Back Door Man

April 25, 2006 at 10:38 AM | Posted in Journal | 2 Comments
  I lay on the gurney and sighed a nervous sigh.  So.  This is it.  I looked up at the stark white ceiling tiles, the florescent light fixtures.  Outside my own curtain, I could hear the scratching of other curtains opening and closing, the murmuring of nurses and doctors and patients.  I had an IV in my arm.
  I was waiting.  Waiting for my turn.  I had time to reflect that I had been waiting for this for actually two years, although the first year and a half or so didn’t actually count.  By the time I actually got serious about it was right before Christmas.  I had the chance to get a head-start on all of the New Year’s Resolutions that I wouldn’t fulfill.
  But this one, this was mildly important to my future health and well-being, as well as my current state of mind.  As much as I didn’t want to do it, feared the unknown and every horror story associated with it, my still-developing sense of grown-up responsibility pushed me forward even while my feet dug into the pavement.
  I had finally called and made the appointment.  Then I called and changed it.  My wife broke her foot, and I needed someone to drive me to and fro for this, they had explained, and my wife was not able to drive right away.  So I had put it off for a month.  She was still in a cast, but able to limp around.
  In the meantime, I grudgingly did the other things required.  I filled the prescription.  I watched the timetable for when I had to perform certain activities, like stop taking aspirin a week before.
  Saturday night, by midnight, was the last time I could eat solid food.  Sunday morning, I mixed a solution of Gatorade and the powdered medicine.  At the appointed time, I took the pills, then began drinking the solution.
  These memories seemed distant as I mused on the here and now.  My stomach rumbled; it had been a day and a half since I had eaten.  My system, in theory, was entirely cleaned out.  I had spent the previous afternoon alternately sitting on the bed drinking the solution, and sitting on the toilet.
The medicine had not even been that bad.  I had heard that it was the worst part of it.  Mixed with Gatorade and water, and chilled, it was.  .. drinkable.  By evening I was done.  And hungry.  My daughter asked me what was for dinner.  I said, "Whatever you want to make," and went in the bedroom and closed the door.  Even the smell of potato chips was intoxicating.
  But I held out, I was a good soldier.  In the morning, I even made her lunch and got them off to school, then came back, got the wife, and drove in.
  But that’s not all.
  I was in the room, behind a curtain, on a gurney.  My wife was in the waiting room, waiting for me to take me home when I was done.  Broken foot, in a walker, prepared to try to help me–warned that I might be groggy–into the truck.  She’s in a cast and using a walker.
  And she has our recently-turned-four-and-out-of-control grandson with her.  This had the potential for real comedy.  The child is typical of any four-year old, meaning that a psychiatrist would want to diagnose him with ADHD and drug him rather than deal with him.
  (–sorry, I’m dragging my soapbox out.  While Tom Cruise is a complete nut-bag, he is right about a great deal of psychiatry.  They want to drug our children, and keep them drugged, and change society in that way.  Over 80% of children on Ritalin or other psychotropic meds shouldn’t be.  There are some kids with legitimate problems that need to be addressed.  But most of it is bright, inquisitive kids who want to learn and explore who have parents who are incapable of parenting.
  (A good friend of mine who is a special ed teacher had a class where some speakers came.  A psychiatrist and a psychologist.  A fist-fight almost broke out.  The psychologist accused the doctor of drugging up the kids.  He plead guilty, but said this:  "I have seen the kids, I have seen the parents.  The parents are the cause of it.  If I could drug the parents I would.  But I can’t.  So I drug the kids to get them through their childhood, and then I can fix them later."
  (So if you have a kid on Ritalin, I want you to know I am not accusing you of being a bad parent.  I am asking you to evaluate the need and get a second opinion.  Please.  For their sake.)
  So the kid is not bouncing off the walls, but he is running around a little, talking, looking at things, asking questions.  This is normal behavior in a toddler, wouldn’t you think?  But he is a good boy, the youngest of my grandchildren, and my favorite right now because he’s not talking too much.  This will all change as he gets older.  He listens to my wife, and he helps her (as much as a child can.)  She brought a few toys for him, and some paper and crayons.  I was told it could be a couple of hours, total.  For a child with his whole life ahead of him, that is an eternity.  For me, a couple of hours is nothing.  For my wife watching him, a couple of hours in a waiting room with him is two weeks in a timeshare in hell.  Time is subjective.
  I was in relative comfort, for now.  But soon… 
  I filled out forms, I answered more questions than I asked, then waited.  Then went in the room, and waited.  Then took off my clothes and put on the stylish backless skirt, and waited.  And now I was being rolled into the THE ROOM.  THE ROOM is different from the room.  The room is where I wait.  THE ROOM is what I had been waiting for.
  I rolled in, and the doctor greeted me, and looked at the chart where all of my information had been, and asked me a question.  "Why are you having this test?"
  I paused.  I pondered.  I thought.  I weighed and measured.  Why?  Why were they asking me yet again?  this was the fourth time in an hour I had been asked this question.  The answer had been written down and read by each person who asked it, before they asked.  And yet, again, they ask.  What manner of psychological torture was this?  Or what interrogation technique?  What new information did they hope to trick me into divulging?
  Warily, I answered.  "Family history."
  He nodded, my answered matched the secret written answer.  I was told to turn on my side, and while a hot chick was talking to me, her breasts near my face, she secretly slipped a Mickey Finn into my IV.  I was about to ask her to show me her breasts, and suddenly I was out. 
  I was dreaming.
  I dreamt about our yard.  The builder had just finished it, a year and a half after the fact, and seeded and strawed it.  I dreamt that we now had grass growing.
  Pretty mundane thing to dream about.  I mean, in the dream, I did have an aquarium in the garage with a whale in it, and I could fly, and I had sex with a supermodel, but other than that, yeah, pretty normal.
  Soon, I felt I was waking.  I felt a. . . something, in my butt, pulling out of my butt, and a towel wiping my butt.  All-in-all, much like a bad date.
  I was about to say something, let them know I was waking and shouldn’t feel this, so I opened one eye.
  The hot chick was there.  She smiled.  "There you are!  All done now."
  I may have answered.  Hard to flirt with a woman after she has seen a tube shoved up my ass, but I was going to try.  They threw the sheet over my butt and wheeled me out.


RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI

  1. wasn\’t so bad, was it? I actually woke up while the thingy was still up my butt and I got to watch it on the TV screen… I was stoned and at the time it seemed like the coolest thing I\’d ever seen on TV!! I vaguely recall asking "is that ME? wow! cool!".
    And yes, Bry, if I believed in Hell I\’d most likely be a resident there when I\’m done here.  But  since you\’d be there with me, would it really be so bad?
    I had a pretty good day today, want to help me celebrate? I\’m in a really good mood!!!! *smile*
    hummmming hugs and kisses

  2. well glad that you got it over with and hope that the results are okay. Sounds like a rough day. Sorry.
    I agree about Ridilin – they tried to put me on it after my brain injury and I swear it is the weirdest drug…I felt like I was going 20 mph and the whole world was doing 120 mph – I wasn\’t concentrating harder or better…I was just looking at the only object that wasn\’t moving! THey think the kids are reading the chalkboard suddlenly and sitting in their seats – nope – those poor kids are trying to make the world slow down to their pace so they can reacclimate themselves before falling out of their chairs. – patti

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at
Entries and comments feeds.

%d bloggers like this: