Cat in the Gulf: Testing positive for fear

Now that this experience is over and done with, I scraped my strength to share some of it.

I am a healthy person. I am not the one to rush to the doctor whenever I sneeze or get a stomach ache. And even when I am really ill, it takes some persuasion on my relatives’ part to make me see my GP. But that day, I knew I had to go to the clinic. I woke up with the kind of pain that could only mean one thing: something was seriously wrong.

I really like my GP. He is not a “GP” per se, but since he is the only doctor I would visit whatever ails befall me, I might as well call him so. So there I was, explaining what the problem is, and next thing I am on the couch and the nurse approaches me with a thermometer and a blood pressure kit. Now whenever that happens I usually break into cold sweat, my temperature jumps up a few notches and my heart firmly settles somewhere in the region of my right kneecap. The heartbeat could then be easily assessed by monitoring my pulsating eyeballs as my wrists refuse to show signs of any blood circulation whatsoever. Irrational fear of anything remotely related to doctors, see. Few minutes of rather painful examination by GP later, I get his marching orders: 6(!!) blood tests, ultrasound, X-Ray. Mary, Mother of God…

Downstairs in the laboratory, the nurses reassure me it will only take one blood draw to get 6 different tests done. Whew… At least a litre of blood and 6 years of my life later, these angelic vampires are done with their gruesome business and I proceed to the X-Ray wing. In there, tiny nurse directs me to the changing room from her glass cubicle. “Pleez mam take off your blahooz and chooz za green robe”. My what? Oh, you mean blouse? Ok. Green robe? Ok, no problem. Hey, wait, they are ALL green! Took one on top, put it on, walked out of the changing room… “Mam sorry pleez GREEN robe!” What the …?? OK, show me! The nurse marches to the changing room and with the look of total exasperation picks up a robe identical in colour to the one I am wearing: “Zis van pleez mam”. Oh, ZIS van, sorry, how could I be so blind? All robed up, I am standing barefoot as she aims at me with her death machine. Then she comes to check the location of my navel. Back to the machine. Back to my navel. Again to the machine. Back to my…Hey, lady, my navel is still where it was 10 seconds ago! Hands OFF! Finally, she walks into her cubicle and zaps me. “Mam pleez don’t change, first I go check”. Sure, no problem. After 10 minutes of be-robed waiting, she walks back in and guess what? “Ma’am pleez take off bra, no good picture”. I imagine two slim curves of the underwiring obstructing the view of the navel… So it’s back to the death machine routine, minus the bra. I swear she must have checked my navel at least 6 more times...

By the time I reached the ultrasound I was in a very foul mood indeed. Ultrasound lady was not helping. Smearing half a tub of frozen lube all over my tummy and blahooz she took her time explaining just how long it will take her to write a report, and how it could have been so much easier if only my organs were in their proper places and right quantities. WTF???

Next morning, and in considerably more pain than the day before, I drove back to the clinic. I sat in front of my GP waiting for the verdict as he ruffled through the pages of the reports and unwired X-Rays. I begin to feel slightly faintish. Apparently there is nothing wrong with me whatsoever. According to the (mean and wicked) ultrasound doc, I have “gas”. Gas?? How not ladylike… I almost wish I had something more dignified than that. My GP laughs it off: “Don’t worry, she puts it in whenever she doesn’t have anything else to write”. Oh, is that so? The problem, however, remains, and by then I am almost doubling with pain. I am also very, very scared. What is it that hurts so much? Maybe I should have told the ultrasound lady to check my right kneecap for some runaway organs? Heart or navel, perhaps? Unfazed, my GP goes for the final measure and refers me to the surgeon. Surgeon? What surgeon? Maybe it’s really only gas? Please let it be just gas! Oh please, PLEASE I don’t want anything more dignified at all! But GP insists, and the nurse walks me to the surgeon. Our conversation with the surgeon goes like this: “Hello, Mr. Surgeon, aren’t you the one who cut up my hubby a year ago? Oh you are? Yes, he survived after all. No, I am perfectly fine with that, but thanks anyway”. And on the couch I go. “Does it hurt here?” Yes it does. “Here?” Yes! “And here?” YES!!! “Nurse, please come here.” YESSS! “I haven’t touched you!” Oh, you haven’t? But it really hurts!

Off the couch and back at his desk, the Surgeon drops the bomb: “I’m sorry sweetheart, I will have to operate.” Fuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k! No friggin way! It’s gas! You can’t operate gas! In a state of barely controlled panic I scan the room for emergency exits and escape routes. As luck would have it, there are none. A sizeable nurse blocks the one and only doorway. The Cat is petrified and as good as dead…

A week later and post-op (also post four IV drips that busted my veins four times, post 2 drainage tubes that made me look like Viktor of Underworld in revival stage, and post 4 days of boring stay in the hospital) I am slowly recovering from what could have killed me if my GP and the Surgeon did not insist on the operation. And I still can’t believe I was brave enough to do it (if you call petrified silence "bravery", that is). And to the (mean and wicked) ultrasound lady who should have identified the problem I say: Gas You!