Okay, so people keep asking about these tests that I just had done and being the lazy f&ck that I am, I figured I should just write it all down once and have done with it. No more telling people the whole damn story. Yup, I really am that lazy. Before anyone proceeds in reading this, though, there is something else:
**DISCLAIMER – read at your own risk! By reading this, you are agreeing to intimate knowledge of medical procedures I endured (thereby ensuring my sainthood/messiah status). These procedures were personal in nature, and therefore the subsequent paragraphs will contain CHICK STUFF/WOMEN’S PROBLEMS. If you’ve a weak stomach, an immature mind or if you’re male (well, really, the first two would seem to equal the third, but that’s beside the point), you may want to skip this post. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!** The following events are TRUE. No names have been changed to protect the innocent (hell, you all know who I am anyway – whose name would I need to change?) and all details will be gory. This will be long. Prepare yourself.
Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? In March of this year, I was lucky enough to somehow develop a kidney infection. I’m sure you’ll recall the glamour and joy of that dear time (see this post for a refresher: Employed, Kidney Punching & Hoofin’ it for MS!). Well, it all got cleared up eventually, but I still had to go see a Urologist (translation: a doctor concerned mainly with the bladder/urinary tract) and he got all excited about the number of bladder infections that I’ve had and ordered up a bunch of tests. Of course, wouldn’t you know it? My kidney infection never really went away. YAY, kidney damage! So, he prescribed drugs and two tests.
One of the said tests was an ultrasound of my kidneys, to assess the damage. I wasn’t so much worried about this test because I’ve never had an ultrasound before and hey, they look cool on tv! I wanted to see the grainy, blue-grey image of my insides, and you KNOW it doesn’t hurt because they do it to pregnant ladies, right? Hrm. More on that later.
The other test the scary one – a cystoscopy. Yep, it sounds about as pleasant as it is. Essentially, they stick a camera into your bladder to check things out. I’ll give you one guess on HOW they get the camera into your bladder. Are you shivering yet? Yup, they stick a camera up your urethra (otherwise known as the OTHER hole on women… no, the OTHER one… further north. Absolute exit only. You got it. Scary stuff, non?) and snake it around until they hit your bladder. They look at the bladder from the inside (which is wrong on so many levels), and make sure it looks right (like, clean? I don’t know. I guess they look for bad spots. No idea – I didn’t REALLY want to know that much about it).
Of course, since I now have a new family doctor as well, she requested that I have a bunch of bloodwork done. Fool that I am, I scheduled all of this on ONE DAY. Now, of course, every test has it’s own requirements – for one, I had to fast for 12 hours; another was an 8 hour fast and the third one required an empty bladder. Okay, so if I don’t eat or drink for 12 hours, I’ve got it all covered. Except when you KNOW you can’t eat or drink for 12 hours, you suddenly become inexplicably hungry and begin to convince yourself that you’re dying of thirst.
So, the day of the tests came quicker than I’d have liked, but what can you do. Somehow, I had managed to keep myself calm (remember that excellent self-delusion technique I was talking about in the last post? THIS is exactly the kind of situation where that ability really comes in handy) and had managed to NOT worry about said tests, at all. The morning of the tests, my Mother and I (yes, my Mommy came with me. She loves me like that. Deal with it.) headed down to the various testing facilities. We arrived at the first appointment, the ultrasound, where I was whisked into a darkened room, decorated with pictures of babies in utero, and cheesy nursery-room-motif wallpaper (there was an alphabet poster, with a teddy bear posing with animals representing each of the letters, on the ceiling. It was beyond creepy).
The sonographer asked me to pull up my shirt and lower my pants just a bit, so she had clear access to my mid-section. Okay, no problem. Then she turned on the exciting machine, turned it away from me so I couldn’t see, and grabbed the wand thingie. She squirted some gel stuff onto my belly (the gel stuff is actually kept in a little heated rack, so it’s not freezing. How awesome is that?! Obviously designed by a woman… If only we could do the same for stethoscopes…) and put the wand on my sternum.
It all went downhill from there, because it began to HURT. And I mean, HURT. She pressed SO hard, I’m surprised I’m not bruised today – but I feel like I was in a fight. And lost. Badly. She had me rolling all over, so she could “get a clear look” at my kidneys, bladder and gallbladder (what is a gallbladder, anyway?), meanwhile, she was digging the damn wand thingie into my ribs, and right into my kidneys, and telling me not to flinch. I spent most of the time thinking, “I’m sorry – I thought this was an ultrasound, not a beating. Doesn’t ‘ultrasound’ mean waves of sound? I know I’m fat, but am I friggin’ soundproof, too?” Christ!
