Archive for August, 2012|Monthly archive page

Crawdads and Kerfuffle

In Uncategorized on August 8, 2012 at 3:09 pm

So I visited Wake Forest Medical Center yesterday afternoon and had a time of my life.  The waiting room seat was scarcely warmed by my kiester before the pager they’d handed me started buzzing.  The pager is the same sort of device you’re handed when you have to wait for an evening of fine dining at an upscale eatery along the lines of House of Blues or PF Changs.  What you are waiting for is a different sort of experience.

I was deposited in a waiting room where I changed into a hospital gown – draw springs in front – under which I kept on my boxer shorts and shoes.  The nurse stabbed me with the IV and injected a bit of saline solution, then took my blood pressure and pulse.  Thence commenced a wait of about forty minutes during which I was attempted to contemplate my own curious position in the greater scheme of things.  I was unable to come up with any coherent theory accounting for my existence if only because my reflections were regularly interrupted by the nurse telling me I’d have to wait a little longer because they were having trouble magnetically resonating the brain of the person in line before me.

Understandably, I was distracted by the substance of the nurse’s informative solicitude.  What sort of trouble?  Had the docs encountered a resistant brain?  What would make a brain resistant?  Was it leathery?  Was it sedimentary?  What made it impenetrable to the marvel of science known as an MRI?  Finally, a guy in a gown came staggering by my room, walking only with assistance from a candy striper.  I gaped.  Make of it what you will, but the guy was a dead ringer for Mitt Romney.  My nurse walked in and said “We’re ready for you.”

I wish I could share some keen observations about my time in the belly of the beast, but I cannot.  I now get a dose of  “happy juice” along with the other chemicals they inject in my body to illuminate sections of my brain for the MRI.  Yesterday, the dosage was the medicinal equivalent of Laphroaig Scotch, Boodles Gin, a viewing of “Casablanca”  in a smoky theater and reading Steinbeck’s “Sweet Thursday” experienced in the same instance.  In real-time, the procedure took a little over an hour.  In Beno time, the MRI was 12 minutes of bliss.  Needless to say, I was a mellow fellow.

Afterwards, my stout but attractive and friendly nurse took me back to a beautifully furnished and decorated examination room, where I dressed and was joined by my wife.  I must say, Deirdre in everyday clothes yesterday looked as Fine as she does when she really dresses up.  My great friend, Dr Urbanic, joined us after a while and imbued the room with his generosity and care.  My MRI looked great.  There is a tadpole of something that may actually be something, or may be an anomaly in the MRI pictures.  The MRI should have taken only about 50 minutes.  It turned out that my technicians had to perform several do-overs.  Whereas I though I was lying on the tray as immobile as a scoop of yogurt, in reality I was flopping around like a swordfish just gaffed onto the deck of a fishing boat on the Discovery Channel.  Consequently, I return for another MRI in 3 months.  It’s probably nothing.  And if it is nothing, then no harm, no foul.  If, on the other hand, it actually is something, then we’ve caught it quickly enough that we can take care of it nonsurgically, with the Beta Knife or a cranial ablation.

My God’s in his Heaven, all’s right with the world mood persisted until well into the evening.  At one point, Deirdre found me in the den with the TV tuned to the Olympics.  My eyes were closed.  My glasses had slipped off my nose, but come to rest on my upper lip, which jutted out in pensive expressiveness.  I was afraid she would laugh herself to death.

Of course, my drowsiness in front the the TV might have been attributable to the content, rather than my chemical romance.  Is anyone else deathly tired of the Olympics?  Four channels, 24 hours a day of beach volleyball, skeet shooting, gymnastics, Lebron, synchronized crotch scratching, dwarf tossing, dressage, massage, track and field, McCartney listening, archery, 10 meter farting and I don’t know what all………enough is enough!  Overkill is killing the games.  Just like overkill is killing the majors in golf.  Coverage starts with Artwun Kobibie of Oobonguduly, Upper Lower Sengalia, and Murray Lawson of Nitwit-on-Camphor, England, on the first tee at 4:00 AM.  By the time the leaders reach the back nine, around 1:12 PM, I am ready for more rough and tumble TV viewing, like reruns of C.H.I.P.S.

And speaking of overkill, with a capital “O” – do you realize we still have the conventions and presidential race to November still ahead of us?  My God!  Suffice it to say that I am seriously considering becoming a shepherd or lighthouse keeper or anything that would help me become completely oblivious to everything that is happening around me.  Though, come to think of it, that seems to describe a Romney campaign staffer, doesn’t it?

Keep the faith,