Words can't describe it.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Harumph
So...
This old couple told me that I reminded them of their dead daughter.
I don't know whether to be weirded out or flattered.
I'm leaning toward weirded out.
This old couple told me that I reminded them of their dead daughter.
I don't know whether to be weirded out or flattered.
I'm leaning toward weirded out.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Gettin' an MRI is Srs Bsns
"Okay, sign here,” the receptionist at Invision Imaging at North Florida Regional Medical Center smiled sweetly at me.
So I signed. She seemed trustworthy enough. I highly doubted this whole setup was an elaborate plan to steal my vital organs. I mean, I was just going in for an MRI. There would be no slicing me up or putting me to sleep. If they did something like that, I’d probably notice a thing or two was amiss and say something.
That would be ridiculous, though. I started to think about imaging specialists dressed in black, with their hair all slicked back (because that’s what all bad guys look like, of course; maybe they’d have long, skinny mustaches and top hats in order to better channel their inner Snidely Whiplashes), poised over patients’ bodies as they were stuck, helpless, in the MRI machines.
Those machines are so loud, nobody would hear them scream…
Smiley Receptionist broke through my thoughts. "And sign here."
"And here."
"And here… And here, and here… Aaaaaand here.”
I should probably be reading these forms more closely. I might have just signed away my spleen… or soul, or something.
Oh well. What’s done is done. They’ll have to fight me for them.
As I was walking back to the waiting room to sit until they called my name, Little Miss Smiley Receptionist’s voice rang out like a shrill bell, "Oh, and by the way, you'll have to take out all your piercings, including the one in your tongue."
Oh shit, why did she say just that?
Hearing the words "piercing" and "tongue" used in the same sentence directed at his daughter, my father, who was accompanying me through all this, swung around and "What's in your tongue?" couldn't come out of his mouth fast enough.
I was caught.
Slowly, I stuck out my tongue, and the 14 gauge barbell with pink beads that I had managed to keep hidden around my father for two long years was out on display for the whole world to see in all of its stunning glory.
The noise my father made could only be described as Eeeeeuuuugh.
I shot Perfect-As-A-Picture Little Miss Smiley Receptionist a look of death. It was like she wanted to get me in trouble; I just know she did.
Bitch. I hate her.
Whatever. Looking over at my father, his eyebrows were arched almost straight up to his hairline in his signature “I am not impressed with what is going on at all” look. The name that my mother and I came up with for that particular look, I just noticed, is quite a mouthful. He turned his back to me and walked through the door of the waiting room. I knew that I hadn’t heard the last of that.
I plopped down in a waiting room chair (Seriously, do they purposely make these as uncomfortable as possible?) in a way that couldn’t be any good for my back.
I think I just felt something pop back there.
Leafing through the pile of three-month-old magazines, I picked up a bright pink copy of Cosmopolitan and started flipping through the pages.
Advertisement.
Advertisement.
Advertisement.
Sex tips.
Advertisement.
Fashion dos and don’ts.
And more advertisements!
I refuse to read this nonsense any longer. I can feel my brain atrophy by the second.
I put the magazine back in the stack I got it from, placing it at the very bottom of the heap, so the thing wouldn’t trick any other unsuspecting people into wasting their time reading it.
Sighing, I looked around. I studied the other people in the room: my father, his eyebrows still arched up to high heaven, was watching the news on the waiting room television; a man, probably in his 50s, was wearing wraparound sunglasses indoors, even though it was cloudy outside; a woman with a mullet was showing complete disregard for the fact that those went out of style ages ago; and a young man in the corner of the room, was playing what sounded like a Simpson’s game on his Nintendo DS.
My father continued to watch the news. I think the plunging stock markets were making his eyebrows arch like that (or at least I hope so; it couldn’t still be because of my tongue). The old man looked to his left, then to his right, and then he busied himself with a copy of the Gainesville Sun, the paper making crinkling noises as he brought it up to his face. The young man with the video game… well, he just continued to push buttons on his game, with Marge and Homer making random comments as he did so.
Why doesn’t he turn that blasted thing down?
“Ms. Jawad? We’re ready for you.”
I hobbled through a hallway (making sure to glare at the receptionist she-devil as I walked past) and into a changing room, where the nurse asked me all sorts of questions I had heard before.
“Weight? Height? How’d this happen? How would you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten? Where exactly does it hurt? Does your foot go numb? Do you sense any weakness in your leg? Do you have any difficulty doing daily activities?”
I answered them all just as I had answered them those many times before. “About 140 pounds. Five foot ten. I fell off my bike, flew over the handlebars. It’s about an eight right now, but it varies between a five to a ten. My whole leg hurts. Yes, it does go numb, especially when I’m driving. Yep, it’s a lot weaker. And yes ma’am, I do.”
You’ve always got to throw a ma’am in there somewhere.
Once that was done with, she gave me the run-through. No metal anywhere (but fixed retainers and braces are a-okay), no clothes, put this robe on, put all of your stuff in a locker, and bring the key with you.
Sounds easy enough.
After removing the metal from my 11 piercings (Hah, there’s more that my dad doesn’t know about!), I stripped down to my underwear and surveyed the over-starched hospital issue robe.
It was huge in the way that four of me could have fit inside of it. And it hung wide open in the back.
I have never been happier to not be wearing a thong in my life.
I put it on, and tied it up as tight as I could to protect my underwear from being seen by everybody.
At least they’re cute.
… Much unlike the robe itself. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of ugly light blue that smelled like hospital.
After locking up my belongings, a nurse showed me into a room, and there it was.
So, Machine, we meet again.
The nurse explained that the process would probably take about half an hour.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty long minutes where I can't move at all, where I am stuck in the noisy, hulking beast. A lot can happen in that time period. I could have a pizza delivered to my house, or I could watch a sitcom, and if I was traveling at 70 miles per hour, I could cover a whole… 35 miles.
The nurse left the room, and it began.
“It” was all quite unceremonious. The man operating the MRI machine looked nothing like my cartoon villain idea of a bad guy, which made me breathe a sigh of relief. I think my organs did the same. I don’t know why I expected more from him, but what I got was this: “Okay, your head goes there in between those things, that ‘pillow’ is for you to rest your legs on, and these earplugs will help with the noise.”
Oh yes, the noise. All the noise, noise, noise, noise.
After I positioned myself on the machine and put my earplugs in, he said, “Oh wait, we’re going to put these foam pads beside your head to keep those earplugs in your ears.”
Great. Now I can’t move my head at ALL.
I started to move through the tunnel of the machine. No matter how many times I go into one of these MRI machines, the first few seconds are always terrifying.
Okay.
I’m in, and I can’t move for a while. This is all right. I can do this. No sweat.
“Doing all right in there?” the man operating the machine’s voice that seemed to come out of nowhere asked.
… God, is that you?
“Um, yeah. I’m okay. Just a little cramped,” I answered with a strained laugh.
“Okay, well if it gets too bad, just holler.”
Really? Holler?
Has he ever been inside one of these machines? I doubt my hollering would be heard over the din of this hulking beast that is holding me captive.
It started up.
Whirrr click click.
Not too bad.
WHIRRRRR CLICK CLICK CLICK.
Okay, a little worse…
BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB WHIRRRRRRRRR CLICK CLICK WHIRRRRR.
Oh lord, and I have to be in here for how long?
So I signed. She seemed trustworthy enough. I highly doubted this whole setup was an elaborate plan to steal my vital organs. I mean, I was just going in for an MRI. There would be no slicing me up or putting me to sleep. If they did something like that, I’d probably notice a thing or two was amiss and say something.
That would be ridiculous, though. I started to think about imaging specialists dressed in black, with their hair all slicked back (because that’s what all bad guys look like, of course; maybe they’d have long, skinny mustaches and top hats in order to better channel their inner Snidely Whiplashes), poised over patients’ bodies as they were stuck, helpless, in the MRI machines.
Those machines are so loud, nobody would hear them scream…
Smiley Receptionist broke through my thoughts. "And sign here."
"And here."
"And here… And here, and here… Aaaaaand here.”
I should probably be reading these forms more closely. I might have just signed away my spleen… or soul, or something.
Oh well. What’s done is done. They’ll have to fight me for them.
As I was walking back to the waiting room to sit until they called my name, Little Miss Smiley Receptionist’s voice rang out like a shrill bell, "Oh, and by the way, you'll have to take out all your piercings, including the one in your tongue."
Oh shit, why did she say just that?
Hearing the words "piercing" and "tongue" used in the same sentence directed at his daughter, my father, who was accompanying me through all this, swung around and "What's in your tongue?" couldn't come out of his mouth fast enough.
I was caught.
Slowly, I stuck out my tongue, and the 14 gauge barbell with pink beads that I had managed to keep hidden around my father for two long years was out on display for the whole world to see in all of its stunning glory.
The noise my father made could only be described as Eeeeeuuuugh.
I shot Perfect-As-A-Picture Little Miss Smiley Receptionist a look of death. It was like she wanted to get me in trouble; I just know she did.
Bitch. I hate her.
Whatever. Looking over at my father, his eyebrows were arched almost straight up to his hairline in his signature “I am not impressed with what is going on at all” look. The name that my mother and I came up with for that particular look, I just noticed, is quite a mouthful. He turned his back to me and walked through the door of the waiting room. I knew that I hadn’t heard the last of that.
I plopped down in a waiting room chair (Seriously, do they purposely make these as uncomfortable as possible?) in a way that couldn’t be any good for my back.
I think I just felt something pop back there.
Leafing through the pile of three-month-old magazines, I picked up a bright pink copy of Cosmopolitan and started flipping through the pages.
Advertisement.
Advertisement.
Advertisement.
Sex tips.
Advertisement.
Fashion dos and don’ts.
