My Esophageal Morning

Just figured I'd write about this here. Because why not, we write about everything else here, and we do it (at least you do...I try) without sentimentality and hopefully w/a little humor...so here goes.

Got to the doctor, they took off my shoes and shirt, put me in a gown, laid me back on the cart, and the nurse came in. "Am I going to feel a little prick?" I said.
"You're going to feel a big prick, actually," she replied, not deigning to adopt my sophomoric, desperate-for-a-laff tone.

It was a rather big prick, I gotta say. She just kept sliding and sliding that IV needle in there. And kept telling me, "Don't move your hand so much. Relax your fingers. Relax your fingers."
Like I could fuckin' relax my fingers when a needle as big around as a Bic pen was sliding in between my fuckin' tendons?

But that nurse was as determined lass, and she got it in. Then I lay there with my stomach gurgling, reading a book about Java Design patterns and wishing the hell we could get this over with so I could go home. All the while I had that creeping saline numbness going up my right arm.

Wife came in, I tried to crack a few jokes with her. When they wheeled me into the operating room I was off on some rant about the equestrian scene of Saint Augustine and how I was a famed bareback rider. I think the initial anesthesia was already starting to take effect.

Next thing I know, I'm coming to. They're asking me if I want a cup of coffee. I say "yes'" and mumble a lot of other complicated sentences that are intended to be jokes but get lost on the way to the punchline. All the time I'm thinking about how my friend Steve cracked them up w/the Little Miss Muffett routine.

Doctor comes in. Says it doesn't look good. I've got what looks like lots of irritation. Could be Barrett Esophagus, a bad condition. Not fatal or cancerous, but pre-cancerous; not what you'd want. Geez. In my half-stoned and belligerent state (I remember thinking that the doctor was really harshing on my party) I started asking him all sorts of questions. He wanted to defer these until the biopsy came back, of course, and after listening to me ramble and mumble for awhile, he gave my wife an apologetic nod and moved on to the next curtain, where I clearly heard him say, "Good news! Looks great in there!"

The curtain came back to reveal this bloated, popeyed, white-haired old man who looked as if he'd spent his life drinking bacon grease and eating batteries. But his esophagus was fine! The doctor beamed with pride as he pointed out the lovely smooth contours of the man's esophagus on a color printout.

My wife was putting on my shoes. They stood me up. I staggered for a door and boom! was outside. Rode along, watching the gray clouds scroll backward against the building tops, still not quite comprehending my situation. Still outraged, even now, but getting over it. It's just, man, I was NOT worried at all. I was sure I'd be in and out, no problems.

But hey, no big deal, right? Who needs a fucking esophagus anyway? They'll just put in a length of PVC pipe and install a little handle on my neck...I can pull the crank and drop the food straight into me gut.