Like many of you out there, I am aging. When I say many of you, I mean me. It's all about me. OK, it's not really all about me, but I like to pretend that it is because it makes me feel like I'm important. And as we all know, with age comes wisdom, Social Security (we hope) and fun with medical procedures.
Speaking of me, I had an endoscopy this week. This is where a doctor puts a camera down your throat to see how your tummy is doing. First, though, they have to make you relax by sticking you numerous times with sharp needles, which is always a good way to cause the relaxation response if that response includes teeth-clenching, foot-wiggling and scrunching your face up so you appear to be part Sharpei.
After the first nurse was unable to find a cooperative vein on the back of my hand - which coincidentally is one of the most painful places to be poked with a needle - she wrapped my hand in a steaming-hot heat pack that I was certain would leave me with third-degree burns, then went off to find a more experienced nurse to try again. As she departed, I mentioned that this in no way was increasing my anxiety level because, according to my color-coded personal-threat chart, I was already at puce. There was no higher color. Puce was it and I was there. I could go no further up on the anxiety.
She came back with a little pill and told me to put it under my tongue to help me relax. Since I was certain that a pill under my tongue was less anxiety-producing than a sharp needle shoved under my skin, I gladly took it and put it under my tongue. My only problem was that it was a tiny pill. I wanted a larger pill. About the size of a jumbo jawbreaker would have suited me just fine. I mentioned this fact to her, but she said the pill was all right and that after they got the IV into me they'd be giving me more medication to relax me.
Ah, yes. More needles was just what I needed to negate the relaxing effects of the minuscule pill she'd given to me. This was fun.
My veins continued to play hide and seek five more times before crying uncle and giving in to the inevitable. I walked to the examination room where the doctor was waiting for me. He asked me if I was going to stay this time; I said I was considering sticking around. The last time I was there, I'd gotten through the IV ordeal and then jumped off the table before the procedure. Me? Scared of medical stuff? What gives you that idea?
I stayed. Mostly because in order to keep me there they immediately rendered me unconscious so I was unable to leave. In fact, they got me so out of it that I slept through the procedure as well as several more sharp needle punctures for a blood draw and other unmentionable acts that I will, uh, not mention.
The rest is a hazy blur. I am told that I walked with my eyes closed to the vehicle that was driving me home. Then I got in face first and butt up. It took several attempts for nurse, my father and my sister to get me sitting correctly and seatbelted in.
Here is where the fun stops. Apparently the drugs I was given not only made me sleepy, they served as a truth serum. My father and my sister took advantage of me in my weakened state to ask me probing, personal questions, and I have a hazy memory of signing some legal documents as well. I'm not sure, but I think they now own all my property as well as the right to sell my body to the highest bidder. However, since I'm aging, I don't think they're going to get such a good deal. Serves them right.[[In-content Ad]]