After the beating… I mean ultrasound, I had to go to have blood taken (the 12 hour fast). Because this blood was being drawn for my physical with my new doctor, she pretty much checked everything on the req. form. I mean EVERYTHING. And added a few. Really, she should have just put a giant check mark across the damn page. Either way, it was going to be A LOT of blood. Now, I’m not squeamish. I have NO problem with having blood taken, given the person knows what they’re doing. Or can at least FAKE it. This woman… not so much. She went straight for the vein that they all go for, a really prominent one in my right arm. She stuck the needle in, and I kept waiting for her to take the plastic heroin-addict thingie off, but she didn’t. Then she started MOVING the needle. While it was still INSIDE my arm. ‘Ouch’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I told her that it was really beginning to hurt, that I hadn’t eaten in a long time and that I might get woozy, but she kept poking the needle around inside my arm. Then (I guess by talking, she thought that she would distract me?), she started with a little colour commentary about how the blood was just “trickling” and not “bubbling up” like it should be. Now, call me crazy, but if you have a needle in someone’s arm and you’re poking around with it AND the patient has just warned you that they’re getting woozy, would YOU start talking in graphic terms about blood? I hope not.
Either way, she finally gave up, looked at me, saw that Iwas pale and offerred to get me a glass of water. Lovely. Of course, while she was gone, I had about 3 petit-mal seizures (for family, you’ll recognize the term “black out”) in a row. Excellent. Then, suddenly, I was slumped in the chair, with two women standing over me, calling to me and asking me if I was okay. Apparently, I’d fainted, and I DON’T faint. Honestly, I think I’ve fainted all of maybe twice in my entire existence (and I only actually remember the one incident). Anyway, all I could think was, “Do I mother-f&cking LOOK okay?”
Eventually they got me to a bathroom, where I was convinced that I was dying (for about a second), and then convinced I was going to puke (that feeling lasted into today). Thank the Gods that my Mommy was with me, otherwise I would have been stranded there, in the staff bathroom, no less! What’s truly disturbing is that, after my Mom fished me out of the bathroom (she’s curiously strong for 5′3″ & 1/4), the blood-takers (nurses? lab attendants? dunno) told me that they were ready to try drawing my blood again. WHAT?! No, I think I’ll pass, thanks very much. That’s pass OUT. Again. So, Mom and I both pretty much ran out of the lab, and on to the hospital, for trial number three (are you understanding why I think I’m up for sainthood yet?).
Oddly enough (and this is an indication of just how bad the whole day was), the cystoscopy was the high point of the day. It’s pretty sad when the best part of the day involves you, naked from the waist down, spread-eagled to a room full of strangers (not THAT way, you sickos!). ‘Uncomfortable’ doesn’t even BEGIN to cover the feeling. And remember, this is the HIGH point. I got to the hospital late (because of the fainting episode, which we will all agree NEVER happened, and shall never speak of. Got it?) and had to sit in a hallway, in the horrible made-of-sheets hospital gown, shivering, with my Mom beside me, rubbing my back (a throwback to childhood – she always rubbed my back to calm me down. Apparently, it still works… one of the only things that will put me to sleep in under 10 minutes, to this day).
The nurses were all updated on the “unmentionable” episode that happened at the blood lab, and they ALL stopped every 10 seconds to ask me if I was okay. Um, DUH. I’m naturally fair, but when I’m actually TRANSPARENT, there’s something wrong. The nurses were really sweet, though, and even brought me a blanket (I was shaking, I was SOOOO cold!), but the best part? The blanket was WARM. Like, fresh from the dryer (but warmer) warm. They wrapped it around me, my Mom rubbed my back and I was asleep in about 3 seconds. Honestly, that blanket was the closest thing I’ve ever come to heaven on Earth. No joke.
Then, my name was called, and I was going in for the cystoscopy. I walked into a large surgery, extremely bright and apparently inhabited by four menopausal women, gossiping. Oh, Gods, I can’t get away from the Harpies no matter WHERE I go! I gathered my now-cooling blankie around me and told them all that I was extremely nervous, had had a BAD morning and was operating completely caffeine- and food-free, therefore they should be fearing for their lives. They all fawned appropriately, and I’m not sure what happened, but suddenly, I was on a table, my legs wrenched apart, my mustn’t-touch-it open for the whole damn room to see. I think they must have piped some gas into the room (or, more likely, I was still all shocky from fainting), because honestly, I didn’t really care that these complete strangers were seeing my most intimate parts. Odd.
My doctor mysteriously appeared from behind a curtain and I had a brief (likely hysterical) thought of, “I wonder if the Tin Man, Lion and Scarecrow are back there?” He was VERY sweet, apologizing for scheduling both tests on the same day and depriving me of my Gods-given right to coffee in the morning. All in all, the whole thing was over in about 15 minutes. While the Doctor was violating me(well, was checking the cleanliness of my bladder, I suppose), though, the nurses stood at opposite ends of the gurney and carried on a conversation with me – we complained about men, pets and dirty glasses. I swear, they were like rodeo clowns – entertaining and wearing bright clothing, and distracting me from the disturbance going on below (which, incidentally, was really uncomfortable, but not as painful as the ultrasound. Think about that, and you’ll understand how much that sonographer bitch hurt me)!
By the end of it all, the Doctor had promised to buy me a coffee & cookies, and in fact, ordered one of the nurses to bring it to me in his office after the test. As cheesy as it sounds, I think the third test went as well as it did because of the people involved. As I sat after the test (for the results) with my Doctor, he wouldn’t let me leave the office until I’d finished my orange juice (they were out of coffee). He was sweet. 
