Monday night I was visited by the Menstrual Cramps of My Youth. I tried to soldier through, but then I realized I have a friend I didn't have at age 11, a Mr. Jack Daniels. I took a shot, and even held it for thirty seconds before I projectile vomited it into the sink. I might have tried it again, but I hit the midnight no-food-or-drink pre D&C cutoff.
The hospital called the next morning to see if I'd like to come in early, and we cleaned up and piled in the car.
I admit, I was driving, I was rushing, but that had nothing to do with running the red light.
As Gary explained to the officer, "We're on the way to the hospital."
"Oh, Gary, stop. That has nothing to do with it." I gave the officer my ID and insurance. "When I looked at the light, it was a yellow flashing arrow, and then the other guy couldn't decide who went next, so I did, and my husband tells me the light had turned red."
"Why are you going to the hospital?"
"Oh, I'm not a doctor, just a patient."
"So why are you going?"
"Just ... for ... a procedure." I'm getting the crazy scraped out of me, officer, thank you for asking.
He let me off with a warning, and we still got to there in a reasonable time.
The big rush to come in early was to ensure I didn't get shunted for an emergency surgery my doctor had. Everyone was in quite the rush. I had all four professionals in my room while they all did their jobs simultaneously. The Cuddly Nurse put on my socks, while the Vital Stat nurse took my blood pressure three times, while the Anesthesia Nurse misunderstood every word I said, and the Anesthesiologist himself countered every argument I had about Versed. (And to my surprise, I've been saying it wrong. He says VERsed, not VerSED. Or he may have just corrected me to put me in my place.) We argued about it for twenty minutes while people stuck in tubes and checked armbands and essentially, it was clear I was getting Versed today even if I killed myself immediately after. ("Oh, suicidal depression could be caused by a lot of different things," chirped the Anesthesia Nurse.) The only thing the Anesthesiologist said that swayed my opinion was that a gastroenterologist administered the drugs before, and supposedly it changes qualities in his golden hands.
So he said, "I'll give you something to make you a leeettle sleepy -"
"What exactly will that be?"
"Propofol and Versed."
At least he looked me in the eye to see me glare at him.
"And what is this going into my IV right now?"
"That's the Versed," Cuddly Nurse said.
So let it be on your head, I thought, but didn't say.
Immediately after that they hustled Gary away.
And immediately after that Gary was back again and I was drinking apple juice. I don't remember a damn thing. And, more important, I felt perfectly happy. Part of me hopes I was verbally violent to the anesthesia team and there's a recording of it somewhere that some future HIPAA ruling will make available to me.
Gary says the doctor said they found nothing. No cancer, no polyps, no cysts. He did a "gentle scraping" (just to tickle me, I guess). Cuddly Nurse had photos I was not allowed to take home. Pink and perfect, except one ovary opening was a little messier than the other, and there was some white stuff they took a picture of.
So what have we learned?
- "Talk to your anesthesiologist" means "Good luck talking to your anesthesiologist."
- There is an inverse relationship between how your uterus feels and how it looks.
- I am not allergic to Versed, but I may be allergic to Jack Daniels.