Well, it’s B-Day. As in Butt Day or Day of the Butt. Take your pick. I think I like Day of the Butt best.
The countdown has begun. I start taking butt drugs in about twenty minutes. Seems weird to me to start prep in mid-afternoon, but I confirmed with doctor’s office yesterday and the surgical facility today. So I’ll go by the sheet of instructions I received.
Step 1: Take FOUR of these bad boys at 3:00 PM:
FYI the dose is ONE tablet. I’ll be taking four. I asked the pharmacist if I could return the rest. (I’m serious. It was a joke, but I really did ask.) She refused. Hmph.
Step 2: Beginning at 4:00 PM, I have to drink 8 oz. of buttjuice every half hour until 1/4 of the jug remains.
It’s full of salts, if you can read the label. Mmmmmmmm, 4 liters of saltwater.
They said I could add Crystal Light lemonade to it, so now it looks like a jug of urine.
I’ve decided that instead of 8 oz. increments, I’m going to do 10 oz. That way my last dose will be at 8:30 PM instead of 10:00 PM. I figure very few people measure this to the exact ounce, so I should be okay with my plan. Then I have to drink the remaining THIRTY OUNCES ALL AT ONCE at 3 fucking AM.
Step 3:
I hope I’m able to get some sleep tonight. I have to get up at 3:00 AM to drink the last of four liters of that vile liquid fire. Then I have to be at the hospital at 5:00 AM. I hope they don’t make me wait too long. I know he has four people scheduled, but I don’t know where I am in that list.
I’m not actually stressed or worried. Honestly, I’m eager to get some answers. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to my immediate future. I’m just thankful that my perspective is positive – it’s keeping me from being crippled with fear and embarrassment. Somehow, I don’t feel those things at all. It’s an absolutely shocking state of mind to me, but I’m loving the absence of worry.
I have a whole lot of life left that I intend to live as fully as possible. Things like the PNW and other assorted adventures that await require me to look after my health (which I haven’t been doing at all). So this test will give me some answers as to how best to do so going forth.
I told myself I wasn’t going to talk about this here. “It’s too private,” I thought, “and it’s entirely too embarrassing and uncomfortable. …no. Fucking. Way.”
But you know what? That’s selfish of me. What if someone out there is afraid like I’ve been? Too embarrassed to see a doctor and talk about what’s going on, too afraid of receiving terrible news. What if someone reads my words and, as a result, looks after his or her own health? It hasn’t been too terribly long since I would have been (genuinely) willing to die before seeing a doctor. Embarrassment and shame do voodoo on the psyche. But I’ve recently got some awesome people in my life (you know who you are, and you know how I feel) – and this community is priceless. Fucking priceless. And you have lifted me up, encouraged me and offered me a world of new perspectives. Shouldn’t I try to do the same?
Shit happens, and the sooner I learn how to roll with it better, the more chill my life will be. And I’m a chill dude, man. It’s one of the few things I like about myself: I’m chill as fuck. So yeah, why not spill my embarrassing health issue – that shouldn’t be embarrassing at all, because it’s the human body and sometimes it fucks up, or we fuck it up – and maybe, just maybe, being candid about it will help someone. The more willing we are to speak openly about the things that scare or embarrass us, the better prepared we will be to move forward and heal. Knowledge is power, but it takes communication to gain that knowledge. Let us communicate.
If you’re squeamish, back away now. Back away. And if you’re not, then you’re about to see another layer to the title I used.
~
I have a lot of health problems. I’d say each of them is not a big deal, but stacking them all together gives me really bad days sometimes. But I’ve learned to deal, push it out of my mind, compartmentalize the fuck out of things, and keep on keeping on. Granted, I’m not always very good at it, but for the most part I try not to dwell on things.
Lately I’ve been seriously kicking ass. For me. I’ve been on a really good track to improve my life, and I’m getting good feedback and results. Personally, professionally, whatever. I’ve been hesitantly optimistic.
Did I say I’ve been kicking ass? I have been. Fuck it, I’ll own it. I’m nowhere near where I need to be. I’m only just beginning. But we all have to start somewhere.
Only now, my ass is kicking me. Yeah. You read that right. Are you ready? I’ve given more than enough intro, and now I’m just stalling. Let’s go…
~
My latest health issue started about three weeks ago. Or at least, I think it did. (I’ll explain that part shortly.) I went to the bathroom. I had to, you know………………fuck, I’m so embarrassed. Fuck it. Fuck it. Let’s do this. I had to shit, right? Everyone has to shit. No big deal.
