanks for putting me through hell and then telling me it was just because of my pancreas that I was having issues.  This vein problem could be this godforsaken disease acting up, or it could be something else. At this point, I don’t know which route would be more stressful. 

More tests and visits with specialists are in my near future. It would be nice to know what in the hell is causing this vein growth and sciatica pain. Plus, it would be really great not to be in pain so frequently. I suppose I should rule out everything, especially since Cigna will be footing my medical expenses until December 31st. If ever there was a time to do it, it’s now. In the meantime, I’ll keep popping Aleve and changing out ice packs until I can get scheduled to see other specialists. I just hope there will be more enormous blue shorts in my future. One can only hope.