Commentary: The dangers of self-diagnosis

My late husband, Lee, used to say that I had a tendency to jump to “confusions.”

Last Monday, I began having symptoms.

I am never sick, but I had been particularly stressed lately, and I know that is bad for my immune system. So after several visits to the bathroom in quick succession, off to the computer I went for some serious research!

I chose one of the medical websites that had my three main symptoms in bold print, and I scrolled to information about likely causes of the unpleasant combo.

Just as I suspected, I had the stomach flu.

I read the whole article and learned that the flu can last from one to 10 days, the gestation period is usually 48 hours, and after the symptoms subside, you remain contagious for up to three days. (I ignored the methods of contamination, because, three out of four, well ...)

Three days! I had been with someone two days earlier who’d just recovered from the stomach flu! I looked at my calendar for the coming week and canceled two luncheon engagements, including one on Friday with Lillian.

After two days of unpleasantness, I dashed off an email to Lillian, whose birthday lunch I’d postponed. I said I still had severe upper-abdominal pain, plus a distended stomach that made me look six months pregnant.

Then I went to bed.

Wednesday morning, I awoke feeling much better. I poked at my stomach and smiled.

It was over! And then I stood up and nearly fell sideways. I was dizzy and clammy, and my body urged me to get to the bathroom quickly. After a bout of the worst of the symptoms, I phoned my daughter, Cheryl.

“Is this 9-1-1?” I asked her.

She chuckled.

“Yeah,” she said. “What’s up? Are you feeling worse?”

“Much worse. I’m pretty sure I have to go to urgent care or maybe Hoag. I don’t want to wait an hour for the doctor’s office to open.”

“I’ll be right there,” she said. “I’m taking you to Hoag.”

I threw on minimal clothing and sat at my computer to wait for Cheryl. And there was Lillian’s response to my previous night’s email. It said, “I really don’t like your symptoms. Please go see your doctor tomorrow or to urgent care.”

Lillian is a retired nurse. I laughed at the timing, but was glad to have my decision validated by my wise and knowledgeable friend.

I was admitted to a room in the E.R. before I had even finished filling out the paperwork.

So, it wasn’t the flu!

But I was still pretty sure I knew what it was. About a dozen years earlier I’d had severe upper abdominal pain. I’d had an endoscopy. The official diagnosis was pre-ulcerous lesions. The doctor cauterized them, and I was in and out in no time, according to my recollection.

I asked Cheryl to notify her nearby siblings and to make it clear that, although I had been admitted to the hospital, it was no big deal. I would likely be home the next day. I also asked her to call John, our general practitioner, and he came the E.R. to make his recommendations.

I was assigned a bed on the 10th floor, pre-ICU, where patients are constantly monitored. As a tech assistant rolled me through the hospital corridors, I began to sob.

The last time I’d traversed these halls, just over two years ago, Lee had died.

John had scheduled an appointment for the next afternoon for a surgeon to perform an endoscopy and a colonoscopy, and it turned out that I have four ulcers I didn’t know about, one of which had apparently been slowly bleeding.

I was in Hoag for four days. Cheryl made successive updates to my kids and to an increasing number of near and dear.

I had plenty of time to make phone calls (which I generally avoid, preferring wordy emails). I thanked Lillian for her advice, saying I’d read her response to my email the morning that I woke up dizzy, etc.

She said, “You’re lucky you woke up.”

At Hoag, I was fussed over by a wonderful bunch of nurses, aides and other staff and watched over by John. I received ulcer med by IV, plus four units of blood and two of iron. My hemoglobin rose from 6.5 to 11.5, and John allowed me to be released a day earlier than anticipated.

What I took home from this experience — in addition to a beautiful orchid delivered during a visit by four friends — were several additions to my store of knowledge:

•My blood type is AB Positive; I can accept transfusions from either A or B blood-type donors.

•Patients should listen when someone explains patients’ rights — they might need to exercise them.

•Though I’ll probably still jump to confusions, I should not self-diagnose.

•If I’m sick for more than one day, I need to call my doctor.

You should do that too.

Corona del Mar resident LIZ SWIERTZ NEWMAN is the author of “A Widow’s Business.”