Meow-Scan

Yesterday I had a CT-scan, sometimes called a cat-scan, sometimes called a meow-scan. OK, I'm probably the only one who would call it that besides my cat. Because I couldn't have food or water for four hours before the scan, I decided to have the bloodwork done that my suburban cardiologist ordered, which required fasting. So I stopped in at the lab and got poked at around 8:30. "My, your veins are so small. I hope I can find one," the lab tech said. Not a good sign.

Then it was off to B&W, the only hospital besides Children's that I've been in in Boston. Turns out the CT-scan for the heart involves an IV. "Oh my, your viens are so small. I can't find one. I'll try this one on your hand." It was about 3/4 of an inch below the last joint in my thumb. Not a pleasant experience.

Finally, I make it into the CT-scan room. The machine is a giant donut. The patient lays on a table and is sent through the hole in the donut and back. Cool. Unfortunately for me, the tech looked at the IV and decided this was some kind of amateur job done down on the first floor (heirarchies are firmly in place in hospitals). So let's make sure it's okay by shooting 5 CCs of saline through it as fast as we can! Oh, didn't I come up off the table. The tech was entranced by how my vein jumped up. Then she asked me if it hurt. With tears streaming down my face, I mumbled yes. (I'm still one of those who doesn't want to disappoint authority figures.) So she tried injecting the saline slower. Those who know me would be proud that not a single one of the absolutely filthy words that jumped into my head actually came out of my mouth. So everyone should believe in miracles. Really.

They did the non-contrast scans first. Then my dear tech, with her special way with words, came back in and said, "We're going to inject the contrast dye in a few minutes. It's going to hurt like the saline, but it will be over quick." Doesn't anyone teach these people how to lie (or how to use adverbs)? Now I can't stop thinking about the future pain. I start to feel panicky. Then a voice comes over the speaker: "We're just waiting for your heart rate to go back down then we'll start." Is the irony lost on these people?

When they finally decide they're just going to have to do it or miss their lunch break, it turns out not to hurt as much as the saline. But I have to tell you it was the weirdest freakin' feeling I've ever had. My body felt warm inside and I could have sworn I had peed in my pants. My mouth only got the weird taste for a second. Then it was all over. "You did great," my dear tech said. She and I really need to have a talk.

Apparently, because union rules call for it or something, the cardiologist at B&W also orders a set of bloodtests. The phlebotomist takes one look at my arms and snorts. I can't decide if she thinks I'm some kind of junky or just one of those pathetic creatures who has SMALL VEINS (a faux pas in the medical world, apparently).

So now I wait for the doctors to decide that I should know about the results. Who knows when they'll bother with that.

In the meantime, I think I'll go running.