TRYPANOPHOBIA

I was experiencing "discomfort" for a few weeks and the only source of comfort was Bill kneading my back like pizza dough and Motrin. Perhaps it’s early menopause, or perhaps it’s one of the 311 strains of flu going around . . . but with no fever, I decided to call the doctor.

After a check-up, my doc decides to be extra cautious and orders a cat scan to make sure it’s not diverticulitis. All I know about diverticulitis is that it is common in the elderly, and if I have it, I will no longer be able to eat pumpkin seeds or raspberries.  Or something like that.  

My doc omitted a lot of information before I left her office. For one, I needed to have blood work done before the cat scan the next day, and I did not want to burn another day of work, so I got up with the roosters and hit the lab before school.

Then I receive a call at 11:00 the following day that the only time they can schedule my cat scan is at 1:00. Rats!  I have to leave work, which means re-figuring my lesson plans and crafting a Plan B in a matter of minutes. 

I eventually head over to the hospital. How long can this take?  A Polaroid of my innards cannot take long. Parking and registration will be the most time consuming, I tell myself. 

I am instructed to don a burgundy robe (there are three colors) but I can leave my socks and shoes on. Did I look sexy or what?  Smokin! My legs, of course, are February white, and today I am sporting black socks and black booties. Was I a vixen!  The waiting room was arctic, which beautifully accented the blue veins in my Irish calves as my fingers shivered trying to keep the front of my robe closed. 

One nurse took note and came back and wrapped two hot blankets around me. I swear a saw a halo appear above her ponytail as she increased the volume of the TV. Then another nurse entered. 

“Jepsen?”

“Yes,” I retort as I spring out of my chair, anxious to get this over with, but gripping the hot blankets around me like a swaddled newborn baby. 

“Do you have someone with you in the waiting room?”

“No,” I answer, confused. 

“Well, you’re going to be here for at least three hours so I thought you may have brought someone to keep you company. You need to drink barium for two hours.   And get an IV.  What flavor would you like?  We have berry, citrus, vanilla, mocha . . .“

“Berry - but wait, what?  Barium?  For two hours?  An IV?”

A woman sitting next to me encourages me to choose the banana flavor. 

“Yes.  A cat scan with contrast.”  

Now I am irate.  I begin my ranting via text to Bill, and Erin, and my sisters, explaining how mad I am at myself for agreeing to this blasted cat scan, which I know is going to come back fine.  No one told me I would be spending my entire afternoon at the hospital! And with the new year, we have a brand new deductible. I can’t see straight I am so mad at myself. 

The nurse returns with two liters of barium, two straws, and a sympathetic smile.  I begin chugging and fix my eyes upon the episode of "Fixer Upper" when two African American women sashay into the waiting room.  

One says to the other, “Well, look at you,” joshing her fiend, the patient, as she lowers herself into the chair, revealing yellows socks and winter sensible galoshes. I am hiding my laughter, for they immediately remind me of myself and my friends.

“Mmmm hmmmm,” the other one snickers back. 

The two laugh at the corny commercials and continue commenting on the choice of bricks and light fixtures on "Fixer Upper" while thumbing through old magazines of Good Housekeeping and People.  I stifle my laughter.  They are doing exactly what any of my friends would do for each other: hang out with you at your cat scan and make fun of you in the process, all while supplying the commentary for what’s on TV. 

Finally, I am brought back to get my IV, and the nurse senses that I am nervous when I begin biting on the blanket and looking the other way.

"You don't enjoy this," she observes.

"No, I am terrified of needles.  I pass out during blood draws, too."

Before I even knew it, she was done.  She said my veins were flat (I am nauseous even typing this) but she was able to poke the IV into my hand.  She then describes what the procedure will feel like and reminds me, "You always want to err on the side of caution.  Your doctor is looking out for you, and even if it's an afternoon of inconvenience, your health is worth it."

What sage advice.

That night I receive a call that I need an antibiotic for diverticulitis.  Exhausted, I propose Bill and I hit the hay early.

Bill replies, “I’m sleeping in Marty’s room.  You’re still radioactive.”