07.08.07
When I was in
And came home to a doctor's appointment.
Which led me here.
Sitting in a generic waiting room, watching an old episode of “Charmed” on television and reading a back issue of "People."
When people don't know what's wrong with you, it's a terrifying feeling. Four doctors. Countless visits. One CAT Scan. Eight viles of blood. And now an MRI.
For something that could be a tumor on my pituitary gland or a side effect of a pill.
I hate hospitals. This one in particular. Each of my grandparents has been here to stay before. Some of them more than once. And now here I sit in the basement, waiting for the radiologist to come and pick me up. Flipping through this magazine. Glancing enviously at a photo of Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz. Finding myself hating her, but hating him more for dating a brainless tart like her. Wishing he'd get back together with that girlfriend who makes him so miserable so he'll write more lyrics about a real girl and not this pseudo-pop princess. Looking at all the ugly dresses stars have been wearing to God knows what awards show. Staring at the pictures of Jennifer Aniston's new boyfriend and finding myself loathing every mention of Brad Pitt. Asshole.
When the radiologist comes to pick me up from the room, I flop the magazine back onto the table and her attention immediately goes to my feet.
"You can go get your sandals, you know. We have to walk to the room. It's a walk."
What she means is that I should get my shoes out of the locker I've stashed my clothes in. This will take more time and I have to be to work in like an hour.
"Is it okay if I don't wear them?" I ask. She gives me a strange look. She's probably like my bosses. Thinking something will fall on my toes and I'll sue the hell out of the hospital. "I mean, I walk barefoot practically everywhere anyways."
She shrugs her shoulders and starts walking. Immediately, I start to follow her, trying to keep my hospital gown closed as much as possible. This is quite a feat in itself as it's hard to tie something up in the back by yourself. Add into this equation the fact that I decided to wear green underwear that day and the gown was practically transparent.
The radiologist gives me the rundown of what's going to happen. I'm going to lie on the table. She's going to slide me in. They're going to take photos of my brain. Then they're going to take me out, inject dye in me and then take more photos. I need to be as still as possible. Do I have any metal in my body that could possibly mess up my scan?
I tell her no, that my earrings are out. Then lie down on the table when we finally arrive in the room. She's telling me it'll be cold and hands me a thin blanket. I close my eyes, wanting to erase this room from my vision. It's square. It's got a white floor and white walls. There are a few windows, but they do little for the interior of the room.
She hands me a pair of earplugs, telling me it's going to be loud. I push them into my ears thinking they're kind of like the earphones I use for my iPod, but they fit a little differently. The radiologist keeps talking to me which seems to be a waste since I have earplugs in now and can't hear a single word she's telling me.
And then it's time.
Leaving the room, she pushes a button which slides me into the machine.
Being alone, like really alone, in a tube in the dark, encompassed on all four sides is a feeling unlike anything I've ever had to experience. I hate cramped, closed places. Add in the fact that I can't move and pretty much all that's left of me are my thoughts.
And a lot of thinking goes on.
First I try not to think of death. Death is something that really freaks me out. Like really freaks me out. Whenever I think about it, I have to move and run and do something because it terrifies me. And now I'm in this tube and I can't move and I can't do anything.
Forcing the thought from my brain, I think of Fall Out Boy and Pete Wentz again, but terrified that disgust will cloud my MRI when Ashlee Simpson enters the equation. I think of stuff going on in my life that I'm not happy with...and that just makes me want to cry.
So instead, I start to think about the one person who would have had me diagnosed months and months and months ago.
Dr. House.
For real.
That man may take a few days to figure out what's wrong with a patient, but when he does, BAM. That's it. Here I am for months and months trying to figure out what's wrong with me. This could have been solved so much quicker. But then again, there's one problem.
House isn't a real doctor.
I mean, I'm sure that out there somewhere is a doctor of his magnitude. But let's face it. He doesn't exist.
Soon enough, I'm being slid out of the tube and the radiologist begins attempting to find a vein. She attempts more. And even more.
But the veins in my arms don't want to cooperate. So she taps a vein in my hand. And taps it. And taps again. What feels like it takes forever probably takes twice as long. And soon enough, I feel a prick in my hand and will myself to another place.
I hate needles.
When I'm back inside the tube again, I start to think about House some more. I think about the season finale. I think about the spoilers I've read for the next season. I don't want Cameron and Chase gone. I really could care less about Omar Epps character. He annoys me. But if the other two are gone, I fear what the show will be like. I have no doubt House will be just as snarky. But what about the rest of his crew?
For the rest of my MRI, I wonder about this show and when I finally am brought back out of the tube, I realize that not once inside did I think about work or friends or family for a long period of time. Instead, I was more focused on a TV show.
I climb off the table and am woozy. The dye they put in me has made me feel awkward and I feel like I could pee out a river...but it's over.
Walking back to the dressing room, swaying back and forth, I realize this experience is finally over.
But they still don't know what's wrong with me.
If only Dr. House were real.
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