Except, there was blood.
It was only a tiny amount, though. And it was bright red. It’s not the first time that’s happened, so I’ve read about it. It’s a hemorrhoid. Simple, whatever. I pissed the fucker off, and it bled a little. Little bastard. Case dismissed.
Except, it got worse.
Over the course of a week, the tiny bit of blood grew into a small amount of blood, which then grew into a semi-scary amount of blood. Only semi-scary, though. At this point, I knew I should see a doctor. I was semi-scared, for fucks sake. But who the fuck wants to go to their doctor and say, “Yo doc, there’s blood coming out of my asshole! What’s good, homeslice?”
Yeah, not me. So I ignored it and told myself that it would go away. The thing is, you remember that bit I said earlier? That “I think it” started three weeks ago? Yeah. That bit right there. For much longer than that, I’ve been having…problems…going…to the bathroom. It’s either one or the other: I can’t go, and it hurts like a bitch…or it’s like a motherfucking faucet. Either way, I’ve been having severe abdominal cramps. Mhm. So it has occurred to me that whatever this is…could very well have started much longer than three weeks ago. Fuck, I hope not.
Anyway. I fucking ignored it. Because that’s what I do. I stick my head in the sand and pretend the bad shit isn’t happening. And I carry on smiling and laughing and cracking smartass remarks in very poor taste. Because that’s what I do. Deny, deny, deny. And carry on not taking care of myself, dumping shitty (haha that’s punny) food in my body, wallowing in bed and wasting my life away.
And now I’m paying for it. Even if it’s nothing, I’m suffering at the moment, and most likely because of my abuse of my body.
So the next week, you’ll never guess what happened! You’ll never guess! You guessed it, didn’t you? Yeah. Shit got worse. (Heh. I did it again. SHIT got worse. Get it?) It got to the point where I’d have an urge to shit. My body’s telling me I gotta go, and it makes my abdomen rumble and cramp, and it’s urgent. It feels urgent. I go to the bathroom, and what comes pouring out? Shit?
Blood.
Just. Blood. Copious amounts of blood. And it’s not as brightly colored anymore. It’s still relatively bright, but I tell myself…”just give it a bit more time. This is nothing. It will go away. You’ve just really really pissed Hank off.” (That’s the name of my friend’s asshole, but I’m stealing it.) I pissed Hank off, nothing more. No fucking way will I go to the doctor about this. I’ll fucking bleed to death first.
So the first week, I ignored it as best I could. The second week, I became terrified. The amount of blood filling up the bowl scared me. And it wasn’t bright anymore. I was barely shitting at all. For the most part, when I went to the toilet, it was Only Blood. The third week (this one), I had to start lining my underwear. Yeah. That fucking bad.
Yesterday, I went to the bathroom three times with that problem. Oh. And coupled with the blood loss, I’ve been experiencing significant dizziness, drastically increased fatigue, some disorientation, etc. Very woozy, all the time, and I have little to no appetite.
I called the doctor.
I had made a promise to call the doctor yesterday, and not only did I have to keep it, but I had finally gotten scared enough to seek treatment. The doctor got me in right away. The nurse said she’d call me back..she called me back within five minutes and asked if I could be there in fifteen. I texted my boss and left.
I told the doctor everything. He asked some questions pertaining to pain (location and severity), color of the blood, shitting schedule, etc. After I’d answered all of his questions, he said,
“You need a colonoscopy.”
I cried a little. Just a couple tears, and I practically whispered, “What about other tests first, like a stool sample?” (I’ve been researching…) And he calmly, quietly repeated,
“You need a colonoscopy.”
He sent me across the street to the hospital, to test for anemia. I bypassed admissions, no check in, no paperwork, and went straight to the lab where I was seen ahead of everyone and immediately. I don’t mind saying I cried all the way out of the hospital and all the way home. The urgency did more to scare me than anything else.
I got the results of the blood work today. In a bit of good news, I was told I haven’t gone anemic. Whew.
I have a colonoscopy Tuesday morning. I have to be there at 5 AM. And because of the prep that has to be done beforehand (drinking a tanker truck of vile liquid and subsequently shitting your brains out for hours on end), I’ll have to take both Monday and Tuesday off work.
I’m scared. Yesterday, I was really fucking scared. I shed a lot of tears. And then I got immense encouragement, which I am endlessly grateful for.
~
Here’s where I’m at now:
It could be lots of things. I could have a tear. I could have irritable bowel disease. I could have Crohn’s (don’t think so on that one). I could have angry polyps or some shit (ha). I could have colon cancer. (I watched one of the most important people in the world to me slowly die of colon cancer. He was diagnosed at 44 and passed away at 46. It wrecked me, and I’ve lived in terror of it ever since.)
