Now, let me back track.
There was a drug imbalance - marriage was in doubt.
New Urologist, ultrasound baseline, no kidney.
X-ray, still couldn't find it.
CT Scan, found it behind liver.
Liver has a spot ?????
Now, the adventure continues.
OK, for those of you who are not familiar with medical equipment, let me explain what a twenty gauge, 20G,
needle is. Visualize in your mind a small metal pipe that you can shove a McDonald's plastic straw
through. Got it? Now visualize plugging that thing in the bend of your arm so a water hose
can be pointed in your vein to be filled with chemicals. That is what 20G means to me.
I arrived at the Medical R&D location before my appointment. I was rushed through
registration efficiently and directed to a bench where I would be presently attended. AND I waited,
for two hours. The time wasn't wasted as I skimmed the magazine rack. I caught up on the
TIME magazine headlines from June 1992 and got a preview of the coming summer fashions
in the December 1989 issue of Cosmo.
It may have been the single piece of toast I had ten hours before for breakfast or the cherry
flavored Barium milkshake or the pungent aroma of what seemed like a nearby burn unit, but something
was doing a real number on my lower GI track. Just before I was about to startle the next person
passing me in the hall, a rather robust medical technician told me to take off my pants and sit in a chair.
OK, now I'm in the chair as my "healthy" caretaker tells me about the wonderful Chinese food she had
for lunch and how much she is looking forward to ribs for supper. ZIP! In goes the 20G and out the other
side (it's a long needle) but she missed the view. Then I got directions on the best way to make pork
chops and chicken and gravy. ZAP! In to the other arm with 20G but another dry hole. As the
worthless needle dangled in my arm she tells me how much she likes cherry pie and chocolate cake
and yells to her partner, Call the IV Swat Team.
Shortly a vampiress appears, having done this too many times this day, takes a two second look
and STAB!, 10 strips of tape, cotton gauge, irrigation, threaded water hose, capped end,
a designer Band-Aid on the top and it was in, as the lady(?) folds back her cape and disappears down
the hall to her next patient(?), victim(?), target(?).
The technician returns and asked if I was taken care of.
My reply, Sure. She just drove in until she hit the elbow. If you drill deep enough you always hit water.
Off I go to the electronic doughnut.
There I was strapped to a vibrating table, my arms over my head with an IV plugged in about to pump
me with dye. Out comes the partner technician and says, We almost forgot this. Would you sign this
release form in case we make a mistake?
Now, what would you have done?
The procedure is over, the room is still, the machine hums, and I wait, and wait, and wait a little longer.
My healthy technician comes in and says, Sorry bout makin you wait. Had to go to the bathroom.
Honey, get off that table and go home and have some grits. They ain't nothin wrong wig your.
Them fools just screwed up da last read!
To my great joy, I was allowed to get my pants before leaving.
So, all's well that ends well. Looks like all is OK. The spot was just that, a spot.
It's been fun. Will let you know about anything new after my MRI next week.
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