OK, I promised I'd tell you about my CT scan. Hey-ey-ey, where do you think you're going? You get right back here and read about my medical procedure. I mean it.
Speaking of people going places, don't think I didn't notice that follower leave. You know who you are. And you quit following just as I was about to talk about taking pictures of my innards and stuff. See what happens when you decide you'd rather have a life? You miss out on DeNae's CT scan adventure. Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.
Now, as you may recall, my gall bladder divorced me last November. It was pretty acrimonious; I don't like to talk about it. As far as I was concerned, things were going just fine. But apparently gall bladders have "needs" and "problems" with my "commitment issues", and, well, let's just say I hope it's happy with its new life partner. Seriously, I've totally moved on.
But while we were still co-habitating I had an ultrasound. And it was the craziest thing: The ultrasound showed, right there on my pancreas, a silhouette of Elvis, weeping. I don't know how a silhouette weeps; I'm not a medical professional.
So they sent me for a CT scan, and it turned out it wasn't Elvis at all! It was Burt Parks, that old guy who sang "There she is, Miss America" for the first hundred years or so that the pageant was televised. Boy, was that ultrasound technician's face red! I mean, Burt Parks? Who gets worked up over Burt Parks?
So everything was declared right as rain, whatever that means, and my gall bladder and I went our separate ways.
Well now it's been seven months, and just when I was starting to move on with my life, maybe begin dating other organs, nothing serious you understand, just meet a spleen for lunch sorta thing, the surgeon decided to dredge it all up again. "Follow-up" visit, he called it. I call it a shameless grab for a co-pay, mister.
And before he would see me, I had to have another CT scan, to make sure Burt Parks had vacated my pancreas and my gall bladder hadn't violated the restraining order and grown back.
Ever had a CT scan on your mid-section? It's very cool. It's not like that whaddyacallit procedure that they always do on "House", where the patient makes it all the way into the giant tube before their kidneys shut down and they start bleeding from their eyes and Sigourney Weaver bursts out of their chest, and the doctors don't notice right away because they're having some intensely personal discussion along the lines of "what exactly is the point of being bi-sexual?" so the patient is essentially a science fair project by the time the experts join the party.
I know. I was disappointed, too.
But a CT scan is nonetheless quite cool in its own right. You lay on this table and this enormous radioactive doughnut dealio either sits still while you and your table move back and forth or else the doughnut moves back and forth while you and the table sit still. I never worked out what was happening, because right over my head was this little window that had the words, "This is where the laser beams shoot out. Don't look here. Ever. Seriously, stop it. What the heck are you still looking for? Never mind. Just forget it. Fry your retinas, see if I care." So naturally I couldn't take my eyes off the little laser beam window.
Anyway, they took a bunch of pictures with the doughnut, and then one of the technicians came in and said, "OK, for this next part, we have to inject you with this stuff that will either dilate your blood vessels or turn you into a werewolf, depending on what you were reading in the lobby. Now, you need to know: This stuff will go through your system very quickly. It will make you warm all over. And it will give the sensation of your having peed your pants. It is very important that you understand, regardless of how things feel, as it were, down there, you have not, and I reiterate this most strenuously, in point of actual fact, peed your pants. Do you grasp what I'm telling you, DeNae? No pants peeage has occurred."
Well for goodness sake, I'm nearly 46 years old. I comprehend what the words "You have not peed your pants" mean. That's the sort of good news women my age look for in fortune cookies. Yes, you absurdly earnest CT scan technician, I hear you. Pants. Unpeed. Gotcha.
So he pushed the plunger on the syringe, and while the medicine was working its way through the tube and into my IV, he headed back to his buddy in the screening room.
Wow. That is crazy-bum stuff, let me tell you. Suddenly, I felt warm all over. For a second I thought I was growing fur and claws, before I remembered I was doing Sudoku in the waiting room, so, you know, whew.
And then, I became absolutely, unerringly convinced I had peed my pants. Oh, I remembered what the technician had said. But somehow I knew that, beyond all reasonable expectations, my rebellious innards had conspired to make me look stupid and had gone ahead and emptied my bladder right there on the spot. Hey, I've been pregnant. I know innards are not above doing stuff like that.
I lay there hoping the techs would notice my plight and bring me a towel or a cyanide capsule or something, but when I overheard one of them say, "Well, it doubles your chances of getting a prom date" I knew I was on my own.
I tried looking for some kind of escape, only to discover that I had spent too much time reading the warning over the laser beam window and was now legally blind. This was terribly inconvenient, as I wasn't sure how I'd know if the noose I was fashioning out of my hospital gown was going to fit over my head. "Oh well," I reasoned, "Maybe I can threaten to piddle on the security guard on my way out of the building and he'll shoot me in self defense."
And just as I was about to leap off the table and make my damp and daring dash, the chemical cleared my system, my brain began receiving accurate information again, and it turned out - wait for it - I had not peed my pants! Honestly, you could have knocked me over with a shovel, I was that surprised.
The technician came in, took out my IV, told me I'd been a great patient, really, we have some lovely parting gifts for you, and sent me on my merry way. I pulled out the complete wardrobe I'd stuffed into my purse because they hadn't exactly been clear on where I was supposed to store it all, got dressed, and went home.
On the way, I called my husband. "I just had an awesome CT scan!" I told him. "No word on whether it's Burt Parks on my pancreas, but the good news is, when the chips are down and it really counts, I still have moderate control of my bladder."
You know, it's that kind of sexy talk that keeps a marriage alive.