Simple or complex, odds are very good that it’s something treatable. In which case, I get it treated, I heed the wake-up call and take better care of myself, and I go on about my life – more mindful than before.
And if it’s terminal, which my mind can’t help but wonder, then that will be alright, too. I’ll sell my house, quit my job, try to raise some funds, and I’ll travel and adventure until I drop dead with a smile on my face.
I can wallow in bed, feeling sorry for myself, or I can live. I choose life, regardless of the test results.
As for today, I’m going to my storage unit after work to pick up my camera. I said I’d do that today. It will be good for me. It will give me more reasons to get out of the house. Go find something beautiful and interesting, photograph it. Get back to what I used to do: finding something beautiful each and every day.
And hopefully some time next week, I’ll find out exactly what’s going on and what the next step is.
~
If there’s something you’re scared of, something you don’t want to face, especially if it’s something that presents a danger to your mind or body, it’s worth the risk to say something.
The doctor is not going to laugh at you.
Real friends will not laugh at you.
You will be encouraged. You will receive help. You will feel better. And you will know that shame and embarrassment are merely other forms of fear.
You’re worth it. There’s too much left to do. Your story doesn’t end here.
There are mountains to climb, oceans to swim, photographs to take, trains to ride, planes to jump out of, people to embrace, stories to hear, stories to tell, raucous belly laughs at vulgar jokes, souls to touch, music to dance to.
Confide in someone, be encouraged and seek help. Go to the ass doctor. Go to the gynecologist. Go to whatever doctor grabs your nuts and makes you cough. Get a finger stuck up your ass. Have satan’s claws shoved up your ladybits. Seek. Help. Now.
Good Evening dearest Peopleaneous. Let me start with the most important point to be made in this post: Pigshit. Yes, that’s right. Pigshit. I’ve recently replaced “bullshit” with “pigshit.” I find it good and pleasing and shall henceforth deem bullshit pigshit. Until I replace it with doveshit (isn’t that like the ultimate dichotomy? OH MY GOSH THAT WOULD BE A PEACE OF SHIT! GET IT? GET IT?) or dungbeetleballs. Ooooo. DungBeetleBalls! New word! New word!
Okay dudes. This post is going to be the epitome of “stephellaneous,” a veritable smorgasbord (damn it’s been too long since I used that word) of random updates. I know I have been MIA for 14 years, 3 months, 2 days, 11 hours and 28 seconds. And I also know I have 18 billion comments to reply to. I haven’t forgotten y’all or this space. It’s just. Well. Let’s take this Stephanie Style, shall we? (No, that’s not a new sexual position. Although…aaaaand she’s off!)
TOP UNKNOWN NUMBER OF REASONS THAT I’VE BEEN MISSING IN ACTION. OR MISSING IN INACTION. OR SOMETHING. I’LL LEAVE THAT TO YOU,PEOPLEANEOUS. FUCKIN’ HELL, WHAT IS MY PROBLEM WITH HEADINGS. BETTER YET, WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM WITH HEADERS? LONG HEADINGS ARE MY JAM, MAN. OR MEN, WOMEN AND KAITLYN. SHUT UP, YOU KNOW I’M NOT PC. SO KISS IT. PEACE OUT, HEADER.
Number 1: Ha. You think I’m gonna use a normal numbering system. That’s cute. Anyway. As I mentioned in some weird, typo-laden pone-post, I can no longer post from work. They’ve done some security update that renders WP’s security certificate obsolete. Whatever hardcore security they have does not apply to my laptop. But I do my writing at work, when I’m slow (which is often). By the time I get home after work and tutoring, I don’t have much time to write after food, chores, packing, applications, conversing, etc. Wait, ohmygosh, those were spoiler alerts. Fuck me, man. (Seriously.) So. Number 1 could be condensed as such: Because my work computers suck dungbeetleballs.
Numéro deux: Doesn’t the Bible say something about there not being another flood of biblical magnitude? That book lied. I got lucky, not even gonna pretend I didn’t. Most of the houses in my neighborhood flooded. Well, at least half. The water came within roughly an inch of coming into the house. But it didn’t, since my house is far enough off of the ground. The car flooded up well over the seats. But mold and stinkies pale in comparison to the people who were stranded for days. It pales in comparison to the lives lost. It pales in comparison to the hundreds of people now displaced and homeless. So. Yeah that’s kinda put a damper on trying to blog.
