The CT Scan
So because my recent endoscopy/colonoscopy didn’t turn up much, my doctor recommended getting a CT scan of my abdomen and pelvis. I know this doesn’t sound like much fun, but believe me when I say, “Well, it wasn’t as bad as liquid-shitting.”
The plus side is that the hospital makes you pick up this barium goop to drink before the test, which allowed me to get the rough location of where I needed to be. See, the genius who decided our local hospital apparently felt like it’d be a really good, non-confusing idea to make it a giant circle. It strikes me as kind of odd, since most of the people frequent this particular hospital seem to be in their mid- to late-hundreds, that they’d go with a layout that can confuse a person who has reasonable mental faculties (sort of).
So I got the barium stuff, which is labeled “Berry Smoothie.” I dunno, I guess that’s a good name, but if you’re going to give somebody this chalky crud with a slight tinge of berry flavor, isn’t “Berry-Yum” the obvious choice?
Anyway, this evening I went in for the procedure. I was a little alarmed and aroused by how flirty the young, perky receptionist was. I mean…you don’t tip receptionists, right? This really was legitimate flirting? I dunno, maybe they secretly have to get dudes all bonered up before they do a pelvic CT scan, so this was all an elaborate ruse, but whatever. I’ll take what I can get. So after about 20 minutes of that excitement, she sent me to a “men’s waiting room,” even though I didn’t have to change or anything. I just sat there like an idiot.
Two magazines sat on an old coffee table: Ebony and Better Homes and Gardens. I would have laughed at how out-of-date the Michael Jackson cover on Ebony was, except that it was only December of last year. That alone piqued my interest, so I picked it up and thumbed to the cover story, an interview with the man himself, in which he appeared suspiciously less insane than he usually does. The interview actually engrossed me, as Jackson described his strange, celebrity-surrounded youth and the magical fact that, unlike most songwriters who are lucky just to hear finished albums or maybe see a concert, his inspirations were usually sitting across the room from him. How insane would it be to literally sit and watch from across the room as something like Songs in the Key of Life is being written and recorded?
Then, the doctor’s assistant showed up. A youngish African-American woman, she gave me a puzzled look when she saw the Ebony in my hand. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t embarrassed, but should I really be embarrassed? I know Ebony is targeted at the black community, but shouldn’t I be allowed to read it without getting funny looks from people of any race?
She took me into the mystery room where the magic happens, then she jabbed me with an IV that was considerably more painful than the one from the colonoscopy. It wasn’t so much the general needle pain — which was indeed painful and, considering my extreme fear of needles, didn’t exactly put me at ease — as the pressure. The IV itself was connected to this weird, looped tube that went to a…thingie that would eventually distribute iodine into my system for the contrast. I know the loops existed to extend the tube’s length and prevent pressure, but it honestly had the opposite effect. It’s exactly like a phone cord — you can stretch it out, but as soon as you let go it snaps back to normal. That’s pressure.
It got a little worse when she told me I had to raise my arms over my head as the little bed thing moved in and out of the giant radioactive donut that scanned me. Also, in terms of putting patients at ease, it’s less fun than you might imagine to see a giant red sign reading RADIATION ON that illuminates every time the scanner is working its magic. Worse still, the bed rolls up to eye level of the mystery laser, right above which is a sign that reads DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY INTO LASER. Come on!
After all the waiting, though, the whole thing took maybe 10 minutes, and the hardest part was the whole “don’t breathe while we keep it rolling for 20 years” thing. I have pretty solid lung capacity, but they tested me. Even if I had shitty, shallow lungs, they did a horrible job of preparing you for it. It has this automated recording that says, “Take a deep breath” — then, before you even have the chance, it shouts, “Hold your breath!” as the scanner revs up. Come on!
But hey, it wasn’t so bad. And now that I know where radiology is, maybe I can come back and flirt with the receptionist some more. It’s not weird for non-ghosts to hang around a hospital, is it?
Posted by Stan on June 3, 2008 10:28 AM | Permalink | Stories of Pain and Humiliation | Digg It
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