And more advertisements!
I refuse to read this nonsense any longer. I can feel my brain atrophy by the second.
I put the magazine back in the stack I got it from, placing it at the very bottom of the heap, so the thing wouldn’t trick any other unsuspecting people into wasting their time reading it.
Sighing, I looked around. I studied the other people in the room: my father, his eyebrows still arched up to high heaven, was watching the news on the waiting room television; a man, probably in his 50s, was wearing wraparound sunglasses indoors, even though it was cloudy outside; a woman with a mullet was showing complete disregard for the fact that those went out of style ages ago; and a young man in the corner of the room, was playing what sounded like a Simpson’s game on his Nintendo DS.
My father continued to watch the news. I think the plunging stock markets were making his eyebrows arch like that (or at least I hope so; it couldn’t still be because of my tongue). The old man looked to his left, then to his right, and then he busied himself with a copy of the Gainesville Sun, the paper making crinkling noises as he brought it up to his face. The young man with the video game… well, he just continued to push buttons on his game, with Marge and Homer making random comments as he did so.
Why doesn’t he turn that blasted thing down?
“Ms. Jawad? We’re ready for you.”
I hobbled through a hallway (making sure to glare at the receptionist she-devil as I walked past) and into a changing room, where the nurse asked me all sorts of questions I had heard before.
“Weight? Height? How’d this happen? How would you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten? Where exactly does it hurt? Does your foot go numb? Do you sense any weakness in your leg? Do you have any difficulty doing daily activities?”
I answered them all just as I had answered them those many times before. “About 140 pounds. Five foot ten. I fell off my bike, flew over the handlebars. It’s about an eight right now, but it varies between a five to a ten. My whole leg hurts. Yes, it does go numb, especially when I’m driving. Yep, it’s a lot weaker. And yes ma’am, I do.”
You’ve always got to throw a ma’am in there somewhere.
Once that was done with, she gave me the run-through. No metal anywhere (but fixed retainers and braces are a-okay), no clothes, put this robe on, put all of your stuff in a locker, and bring the key with you.
Sounds easy enough.
After removing the metal from my 11 piercings (Hah, there’s more that my dad doesn’t know about!), I stripped down to my underwear and surveyed the over-starched hospital issue robe.
It was huge in the way that four of me could have fit inside of it. And it hung wide open in the back.
I have never been happier to not be wearing a thong in my life.
I put it on, and tied it up as tight as I could to protect my underwear from being seen by everybody.
At least they’re cute.
… Much unlike the robe itself. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of ugly light blue that smelled like hospital.
After locking up my belongings, a nurse showed me into a room, and there it was.
So, Machine, we meet again.
The nurse explained that the process would probably take about half an hour.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty long minutes where I can't move at all, where I am stuck in the noisy, hulking beast. A lot can happen in that time period. I could have a pizza delivered to my house, or I could watch a sitcom, and if I was traveling at 70 miles per hour, I could cover a whole… 35 miles.
The nurse left the room, and it began.
“It” was all quite unceremonious. The man operating the MRI machine looked nothing like my cartoon villain idea of a bad guy, which made me breathe a sigh of relief. I think my organs did the same. I don’t know why I expected more from him, but what I got was this: “Okay, your head goes there in between those things, that ‘pillow’ is for you to rest your legs on, and these earplugs will help with the noise.”
Oh yes, the noise. All the noise, noise, noise, noise.
After I positioned myself on the machine and put my earplugs in, he said, “Oh wait, we’re going to put these foam pads beside your head to keep those earplugs in your ears.”
Great. Now I can’t move my head at ALL.
I started to move through the tunnel of the machine. No matter how many times I go into one of these MRI machines, the first few seconds are always terrifying.
Okay.
I’m in, and I can’t move for a while. This is all right. I can do this. No sweat.
“Doing all right in there?” the man operating the machine’s voice that seemed to come out of nowhere asked.
… God, is that you?
“Um, yeah. I’m okay. Just a little cramped,” I answered with a strained laugh.
“Okay, well if it gets too bad, just holler.”
Really? Holler?
Has he ever been inside one of these machines? I doubt my hollering would be heard over the din of this hulking beast that is holding me captive.
It started up.
Whirrr click click.
Not too bad.
WHIRRRRR CLICK CLICK CLICK.
Okay, a little worse…
BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB WHIRRRRRRRRR CLICK CLICK WHIRRRRR.
Oh lord, and I have to be in here for how long?
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Teh Ragin' Cajun
Oh, James Carville, you're so silly.
Everyone should deal with their problems... CAJUN STYLE.
Everyone should deal with their problems... CAJUN STYLE.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Seventeen- What??!
$17,294.24
That's how much it's going to cost.
This morning was awful.
Thanks a bunch, Shands... and thank you, Assurant Health.
Feeeeeck.
That's how much it's going to cost.
This morning was awful.
Thanks a bunch, Shands... and thank you, Assurant Health.
Feeeeeck.
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