Well, I am happy to report that I did indeed make it on my twenty-minute walk to Virginia Mason's Buck Pavilion
yesterday without liquid-shitting my pants. I will note, however, that as soon as I was brought to the hospital bed in in the intake room, the nurse asked me, "Do you want to use the bathroom one last time?"
I didn't especially have to use the bathroom—thankfully—but I said, "I suppose I might as well." And it turned out I did have, let's say, a bit more to give. It's a good thing I did. Not that it would have made any difference to me; I was truly zonked out for close to two hours.
The anesthesia I was given was administered via an IV, though, and getting
that in was the one truly unpleasant part of the entire procedure. It took them
four tries, and three nurses, to get one successfully inserted. It actually hurt each time, and it didn't help that I already get anxious about needles. Every single time the nurse was like, "You're doing great, just keep taking deep breaths." Except each time hurt worse than the last. I wouldn't say it was agonizing per se, but I'd put the worst at about a 6 out of 10 scale, maybe even 7 at the worst moment, but for me that's more than enough.
The first nurse to come in was the one who asked me an endless list of intake questions, about what allergies I might have, health history, and the like. She took one look at me and, only after introducing herself (which they all did, and I can't remember a single one of their names now), she immediately asked, "Can I ask what your pronouns are?"
My pronouns have always been he/him, although I'll answer to any, which is why I long ago put "any pronouns" on all my socials. If I were twenty years old today, I think there's a very good chance I would latch right onto the whole "they/them" thing, but at the age of 47 I just don't have the energy for what it would entail with all my friends and particularly my family. That might seem like a sad perspective to some, except for this: if I'm not that invested in it, then clearly I don't have that strong a "they/them" gender identity anyway. I was saying I was "gender variant" when I was in my twenties, but, I also had a recent realization that it's perfectly okay just to be a man who happens to be androgynous, wear eye makeup, and grow long fingernails.
I am suddenly thinking, though, about how I briefly considered not bothering with eye makeup yesterday. I quickly threw that out the window because I don't ever go out in public without it. The one major concession I did make was that I did indeed take my contacts out, and wore glasses to the appointment, which I then just wore for the rest of the day. And, anyway, had I gone in without the makeup, I have no idea of that nurse still would have led with the pronouns question. (I could be assuming too much of my vibe just without makeup; I used to get mistaken for a girl constantly in high school and I didn't wear makeup then, so perhaps she would have.)
Whatever the case, even though my response was "he/him," I had a deep appreciation for having been asked. Not so much for my own sake, because I don't actually care that much—but because it clearly means this nurse likely asks that question regularly, and has probably encountered many patients for whom it means a lot more than it did to me. And that warmed my heart.
A second nurse came in to insert my IV while the first was asking her litany of questions. (If I recall correctly, nurse #1 also volunteered her own pronouns.) This attempt was the least painful, but was still pretty uncomfortable, and I was relieved when I thought she was done. And then, she said, "It didn't take, I'm sorry." Nurse #2 apologized several times, actually, and clearly felt really badly about it. I felt bad for her because she felt so bad about it, especially knowing that I had a history of fainting at the sight of needles (a point that did, indeed, come up: "As long as I don't look at it I should be fine," I said—not counting on getting poked
four fucking times).
Nurse #1 was the second person to attempt to insert an IV. Each attempt was with a separate vein, the first on the inside of my right elbow; the second on my right hand. Nurse #1 even comforted nurse #2 for a second: "It happens," she said. "Don't beat yourself up about it." I'm sure she was right. Then her attempt, on my right hand, also didn't work.
I learned that the issue was that I was dehydrated. I had drank two liters of that Golytely mixture, one liter Sunday evening and one liter yesterday morning, which completely flushed me out—and I was not also drinking any glasses of water at the same time. Evidently, that would have helped a great deal. It also would have helped had the "Golytely Afternoon Preparation" document I had been sent stressed this detail, which it did not. It only listed water as one of the few
allowable things to drink on the "clear liquid diet" the 24 hours before the procedure, and so much stress was put on what I could
not consume that it seemed prudent simply not to put anything besides the Golytely down my throat.
