The Investigation: Part II

My alarm went off at 5:50am. I had purposely set it ten minutes early so that I could hit snooze exactly two times before I had to roll out of bed. I hit snooze four times. After finally puling myself out of the warmth of my blankets, I cringed, seeing that it was still dark outside -- I was on vacation, dangit. Nevertheless, I crawled to the shower and threw myself in, forcing myself to face the fact that I was, in fact, awake. Fifteen minutes later, after having decided to forgo the hair washing and merely throw on a hat, I raced down the hill through the early morning fog and made it to the hospital in record time. Upon initial arrival, I was unsure of where to go. I could either go into the Surgery Center, or go in right next to the Emergency Room. I decided to start left and go right. I walked into the Surgery Center and asked the lady at the front desk, "This is probably not the right place, but do you do ultra sounds here?" The lady looked at me with a sweet -- too sweet -- look on her face and said, "No, sweetie. It's next door." I knew from the look on her face that she assumed I was pregnant. I realize I've put on a couple of pounds eating that canister of almond roca, but I would have hoped I didn't look pregnant. I thought about clearing up what was clearly a misunderstanding, but instead, I merely smiled and said, "Happy Holidays," and walked out. 

This is what I saw. It might as well be a baby blob, right?!

Next door I was found to be on the list of patients and was shown to a much too chipper woman (notice how everyone is just a little too happy for me at 7 in the morning?) When I told her my dad's birthday, she threw down her pen, took off her glasses, and exclaimed in a sigh of despair, "Lord, Almighty, I'm old enough to be your mother." I had no response, and merely shrugged and agreed. What do you respond? "Oh nooooooo," I could have replied. "You barely look 25!" But at the butt crack of dawn, why even try. She was jovial, however, and the process went quickly...relitively speaking. I heard how her and her husband met, how they spent their honeymoon in Nevada in a cabin, how she got sick and he had to drive an entire hour just to buy her Nyquil. ("Yeah...he's a keeper," is all I could mumble). Oh, and she has to get her driver's license renewed, but she can't find her two marriage certificates OR her birth certificate. Oh my. Finally I was led to a back room where the lady with big glasses gave me a gown and told me she'd be back. I had never had an ultrasound. I'll admit, I've never been pregnant. I know, newsflash, right? But the actual test wasn't too imposing or dangerous...just lots of warm (surprisingly so, since my entire body was bracing for the cold strike) gel smeared on my belly and the ultra sound equipment snapping pictures of my innards. On the screen I could see my pancreas, my kidney, my liver and my gallbladder. Ok, let's be honest. If she wouldn't have been typing the names of the organs on each screen shot, it might as well have been snapping pictures of a fetus. I was thankful for the first time in my life (because why would I otherwise EVER be thankful for this) for the literary of ultra sound technicians. So informative. Anyways...the procedure lasted a short 10 minutes, at which point I returned the gown, wiped off the goo, and headed out, waving to the woman old enough to be my mom.


It was still dark out when I emerged from the hospital, but the sky up over the mountains was starting to develop into a pink and purple sunrise. I stopped to admire the beautiful site for just a couple of seconds before my mouth filled with bile at the thought of my next stop -- lab tests. I hopped in my car and skipped across the road to the lab, where I was greeted by a little, dark-haired perky woman in a white lab coat, who was batting her eyes at something behind me as I walked in. "Oh," she giggled. "That's just my boyfriend." I turned to see a guy in a flannel shirt drive by in a dirty truck with big wheels. I think a gun rack was hanging on the back window. "Great!" I said, sarcasm oozing off my tongue, at this point not even trying to hide my lack of enthusiasm. Fox News was on the plasma on the wall and they were talking about a bomb that went off in Greece and in Argentina at the same time. I sat engrossed as I heard prancing and squeals from the back room (ok, so maybe she wasn't prancing and squealing, but if you saw her, it's what you would have expected). After a few minutes or so she called my name, looking into the waiting room, as though she was searching through a sea of people awaiting her expert phlebotomist skills. I was the only one there, but I humored her nevertheless. "Oh, right here!" I called to her, waving, trying to see over the fake heads and screaming children in front of me. "Come on back," she replied with a wide smile. I flopped into her seat and she brought out the different blood tubes - 6 in total - and immediately began asking questions. "So..." she began, "he's running a lot of tests on you! Are they looking for something serious?" The last part of her sentence had dropped an octave lower as she tried to pull out her most serious, concerned tone of voice, low enough that the other people in the waiting room wouldn't hear should my reply reveal a tropical fungus I had acquired in New Guinea. I paused, formulating my response, realizing I was already short tempered that morning. Finally I responded, "It's gas." There was a thick silence. Suddenly the silence broke when she realized the awkwardness. "Oh my!" she answered. "Now that just isn't any fun, now, is it?" The blood drawing was relatively painless -- much less so than the conversation -- and I was finally allowed to leave the chair. With another "Happy Holidays" trailing behind me, and with gauze taped to my arm, already pulling at my arm hair, I left the lab and got into my car and began the trip home, the sunrise chasing me in the rearview mirror.


What did I learn through the second phase of my investigation? Well, besides the fact that some people are just way too happy at 7 in the freaking morning, and the fact that your pancreas is located at the top of your abdomen (assuming she knew what she was doing, that is), as well as the testimony of a happily married woman (with a husband great enough to drive an hour to get away from her on her honeymoon -- I mean get her medicine --) that Reno is a fabulous place to get married, I learned nothing. The results should be in by the middle of next week. Until then, I am to keep eating things that I know won't upset my stomach. I think I have 15 gardenbrugers still in my freezer. I might need to buy some more Miracle Whip.