My gastroenterologist decided that an endoscope was the next step.
"We'll run a large tube and a camera into your stomach and look around. And then we'll do a stomach biopsy, too. But don't worry. You'll have anesthesia."
Sounds pretty gross, huh? But I wasn't upset at all.
You hear 'tube running down my throat' and 'anesthesia', but I hear 'day off of work' and 'nap'. See? It's all about perspective.
And I don't get nervous about medical procedures anymore. I used to, but then I had children. If you get poked on enough, eventually you stop crying about it. I'm sure that's exactly how Heidi Fleiss felt at some point in her life, too.
But when I was a kid? I was a total hot mess around needles! If I didn't puke or pass out or both, people started gathering their loved ones because they knew the end of world was upon us.
Case in point. When I was 10-years-old, I asked my Mom if I could get my ears pierced. My younger sister decided that she wanted earrings as well, so I let her go first. You know, just being polite and all. But when she started screaming, I chickened out. And my Mom wasn't going to let me get away with that.
So what would any mature and non-dramatic 10-year-old do in this situation? Pfft. I don't have a clue! But I can tell you what I did, which was hide underneath the coffee table in Merle Norman.
I guess it goes without saying that I was an immature and dramatic kid.
But now, I'm totally fine around needles. And I hardly ever hide underneath coffee tables anymore.
They rolled me into the procedure room, which looked and smelled surprisingly like an operating room. The nurse said, "How old are you? You look too young to have all those... uh, blonde hairs."
"I'm 37 and thank you for calling them blonde hairs. *smile* Both my parents were white headed by 40, so I was fighting a genetic uphill battle. But it's something that I can easily fix with a monthly trip to the salon. There is no way that I would want to be white headed in my forties!"
In a scientific study completely made up for the purposes of this blog, my anesthesiologist was 46-years-old and his hair was 92% gray. Ahem.
So he said, "Hey! What's so bad about being gray headed?"
Great. Now I've offended the man who holds my life in his hands for the next half-hour. Think of a compliment. Quick!
So I said, "When a man's hair turns white, he looks Richard Gere-ish. When a woman's hair turns white, she looks Barbara Bush-ish. See the difference?"
|I thought that line belonged on an e-card, so I made one.|
YESSSS! I indirectly told my anesthesiologist that he looks like Richard Gere. I'm a shoe-in to survive this procedure!
So, look - I'm not saying that he held a grudge or anything, but here is how the next 5 minutes went down.
"Okay, Amanda. Start counting backwards from 10 and you'll fall asleep."
"10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. 1. Uhmm, I'm still wide awake over here, doc."
Not only do I have insomnia in real life, but apparently I have insomnia under anesthesia, too. Awesome. I guess counting sheep won't do crap for me here either.
"That's alright. I'll give you a little bit more medicine and you'll be asleep soon."
But before I could say "thanks", the nurse stuck a huge plastic guard in my mouth to hold it wide open. You know, so they could stick a tube down my throat.
I hate to sound picky here, but isn't that something that could have waited until AFTER I WAS ASLEEP?
The last conscious thought that I had was, 'I'm going to wake up in the middle of this procedure.'
Actually, in my head, it sounded more like this: 'OMG! SOMEBODY HELLLLLP MEEEEE! I'M GOING TO DIE! I TAKE IT BACK, YOU UGLY MO-FO. YOU DON'T LOOK ANYTHING LIKE RICHARD GERE!'
Seriously, y'all. It was just like being in that Merle Norman all over again.
And I had a plan for when I woke up. But Dick Gere ruined it for me.
Brian was going to make a video of me. Everybody knows that acting afool after anesthesia is the fastest path to YouTube stardom and Tosh.0 web redemptions.
But since I had all that anxiety when I went under, that's exactly how I woke up.
I was crying, kicking and yelling for help. Poor Brian.
Once I was actually awake enough to realize that it was over, I tried to play it off like nothing happened. 'Huh? Did I say something? Oh, I did? Really? Cause I don't remember a thing.'
For the sake of internet stardom, Brian should have filmed me freaking out. But for the sake of marriage, he should have wiped my tears instead. And he's a smart man.
So I'm sorry to report that there's no video of me crying or trying to jump from a moving car or slurring my words or anything. Sorry, Tosh. Raincheck?
Brian and I were starving when we left the outpatient center about 3 o'clock. But I felt drunk. Where could I go like this?
Well, that's easy! The Waffle House!
I stumbled in and plopped myself into a booth. The waitress looked me up and down and said, "What's wrong with you? You sick 'er sumpin'?
I sooooo wish that I had the presence of mind to make up a communicable disease story, but I wasn't thinking too quickly on my feet. I wasn't doing anything on my feet actually.
|Right after this, I started drunk dialing people.|
I told her that I had anesthesia and was probably more drunk than her 3 AM customers.
"Darlin", she said. "Then you ain't never been to a Waffle House at 3 AM. Them peoples is D-RUNK. In fact, ole Charlie over there's three sheets to the wind right now."
That's when Charlie explained that he'd had a few drinks and was probably drunker than me after anesthesia.
Huh? Do I smell a drunk challenge? Oh, IT'S ON.
So Charlie and I competed in a Who's Drunker? contest right there in the middle of the Waffle House. Pasty Cline provided the jukebox soundtrack, and our waitress, Holly, kept score. In a couple of minutes, I had more points than she had teeth.
The challenges included things like standing on one foot, walking in a straight line, counting backwards from 20, and recalling all the different ways you can order hash browns at Waffle House (scattered, smothered, covered, chucked, diced, peppered, capped, and topped.)
And I'll be damned. Charlie WAS drunker than me.
Hey, ABC. If you're reading this, I think "Who's Drunker?" would make a great reality television show. And I know exactly where you can find Charlie - either sitting at the Waffle House or at the bar down the street.
Take my word for it: When it comes to being d-runk, that Charlie's a STAR.
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