Lesson learned! Spoiler alert: they found only one tiny polyp, which they removed, and thus they don't recommend I get another conoloscopy for "seven to ten years." (I think I may lean closer in the direction of ten.) I think I might just put a calendar item on my Google Calendar, like, eight years from now, with the reminder: when I next get a conoloscopy, drink water!
I have never had this kind of difficulty with an IV. After nurse #1 failed on the second attempt, she said, "We're bringing in the big guns." And when nurse #3 came in, although she was otherwise very warm with a lovely bedside manner, she was also a little cocky: "Did they tell you I'm a wizard?" She's apparently had extensive experience, including volunteering for blood drives since as early as the age of 14, which was when she first learned to put in IVs. I think that's what she said, anyway.
Third nurse, third attempt: this one went into my left hand. This hurt the worst. And, it also didn't work! So much for your wizardry, lady.
Then she said she would find a "tiny IV" to use, although of course I have no realy frame of reference for exactly what that means. Were the first three really fat or what? Maybe try the tiny IV the first time?
Third nurse, fourth attempt: this one went int the inside elbow on the left arm. And finally, it took. Jesus Christ.
Nurse #1 cracked jokes about how I was going to report all the "abuse" I took. She clearly felt bad for me too. I wasn't especially angry at any of them, to be honest. These things happen, I got unlucky, I get it. If I'm irritated with anyone, it's with whoever wrote up that prep document, which did not adequately stress the importance of hydration. Come to think of it, I think there was indeed a feedback form put into the folder I was given, so I really should fill that out and bring this up.
— पाँच हजार पाँच सौ तैंतालीस —
— पाँच हजार पाँच सौ तैंतालीस —
The doctor who performed the procedure was a blonde woman who looked like maybe she was in her late fifties. Again, I don't remember her name. No wait! I was
Dr. Burman, whose page at Virginia Mason I found after looking up the name of the doctor who had filled my prescriptions for this. (Side note: she looks a lot younger on that page than I assumed her to be. Either those are very old shots of her, or I am deeply insulting her now by assuming her age to be much higher than it is. Let's hope she doesn't google herself.)
Dr. Burman had come to introduce herself and ask a couple of questions while nurse #1 was looking over my arms—and, having discovered my hands to be really cold, brought heated pads to put over my arms as well. Nurse #1 later got a call from the doctor, which she answered on speaker phone, and I got the gist that the doctor had gotten wind that even
she might be called to assist with the IV—but, the third nurse had finally managed it.
When was the last time I had any procedure done at a hosptial, I wonder? All the surgeries I could remember ever having were dental or orthodontic, so all that otherwise comes to mind is when I had my tonsils taken out at the age of nine. What a fun detail, now I've gotten old enough to start returning to hospitals for preventative procedures! They sure attached a lot of shit to me: to the end of my right index finger; to my chest; the blood pressure thing around my arm; the infamous IV.
When I first got into the hospital bed, having never had this done before, I assumed the procedure happened right there, in this large room with a bunch of beds separated only by curtains. Having a sort of dormitory approach to conoloscopies seemed a little odd to me. I asked nurse #1, "So is there a bunch of conoloscopies happening in here all at once?" She then informed me I was going to be taken into a separate room for the procedure. Okay, now I know! Maybe next time I won't sound like I just tumbled off a turnip truck.
When nurse #1 finally pushed me, in my bed, to the back area where the procedure rooms are, I watched the front of my bed passing through doors and down a hallway, a POV shot that brought to mind many scenes in movies. When we reached the door to my procedure room, the anesthesiologist was waiting just outside the door. His mask was pulled below his chin, and he put it back up as soon as he saw me coming. He had also introduced himself to me earlier, asking his own set of brief questions, many of them repeats. He had really nice eyes.
Oh! I almost forgot to mention masks. Ever sicne the pandemic, I have been religious about wearing masks in certain settings, including hospitals, where it continues to boggle my mind that they now basically make it optional for everyone. I rightly assumed I would be spending a lot of my time yesterday in there without a mask on, however, so for the first time, I didn't bother wearing one when I walked in for the checkin on the first floor. I knew I'd be passing through quickly anyway, which makes infection low risk.
