Sunday, July 13, 2008

Adventures in endoscopes

So I got an endoscope put down my throat on the 9th to get my tummy box checked out.
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(Here's Tiger Woods winning the inside-out lottery)

I couldn’t sleep the night before and had to take a cab to the hospital. My mom accompanied me because I couldn’t be released into the world all drugged up and alone, or else a prowling LL Cool J would surely rape the shit outta me.
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(Later on he crashed a wet t-shirt contest)
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I was led into a small sterile room with a bed in the middle and monitors lining the walls. The nurse asked me what prescriptions I took, and after my pharmaceutical shout-outs, she said that they would have to give me MORE sedation than they would give to a normal patient. I said, “Hey baby, do your thing,” and then spit in my hand and offered it for her to shake.


We somehow got onto the topic of films, and she mentioned that she hated American films and loved foreign films.
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(worst movie I ever saw)

“Word, couldn’t agree more… now about those drugs… when is that happening?”
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So she put the IV in and pumped me full of Fentanyl and Versed. I started to feel slightly under a spell when the doctor came in. He asked me how I was feeling and I said, “Pretty gooooood, how are you feeling?” He told the nurse to give me more Versed. He sprayed this awful tasting foam in my mouth and told me to swallow. It tasted like this Japanese weight lifter's sweat, and was twice as thick.
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More Versed says the doc. He sprayed the crap onto my tongue again and I could feel it numbing my throat as it went down. More Versed again. After this point, I don’t recall anything until I awoke in the recovery room.
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I regained consciousness as a nurse was taking out my IV, which was now an empty bag. She said, “Looks like your IV got used up.” No shit, fuckface.

I felt like I had entered into a hazy dream zone of rainbows.
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I demanded a pen and paper, and surprisingly, she procured these for me. I shooed her away and recorded my thoughts:
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The nurse came back and asked if I wanted something to drink. I asked her what they had, and she said, “Cranberry juice, oran…”

“Cranberry juice!”

“Okay, would you like some cookies as well?”

Who am I to refuse cookies? “What kind of cookies you got?”

“Well, we got Lorna Doones, oatmeal rais…”

“What the hell is a Lorna Doone?!”

“It’s a type of cookie.”

“We’ll see about that. Bring it here!”

She returned with the cookies and juice. I immediately knew what a Lorna Doone cookie was when I saw the package.
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It’s basically a generic, greasy, buttery cookie… but that’s beside the point. My qualm has to do with the nurse calling them “Lorna Doones” like everybody asks for them by name. Bitch, the only cookie with that distinction is an Oreo. When’s the last time you heard anybody say, “Wow, I love these goddamned Lorna Doones!” or “When you go to the store, pick me up some of them Lorna Doones” or “Cocksuck! Who ate my Lorna Doone?!”


The answer to all three is Joel’s grandma, a fictional old timer with a fictional grandson made up for the purposes of my story.
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Shortly after eating a couple cookies, I put on my shirt and left under the supervision of my mom. I was way exhausted and drugged, and my mom told me that the doctor said that he didn’t see anything wrong with my stomach visually, but a couple biopsy results would be back in a week. Good news? I don’t know yet.

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