4:21 p.m. - 2007-10-12
You're Nobody 'Til Strangers Clean Your Puke Off a $100k Machine.
Because I love you so much, today's entry comes with a warning: Don't eat and read right now.
Last weekend basically consisted of me trying to convince Erik that I felt JUST AWESOME and no longer needed all these tests, particularly the CT-scans. As my doctor has ordered me to record my temperature four times daily for him, I was very excited when, on Saturday, I started reading 98.8 and 99.0. "See, I'm all better! SEE?! SEE?!"
All was lost though when Erik took his temperature with the same thermometer and it read 95.3. And since he was not in a coma, it was obvious the thermometer was not accurate. The only thing that seemed to be reliable was that my temp was always 3 degrees higher than his. It seems like the thing just needed to be cleaned and let alone to dry before it went back to listing me as HOT HOT HOT!
Erik treated me like the big baby I was by offering bribes of a special reward if I went to my tests.
"The new Frames CD?" I sniffed. "Or a necklace at Kohl's to go with my green sweater?"
It's actually good that Erik lets me be a big child and have tantrums once in awhile. It gets it out of my system to the point where I finally make the decision to do the right thing on my own instead of being cajoled into it. So I dutifully went to my blood tests on Monday and my CT-scans on Tuesday. And thought about the new CD I'd be playing soon, of course.
The blood testing was fine. I think I've already told you all about how much I love to look at my blood when I was a regular donor at the Red Cross. On Monday, I marveled aloud that the collection they took (in a bottle shaped like a small carafe) looked like a fine Merlot. The phlebotomist really laughed. I think he was just happy I wasn't a fainter.
In preparation for the Cat Scan, I had to pick up these two rather large thick frothy shakes- one to drink the night before, and one to drink 45 minutes before. And you had to swig it all back in 10-15 minutes. It's supposed to help your organs show up on the scans or something. I pictured it as being a glow-in-the-dark magic formula and now my intestines would be day-glo yellow. Fantastic! I want to see!
It was a challenge just to keep that crap down, let me tell you. Waiting in the lobby with Erik, I joked with him about finding an emergency place to puke, if need be. We kept ourselves entertained by pointing out the possibilities. Plants, the hood of another patient's coat, etc.
When I was finally called in, I mentioned feeling a bit nauseated from the shakes. And right on cue, the technician gave me ANOTHER shake to drink-- this one small, but bubbly. Apparently to put air in my stomach. I think champagne would have done the same trick and really taken the edge off.
Then she started talking about my IV, and I was all like, "IV? What IV?" And then I felt like a total ignoramus when she showed me the form that I had signed, which specifically stated the risks of the IV.
But fine, whatever, I still consented. I really don't mind needles. It was the machine I was afraid of. Lying on a slab that pulls you in and out of a white domed coffin. Me no like small spaces. Me no like having no control. What if I'm too fat and I get stuck in the machine? What if I wind up on the evening news? What if there is some metal in my body that I wasn't aware of, and I'm sucked up to the top and die on impact?
The tech says that when the contrast dye in the IV starts running, I might feel warm all over. And I might feel like I wet myself. WTF??? She assures me that I won't have actually peed my pants, it will just feel that way. What the fuck are they giving you that makes you like you've been rendered incontinent but nothing comes out? Some magic trick.
She reassures me that I might not get any of this at all, that only some patients experience these side effects. Ok, fine. As long as I'm not actually pissing myself. So the machine starts sliding me in and out. The robot voice tells me when to take a breath, hold the breath, and let it out. There's even a little cartoon face on top of a guy with his cheeks puffed out, and one with a guy smiling. They alternate lighting up, depending on what you are supposed to do. In case I need cartoons to remind me how to breathe.
"Ok, here comes the dye through the IV!" Calls a male voice. (And I'm like, where the hell is this guy? I never saw a guy! Is it God?)
And I feel warm all over. I feel like I made wee-wee in my pants. OK, just like she said. All normal. Then I shreak, "IMGONNATHROWUP!" And there was no place to go. I'm trapped in a machine.
God's voice tells me to take deep breaths and turn my head to the side, but it's too late. I've puked everywhere. And because of the bubbly stuff they gave me to drink, it travels FAR.
The machine slides me out and I throw up some more. It is all over my face, soaked my hair, my chest, my right arm. And it is sprayed all over the uber-expensive machine. Now I'm crying in embarrassment and fear and agony.
Someone is wiping my face with paper towels. God says, "Are you OK to finish?"
Ever the jellyfish, I nod. Do you know how hard it is to hold your breath for 15-20 seconds right after you've yakked and while you are crying? Still, it was probably best that I agreed to continue. I couldn't have done that whole process again on another day. I don't think I would have come back.
When it's all over and I'm being slid out for the last time, the lady tech who had been treating me before and the hereto invisible guy are giving me paper towels. "This is Justin," she says.
God's name is Justin? How modern, I think.
"How many times a day does THAT happen?" I ask miserably.
"Oh, once or twice," Justin lied kindly.
"Some people just have a bad reaction to the dye in the IV."
Mighta been nice to know about that possibility, along with the magical wetting my pants phenomenon.
So I leave, my shirt and my hair soaked with puke. The only upside is that it doesn't smell like your standard horrible puke, but like those goddamned shakes. I come out of the room to see Erik, soaking wet and tears streaming down my face. I suspect other first-timers waiting in the lobby saw me and fled that afternoon.
And I didn't even get to go to Best Buy on the way home to get my CD. A layer of vomit came between me and The Frames.
So I still don't know the results of the blood tests or the CT-scans. This doctor only works on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 3-5. I sure hope the rest of the week is spent at various area hospitals and not at the country club. So my appointment isn't until next Thursday.
Have a good weekend, online friends. I hope I haven't spoiled your appetite for dinner tonight!