But, when I walked into the waiting room on the third floor where the procedure was to take place, literally every single person in
there had a mask on: the two people at the front desk; any staff person who happened to come out; and every one of the maybe six or seven other people also waiting. This was in curious contrast to when I go to regular doctor appointments on the eighth floor or when I go to the lab on the sixth floor. Why it was evidently different here, I don't know, but when I realized I was the single person in the room without a mask on, I pulled it out of my pocket and put it on, and it stayed on until I was literally in the procedure room.
Mind you, I was in the waiting room for maybe fifteen minutes, and during that time more patients and their companions came in, and at least two of them did not bother wearing masks at all. I always find it interesting when I see a pair who are clearly a couple, and one has a mask on and the other does not. (Anecdotally, it's usually the man who does not.) But, that's often Shobhit and me: he doesn't bother to wear one anywhere at all unless he has an active cold, but if we're on a bus or a train or a plane, I still always wear one. My rationale is always this: I might as well cut our risk in half, if I can't cut it completely.
So, once I was wheeled into the procedure room, I was immediately looking around at all the equipment: big montior screens up, one very close to me on the left side, one a few feet further away on the right. The one on my left had my name on it, but still a nurse looked at the band around my left arm to confirm when asking me to state, yet again, my full name and birth date. (There must have been one or two too many instances in the past of a person winding up in the wrong place, with perhaps the same or too similar a name or something.)
I didn't bother closing my eyes until anything forced it. I watched the hand press down on the syring that inserted the anesthesia through the IV that had finally been successful. I thought I said in that moment, "This is a new experience," but I asked about it later and the person I asked didn't remember me saying that.
The next thing I remember, I think it was the kind-eyed anesthesiologist who said, "Matthew!" and jerked me out of a sleep so deep it felt like I'd just slept for eight hours. And: the drugs were still affecting me enough that I was like, well, I can really see why they don't want me trying to make my own way home.
Shobhit worked yesterday until 5:00, and would not have been able to get to the hospital until 5:30. It was about 4:30 when they woke me up, and our neighbor friend, Alexia, was in the waiting room. At first I had thought about asking Laney to pick me up, but Shobhit suggested that maybe wasn't the best choice—Laney's heart history and knee troubles, along with her age and significant weight loss, has made her kind of frail. Shobhit made a fair point that, should I fall or something, Laney would not be the most useful person to hold me up. (I never fell, of course.) I finally texted Alexia Sunday night to see if maybe she could pick me up, and once again, Alexia proved to be possibly the friend I can always count on the most in scenarios like this. She even took a couple of work meetings from home so she could be available. I told her how much I appreciated her picking me up. Shobhit and I should take her out to dinner sometime soon.
Alexia is about to enter a new position at her job, which no longer entails a company car, which she had to give back and she just bought a new one over the weekend. So, I got to ride in her new car, which is white instead of black, and although it looks a bit smaller from the outside, I was impressed by how it felt just as spacious on the inside.
The effects of the anesthesia drugs wore off fairly rapidly, and I felt far less out of it once I walked into the condo than I did when I was first woken up. The first thing I had to do was clean up cat puke. Then, I ate a veggie sausage patty with a slice of havari cheese on it, because I could not wait until Shobhit got home to make dinner to eat something. Holy shit, I was hungry.
He got home very soon after that, though. I'm actually not sure what time that was, or if he actually left work a bit early. He hadn't eaten anything all day either, so we both had two grilled cheese sandwiches, which we ate alongside a split can of minestrone soup, a perfect choice for my first post-fasting dinner. We ate while watching the Emmy Awards on a one-hour delay, having recorded them and waiting to start until we were done making dinner. I made us chai after that.
I deliberately limited the amount of tea I used, but in retrospect maybe I shouldn't have made it at all: Shobhit had no problem whatsoever falling right asleep when he came to bed, but I was wide awake until at least midnight. I honestly think it had less to do with the chai than the fact that I had been truly zonked out for a couple of hours in the afternoon, although the chai may still have been a contributing factor. I don't feel tired now, so that's a good sign. I'm happy to get back to my regular routine again.
— पाँच हजार पाँच सौ तैंतालीस —
[posted 12:31 pm]
