Returning for scans and tests brings a memory flood that’s like a dam breaking in the brain. A dam one’s worked damn hard to build. Revisionist history morphs into Fake Truths. It wasn’t so bad becomes OMG! THIS! AGAIN!
Test day(s) and the prep before can max the nerves. This time, fresh snow turned roads and knuckles white—and ensured that everything everywhere ran late. This made everyone stressed. They were already sick (beyond their job angst and infirmities) and hacking like suffering ducks, everyone: Staffers, nurses, patients, relatives, and the omnipresent Waiting Room Nomads who have no obvious reason for being there.
So I must ask: Why so some patients bring a family reunion to their appointments? God only knows. But they do.
The check-in line? Gridlock. After all, one kindly lady can only do so much. And it’s hard to collect info from folks having hack attacks. Language interpretations take time, too. And then there are the irrelevant questions they ask, like, “What’s the temperature in Moscow?” and “What was Richard Nixon’s sperm count when impeached?” Some patients just don’t have the answers. In any language.
“When did you retire?” the receptionist asked one fossilized man attached to various machines. After much consideration, he answered, “Two thousand seventy.” The clerk cocked her head and replied, “Okay, just have a chair, honey. It’ll be a while, honey.” He didn’t move. Time passed. So, this being the era of #metoo caution and all, she asked, “Does it bother you when I call you ‘Honey?’” That perked him way up, “Who doesn’t like being called ‘Honey?’” And they laughed—loud, and long, and clear! I actually thought they might dance a little jig. The sound was so out-of-place that the waiting room went silent for a moment.
Finally, my turn! “Hi. Name’s Horsted. But you can call me honey. That sounds really good right about now.” Awkward pause, irked stare. “Okay, hon. Let’s just slow down here.” “Hon?” I replied, half insulted. “Just ‘Hon?’ Please! I want pure “Honey!” “Okay, fine; you’re honey. You need some scans. Right? You know we’re running late here on acccounta the snow and half the staff is out sick as dogs. I don’t feel so good myself. Have a seat, hon. Please. Now.”
Thus ended our brief romance. But it was sweet while it lasted.
While awaiting my tests from infectious technicians, I read three papers, fought off flying phlegm, and scowled at the omnipresent gang of way-fare youth that skip school so they can hang out in waiting rooms playing screen (scream?) games at full volume. I watched a rambling parade of delusional VIPs shamelessly pacing and squawking into their phones.
Decades later, my turn came when a nurse appeared like the Ghost of Christmas Future and brayed, “MR. HO-O-O-RST-E-E-E-D?” I regained consciousness and approached her. “Welcome to the machine,” she stated with no irony, and not, unfortunately, to make a Pink Floyd connection that might melt some ice.
Today’s scans would first involve swilling two 16-oz bottles of tainted sugar-water in 60 minutes. An orderly took me to a men’s dressing room (so I could participate in a procession of other patients changing into hospital jammies while their entourages watched me warily). Mr. Orderly soon served as my bartender and told me to sip my toxic elixir “like a fine wine.” Except he said it like, “A fahn wahn.”
This time, having lived this movie before, I actually brought my own wine glass. The cheesy, cheapo kind that you can drop on cement and it won’t break but that I thought might break some ice on this long day. He was unimpressed. And just plain icy.
My poise was running low, as was my energy (since one must fast). And by now I was impatient as the hottest boy at homecoming. So I pushed back. “Fine wine? Really? I know a few things about wine. And I’ve never pounded a quart of fine wine in 60 minutes.” He was still unimpressed. I asked a few irrelevant questions of my own, trying to at least chip ice.
“Mr. Rheostat, Good Lor’, just drink the shi’. I’ll be back in an hour. And it betta be all gone, awright?” He gave a little eye-rolling chortle and shuffled off. Like I said, everyone was feeling stressed and testy. “Not a problem! I can drink like the best of them!” I shouted. He remained unimpressed and waved me off under distant fluorescent light.
Did I mention it was Friday. While normally a good thing, avoid major medical on Fridays. The staff is fried. Fry Day. Just sayin’.
The scan tests themselves were pleasant enough. Meditation training removes most fear of being stuck inside a large, noisy tube while The Voice of God tells you when you can and cannot breathe, move, etc. Heck, I’ve even fallen asleep in there—if they provide enough warm blankets—much to the dismay of the harried crew. “Mr. Horsted! Wake up! You’re twitching!” (“Oh, sorry, I was dreaming about an erotic party on a pontoon in an Iowa corn field…”)
As for the blood work? That’s more high-risk. And can take days to produce (sometimes inconclusive) results. This time, my nurse was a newbie who clearly had failed chef school. I’ll just leave it at that, except that to say that life brings scars. Wear them with pride, I say, like others show off drunken-weekend tattoos.
The results came in multi-media form, rather like a U2 concert but without Bono presiding to make it epic and awesome. A 3-page radiologist’s report hit the mailbox forthwith, riddled with big, intimidating words. A late-in-the-evening phone message from Dr. Zen that dysfunctional phone connections failed to fully capture. Meetings alongside doctors with seemingly hours looking at charts and images of my innards from thousands of angles. They always see “things” I don’t—tell me about stuff going on in there of which I’m unaware. They’re amazing. Although I’m pretty sure I could beat them at cribbage.
The best news is the tumor is not back. (Rah!) After that, things get more murky. Tests revealed some “things” they don’t like. So I don’t like them either. Thus, I get to continue my research for the book chapter called, “Adventures in Waiting Rooms,” enjoy some new test procedures, and expand my network of medical friends.
But instead, for now, I can do no better than to quote Forrest Gump: “That’s all I have to say about that.”
Life, sometimes, becomes a waiting room, for every one of us (you too) as we slog through uncertainty. As Grandma always joked, “Hurry up and wait!” Mom, meanwhile, still reminds us to “Pray for patience.”
Patience. Patience. I got this.
Thanks for listening…
PS Happy New Year! Here’s to one more run around the sun…