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Chestburster News
Jul. 29th, 2011 06:06 pmOKAY, I think we got LJ all working nicely again. What’d we all miss?
Me, I had quite a week. Rich and full experiences, that’s my life: futzed around in the garden, got bossed around by my micromanager, lost another coworker to the deep discontent around the library and the lure of Living Free And Easy, lost a favorite patron to That End Which Awaits Us All, finished a necklace and made an earring, gave up on the X-Files, started Fringe, and wrote a bunch of OGYAFE stuff.
Oh, and also there’s the whole, y’know, SURGERY business. That’s going on.
Seems that while I was away I picked up some kind of gallbladder inflammation. It announced its presence in the middle of a cart of books I was shelving on Saturday. It felt like this:
An apt metaphor for so many of life’s little golden moments, this.
So I mentioned this to my supervisor, who ordered me to get rid of the stupid thing. Sounded like sage advice, but I figured I’d get a second opinion from someone who was not a librarian. So after a few days spent curled in a fetal position cursing the cold unfeeling universe, I went to see Dr. Hyper, a woman I’ve always liked but whose actual name I could never spell.
DR. HYPER: So it hurts more whenever you eat anything?
ME: I’m down to dry Cheerios. Nothing makes you feel more like a three-year-old.
DR. HYPER: That is the right thing to do. Now let’s see if we can get this solved.
ME: Good, because I’m really hungry.
Then she poked at my abdomen.
ME: *squeak!*
DR. HYPER: I haven’t even poked you yet. My hand is still a foot away.
ME: I can’t help it. It was a dark day when my friends found out that even poking in my general direction makes me the Pillsbury Doughboy.
DR. HYPER: Okay, now I’m going to poke your back.
ME: But the pain isn’t in my baaAAAAAAaack—well, what do you know.
DR. HYPER: The pain does refer sometimes.
After that I went to get an ultrasound, which didn’t show anything,* and so I got to have another test: the Making You Lie Perfectly Still In A Tube For Two Goddamn Hours While They Blast Radioactive Dye Into Your Veins Test. Your job is to lie down and try not to think about just how much your nose itches. It itches a lot.
RADIOLOGIST: Okay, you’re all done! How are you feeling?
ME: … I just got out of the TUBE, man!
RADIOLOGIST: You’ll get the report from your doctor in a bit.
ME: Just as long as it’s not a queen.
And yes, I did get the report, just a few minutes ago, and after analyzing it carefully to see the cause of my distress, Dr. Hyper concluded—let me tell you, modern medicine is great—“Fuck if I know.”
So my gallbladder looks fine, but let me tell you internet, it does not feel fine. Doctor Hyper’s got some other options, such as Taking An Antacid For A Couple Weeks or, if that doesn’t work, Carving Out The Damn Thing Anyway, Because Often That Does Seem To Fix Things Even If Nothing Else Shows Up On The Test. So depending on how things go in the next couple of weeks, I either get better, or I get surgery. Either way, I plan to whine about it quite a bit.
Aren’t you glad LJ’s back?
*But it was more pleasant than the last ultrasound I got checking for ovarian cysts, since this time I didn’t have to drink a quart of water half an hour before the scan just to make my bladder visible. Especially obnoxious when you’re in eighth grade and “half an hour before the scan” is “math class.” I damn near exploded before I even got all gelled up.
Me, I had quite a week. Rich and full experiences, that’s my life: futzed around in the garden, got bossed around by my micromanager, lost another coworker to the deep discontent around the library and the lure of Living Free And Easy, lost a favorite patron to That End Which Awaits Us All, finished a necklace and made an earring, gave up on the X-Files, started Fringe, and wrote a bunch of OGYAFE stuff.
Oh, and also there’s the whole, y’know, SURGERY business. That’s going on.
Seems that while I was away I picked up some kind of gallbladder inflammation. It announced its presence in the middle of a cart of books I was shelving on Saturday. It felt like this:
An apt metaphor for so many of life’s little golden moments, this.
So I mentioned this to my supervisor, who ordered me to get rid of the stupid thing. Sounded like sage advice, but I figured I’d get a second opinion from someone who was not a librarian. So after a few days spent curled in a fetal position cursing the cold unfeeling universe, I went to see Dr. Hyper, a woman I’ve always liked but whose actual name I could never spell.
DR. HYPER: So it hurts more whenever you eat anything?
ME: I’m down to dry Cheerios. Nothing makes you feel more like a three-year-old.
DR. HYPER: That is the right thing to do. Now let’s see if we can get this solved.
ME: Good, because I’m really hungry.
Then she poked at my abdomen.
ME: *squeak!*
DR. HYPER: I haven’t even poked you yet. My hand is still a foot away.
ME: I can’t help it. It was a dark day when my friends found out that even poking in my general direction makes me the Pillsbury Doughboy.
DR. HYPER: Okay, now I’m going to poke your back.
ME: But the pain isn’t in my baaAAAAAAaack—well, what do you know.
DR. HYPER: The pain does refer sometimes.
After that I went to get an ultrasound, which didn’t show anything,* and so I got to have another test: the Making You Lie Perfectly Still In A Tube For Two Goddamn Hours While They Blast Radioactive Dye Into Your Veins Test. Your job is to lie down and try not to think about just how much your nose itches. It itches a lot.
RADIOLOGIST: Okay, you’re all done! How are you feeling?
ME: … I just got out of the TUBE, man!
RADIOLOGIST: You’ll get the report from your doctor in a bit.
ME: Just as long as it’s not a queen.
And yes, I did get the report, just a few minutes ago, and after analyzing it carefully to see the cause of my distress, Dr. Hyper concluded—let me tell you, modern medicine is great—“Fuck if I know.”
So my gallbladder looks fine, but let me tell you internet, it does not feel fine. Doctor Hyper’s got some other options, such as Taking An Antacid For A Couple Weeks or, if that doesn’t work, Carving Out The Damn Thing Anyway, Because Often That Does Seem To Fix Things Even If Nothing Else Shows Up On The Test. So depending on how things go in the next couple of weeks, I either get better, or I get surgery. Either way, I plan to whine about it quite a bit.
Aren’t you glad LJ’s back?
*But it was more pleasant than the last ultrasound I got checking for ovarian cysts, since this time I didn’t have to drink a quart of water half an hour before the scan just to make my bladder visible. Especially obnoxious when you’re in eighth grade and “half an hour before the scan” is “math class.” I damn near exploded before I even got all gelled up.
