My Hospital Visit

This week The Lady Karen took me to the VA hospital for a lung scan ordered by my primary care doctor.  The doc wants to see if my lung trouble, from decades of smoking, is something worse than mere shortness of breath. 

Last week the primary care doc spotted a spot on one of my lungs that she did not like the look of, and ordered an x-ray scan of everything from the waist up. She also wanted to hear what the pulmonary people had to say about treatment. So I had two appointments that day, two hours apart.

The first appointment was with a radiology tech to have my lungs scanned for unwelcome critters. The tech was a big male bouncer in scrubs.  He needled me with a syringe full of a radioactive cocktail to see if I was carrying any little lung bugs that would show up on the scan. Then he had me lie on a stretcher for an hour in a darkened exam room. By myself. Not even a book or an old Sports Illustrated to read.  Just me and my vivid imagination, dammit. So I feel asleep. We old farts do that.

Upon awakening I was walked to a room full of equipment from the Starship Enterprise, including a great big tube that looked like it could launch torpedoes. For this procedure I had to drop my pants and undies to my knees and lie on a stretcher, thinking some guys pay big bucks for this kind of abuse from someone named Mistress Whiplash, but instead I was politely bullied by Tech Bouncer, who inserted my partly naked bod on a stretcher into the tube, like a torpedo in a WW2 submarine movie. I felt like saying “swoooosh,” like a launched torpedo but didn't. Tech B also jabbed my finger and an artery to Dracula some blood for a diabetes test.

The torpedo run took 15 minutes as the scanner x-rayed my innards. I had a second appointment two hours later with Dr. Duc Ha, the lung guy.  He's Vietnamese.  Imagine growing up in country torn by war, speaking at least two languages, and earning a degree or two in medicine, then practicing his art for a fixed income in hospital full of limping, wheezing and doddering penniless military vets. I admire him.

Since it was around noon, and I hadn't eaten anything in the past 24 hours per doctor's orders, or had anything to drink for the prior six hours, also per doctor's orders, Lady K wheelchaired me to the hospital cafe where I had an artery clogging cheeseburger with fries and glug-glugged a deliciously unhealthy Coke.

I pulled out my wallet and handed it to Lady K to pay for our lunches at the cashier's register. She ignored me and my wallet and sprung for the meal. I didn't argue. I didn't feel like wasting time with even a token protest before getting at my gourmand's meal.

Next was an appointment with Dr. Duc Ha for the prognosis. A lot of Asians work for the VA here in San Diego.  I noticed the same thing up north.  They're very efficient without being brusque.  No matter what they do to you, they're polite about it.   Lady K who had patiently waited in the hallway working a Sudoko puzzle while I was being a torpedo, wheeled me through a labyrinth of hallways to Dr Ha's cubbyhole for the test results.

Dr. Ha was accompanied by two other physicians -- one a token minority white male, the other an Asian lady --  when he delivered my prognosis.  The spot on my long abused lungs is not cancerous. It's just a spot, but he wants another look-see in three months. And I don't have diabetes either.

I felt like celebrating with a carton of Oreos while reflecting on my state of grace, grace being defined as undeserved good fortune, and the kindness and compassion of my friend, The Lady Karen Simons.

-oOo-

Comments?

Mike, some of the more interesting (and telling) essays I've read have been by physicians who were themselves subject to a battery of 'tests' in a hospital setting, and of course those who could and would write about the experience for publication might tend to be more insightful, but the common thread seemed to be a new since of humility about what "they" put "us" through routinely  -- Hadleigh SJ

I frickin' hate doctors, hospitals and tests. Glad you're clear. -- Lady Writer

Well, I suppose I'd feel the same way if I was a lady with all those complicated hidden lady parts that get poked, prodded and spread wide with cold metal instruments during "routine" pelvic exams that would send the burliest of men screaming for an exit with his hands fig-leafed protectively over his hanging jewels.  Call women the weaker sex, my ass! MB

Quite accurate!  Female friend of mine got the same fright in January after four decades of 2 packs of mentholated Dunhill cigs a day. Scared to death she was when the spot was discovered.  She went through the same exams as you did and was finally declared perfectly healthy. Next thing was the booze. A bottle of whiskey a day for 20 years, until she "quit drinking" and got plastered each day on white wine for 10 years. Past 4 p.m she would hit furniture and tumble to bed by 7p.m until the next day. An ex saved her life, accepting to have her back if she stopped drinking. Since last July she's been on alcohol-free beer.  Now, I realize what I didn't have to go through for giving up smoking 27 years ago. Not a single puff ever since. As for booze, were it not for the religious bullshit, I'd be an almost perfect Mormon. Forgot to say how happy I am to know you'll still be around for quite a while – Gerard

Well, for awhile anyway. MB

My condolences for your fright and hospital indignities, but you ain't got nothin' here, Tomato. One day, when the "monetized blog" that our friend Mrs. Summers insists I launch is up and running (yeah, right), I will regale you of my many hospital experiences over the last few years. I'm surprised I'm still alive, but I've kicked the oxycodone to which I kept getting reintroduced. -- Mike L.

Thank goodness you're ok! – Pamela

Whew-- glad the spot was nothing more! You have a good friend there. – Linda F

Ah, so happy it all turned out well for you my dear friend. Hang in there! -- Lynda A

Having just experienced a 44-minute trip in 'the tube', I feel your pain, although if they had suggested I drop my drawers, there would've been trouble. Thanks for waiting until the last fucking second to tell me you did not have cancer. Scared me to death. --Linda V 

Well, that's what I was thinking -- you waited until the last fucking second to tell us you are okay. I wasn't sure I could hold my breath that long, but I made it. Mike, I am very glad you are okay. One reason is that I want to thoroughly enjoy your writing for a long time to come.  I forbid you to cheat us out of it for a long, long time. -- Zoey

Glad the news was good. Stay well! – Soy

Me too. Thanks ever'buddy for your kind words. MB