I’m hunched over the keyboard today grimacing every time I hit the ( or the ) key. Perhaps it’s the additional requirement of holding down the Shift key. I don’t know but don’t expect much in the way of bracketed text.
I just had a procedure done on my stomach. It’s all very technical but essentially, my doctor cauterizes (ouch, aka, burns, ouch, I forgot the bracket thing), the lining of my stomach with a laser to prevent it from bleeding. I know, up until now, you thought ‘That Alison, she’s got everything going for her’ but the truth is, I’m but a mere mortal afflicted with a skinny stomach lining. We all have our crosses to bear.
So,my doc belly blasts me every couple months. And he maintains “it doesn’t hurt”. Note that I’ve had to utilize the “ “ because IT DOES HURT and my inability to use simple punctuation would underscore that point if I could indeed underscore!
Over the years during prep, the nurses give me a pleasant grin when I warn my veins are lousy for intravenous. They seem to go ‘game on’ as they tighten the tourniquet. Poke, poke, poke in the back of the hand – no go. Slap, slap - lets try this one – and so goes the ‘spear the fish’ adventure.
“I think, hmm, if I just, jeez, get back here and stay still.” Jab, jab, jab. I never know which nurse it is because I squeeze my eyes shut and “I’m a human being!” screams out in my head. I reportedly have ‘rolly, skinny veins’. Have you noticed that all my skinny is on the inside of my body?
There have been some that get the i.v. on the first try and others that after a few attempts in the back of my hand, move to the thumb and then ultimately give in and go to the elbow – then to my chart to memorize my name so they can avoid me next time. And I’ve had to slap a few restraining orders against nursing and ambulance students that had an unwavering ‘can do’ attitude. You’re not getting an A for Intravenous and leaving me imitating a leaky shower head!
It’s not all bad times, though. I play “Who is here for a colonoscopy?” when I’m in the waiting room. Those folks typically have dark, sunken eyes and their clothes are hanging off them.
If you’ve ever endured the prep, you know what the 24 hours prior to a colonoscopy is like. You drink the poison that the doctor has prescribed and it hurls you into a full blown war with their innards. You are in pay back mode for every lie you ever told your parents and for every time you sped and didn’t get caught.
It’s when you are convinced you are ‘empty’, that the prescribed devil’s juice really kicks in. You must still repent the time you didn’t give back the extra change the cashier mistakenly handed you, all the times you called in sick when you weren’t and the occasion you said you made the avocado dip but it was actually store bought.
You’ll convince yourself you’re allergic to the liquid you’ve ingested because in no way can this be right. You’ll search the bottle for a 1-800 number but none will be listed. On and on you’ll cleanse until your shoulders disappear into your weakened frame, your hands tremble and you are within 27 pounds of your birth weight. It’s only then, that you will emerge from the bathroom – truly empty!
While I’m waiting in day surgery for my turn to get wheeled in for the “it doesn’t hurt” procedure, I hear the nurse ask the guy next to me:
“You’re here for a colonoscopy. Did you do the prep?”
Some wispy noise escapes from his lips but he is obviously too weak to actually summon up a vowel or consonant.
“Good. I’ll get your i.v. going. Hopefully, you’re not a mutant, no veined, alien from another planet.”
Hey, I heard that.