Scaredy CT

I had no problem with the blood and the urine tests. Been there, done that.

I figured I was in for a long haul in the Massachusetts General Hospital emergency room, so the ten hour wait in the plastic chair with the broken armrest did not surprise me

I even weathered a quick but painful rectal exam administered by a young, gentle female doctor. In 13 years I’ll be experiencing those on an annual basis, so I just thought of it as practice.

However, when a triage doctor explained to me in graphic detail how I would soon have my large intestine filled with contrasting fluid (hint: it’s not orally) for an abdominal CT scan, I had a minor epiphany – I realized that I’m a 27-year old baby.

I don’t do hospitals. Even as I stumble towards 30, I’ve never once been hospitalized. Never had surgery, never had a procedure, never had a stitch. Except for a few moronic adolescent stunts involving skateboards and steel track and field hurdles, I’ve never even been seriously injured. There’s never been a reason for me to be hospitalized, and I’ve always felt fortunate in that sense.

That was until a recent Tuesday afternoon when, at the urging of my oh-so-sage mother, I walked from my North End apartment over to MGH around 1 p.m. after weathering a day and a half of intense abdominal pains. Over the course of the next nine hours I read the August 2005 Entertainment Weekly twice, waved numerous unsuspecting patients away from the chair a heavily intoxicated man had passed out in and bled all over, and faced numerous indignations. Good times.

One humiliation of note was that of the ubiquitous hospital johnny I was forced to wear for the dreaded CT scan around 10PM. I was swimming in a sea of off-white linen that draped over my 167-pound frame like a circus tent, dragging on the floor behind me as I strode the taupe-colored corridors. It was some time before a giggling doctor informed me I had the top on backwards, as the two ties on the open portion were apparently offering brief glimpses of my winter-white chest. I didn’t think it felt right, but I didn’t know any better. Before several doctors could finish chuckling about my fashion faux pas, I was being summoned into a large examination room. Because the triage doctor had earlier hinted at what I was in for, I sulked down the length of what seemed like an endless hallway. Entering the room, the large metal door slammed shut behind me like a jail cell. Dead man walking, indeed.

A male radiologist instructed me to lie down, and I shot back with a curt “No” when he asked me if I wanted to see the long, plastic tube he would soon be violating me with. His statement of, “well, it’s lubricated,” did not help. The cold examination table chilling the entire right side of my body, I closed my eyes, thought about The Bahamas and prepared for the worst. Minutes later, as I was slowly moved in and out of the donut-shaped machine, I was reminded several times through a speaker to “clench as much as possible.” Thanks for the tip. After some twenty minutes, the doctor approached, leaned over behind me, and with one quick, uncomfortable yank, it was all over. I certainly didn’t realize how long the tube was until it was pulled it out. In this case, ignorance was bliss. Several ounces of contrasting fluid remaining in my body, I was told to find the nearest restroom and “void” what remained. A stellar Tuesday this was turning out to be.

Clinging to a few molecules of dignity, I was sent back to the waiting room where this carnival of absurdity began. A gaggle of attractive coeds, who had earlier escorted an injured volleyball player to the ER, were still there when I waddled back. The delicate way I ambled back likely said it all. Their giggles quickly gave way to silence as I sat down ever so gingerly. One girl began to ask what the doctors had done to me, but then thought the better of it. Our eyes met and we had a brief, unspoken understanding. My face said it all, that the doctors had done something very, very bad to me.

As the clock struck 11:15 p.m., my official diagnosis no longer mattered. An attractive female doctor approached, kneeled down and passed along the verdict. The coeds leaned in with, waiting with baited breath. Before she could offer word one, I muttered, “Hi. I’ve been here for ten hours, so no matter what is wrong with me, I want you to cut something out of me. Pretend I have ebola, dengue fever, anything. Seriously. Please.” Not amused, she told me that my appendix was inflamed and ready to rupture, and I would undergo an emergency appendectomy in 90 minutes. Basically, she confirmed what WebMD had told me some 14 hours ago. Thanks, Dr. House.

Six hours and two pathetic crying sessions later (anesthesia makes you emotional, I’m told), I was brought upstairs from recovery and introduced to my new roommate. Playing Oscar Madison to my Felix Unger, he was a messy older gentleman who had a penchant for taking off his hospital gown every 15 minutes and playing his television at ungodly decibel levels. Speaking of television, while he enjoyed some two-dozen channels of entertainment, for some reason I had just two channels (CBS and Telemundo). Weeks later, I’m still trying to decide what is worse, having an incision in your belly button or watching the premiere of “Armed & Famous.”

Countless Hoodsies, percocets, and nurse call buttons later, it was Thursday afternoon: Discharge time. Although I wasn’t feeling well enough to leave, I had had enough of my roommate, tasteless hospital food and the literal pain in my butt. Having your appendix out is one of the most routine surgeries out there, and yet it kicked the ever-living crap out of me. Only in the last two weeks have I fully regained my appetite and begun to feel like myself, so I can’t imagine how I would deal with a real surgery. Conversely, my younger brother battled cancer for a year and a half, never shed a tear and remains the toughest person I know. I intended to praise him more, but I just thought about that CT scan and the plastic tube for a second.

I’d better lie down.