Idadi ya Tatu: My health is being a fucking dick. (As an aside, why is it okay for us to use “dick” as a curseword, but we balk at using “pussy” as such? At least I do. Whatever.) Seriously. Y’all know I broke my left foot last summer, and the cause of the pain (the two breaks) weren’t discovered until the MRI in January. I was only supposed to wear the frankenboot for three weeks. But that bitch still hurt like a motherfucker, so I kept wearing it. And wearing it. And wearing it. And then my right foot started hurting. I mean, big time. I did some digging, and it turns out I wore it far too long. Apparently, it’s common to sustain injuries on the opposite side if one wears frankenboot for too long. (I also think the damn thing was too big for me to begin with.) I can’t prove my right foot is broken yet. But I seem my rheumatologist Friday. Something tells me he’s going to order another MRI as the right foot is now bruised and swollen and incredibly painful. This in addition to daily headaches returning in spite of following some awesome advice (thanks Ms. Fever!). And my tiny little finger/toe bones hurting. And the massive chest pain that started as soon as my Lamictal was updosed. I see that bitch on April 2. I’m going to request that I be incremented down and then off of EVERYTHING except the drug that helps me sleep. And then I’m going to start the long hunt for someone who knows what they’re doing. (Trust me, this is the right move. She most recently tried to prescribe an anti-psychotic that was only just approved in fucking October. Also. PSYCHOSIS. WHAT? And she also diagnosed me as in the throes of a full-blown panic attack………….because my leg was bouncing and I was restless. Yeah. Can we say Quack Attack?) Enough of that bullshit. Next!
A bit angry – posting it for one reason: the line, “What the fuck is wrong with me?!”
NommerVier:Uhm. What’s next? Ah. Job hunting for the Greater Seattle Area. I started out on my own, but I felt incredibly overwhelmed (anxiety for the win!). So I reached out to multiple recruiters up there. The first one was an utter quack. Fo’ real yo. So I moved on. The next one to contact me was super eager, so I’ve been working with her. She’s covering the southern part of the Greater Seattle Area and has now put me in touch with another recruiter to cover the northern part. We were going to have a team of three, but she thinks we’ll be good. So far, we have about a dozen applications outstanding. All are still open and haven’t hit their deadlines yet. So between the three of us, hopefully I’ll at least start landing interviews soon. Been tweaking my resume, cover letters and prepping for interview questions in the meantime. Also. That woman has me applying to stuff at twice the salary range I thought I could land. She told me I was way underselling myself. So yay. But that’s yet another reason I’ve been busy and MIA.
Номер пять:I’ve had to put off listing the house. First, I’m having trouble with some repairs that need to be done. The ex was supposed to do them (as his name is still on the deed, even though I pay all bills). But he’s stalling. Big time. But with all the flooding, even the most basic repairmen are price gouging. I’m doing what I can on my own, but there are things I’m just not able to do. Also. Speaking of the flood yet again, the houses in my neighborhood that did flood still have all of the detritus of their lives lining the roads: furniture, walls, carpet, did I mention walls?, keepsakes, etc. So it would not behoove me to shove a for-sale sign in the front yard until the city takes care of the debris. But once it does, at least I’ll have the advantage of saying this house didn’t flood.
Numero kuusi: (That one sounds so sexual. Is it just me? It’s just me. My bad.) Met an online friend that I’ve known for a decade. He says six years. Whatever. It was our first time meeting up in person, so that was pretty fucking awesome. I’ve never done anything like that, so I can’t say enough how superfuckingawesome it was. (I know you’re reading this. So. I’ll just say: Hi!) Also, he’s gonna do a guest post for me soon. Kickass writer, so y’all will dig it. Trust.
RhifSaith: I’ve been playing around with fiction, which doesn’t really come easily to me. I’ve been told it’s because I haven’t freed myself to do it. My self-perception hinders my progress. Or clouds my view of what I’m capable of or what I’ve already done. But I’ve been playing around. Even wrote something for a friend the other day at his prompting. Perhaps I’ll throw it up here after some tweaking. We shall see.
Númer Átta: I have a trip in April that I’ve been planning, slowly but surely. Mid-April, I’m heading up to Seattle for a visit. No interviews yet, just gonna have a look around. And a lot of you know the main reason I’m going for a visit. So that’s been overwhelming for me and has taken my head out of the blogging game for a bit. I already have tickets and hotel room booked. Got a little carry-on travel bag – that’s gonna be a serious challenge for a woman. Fuck worrying about stereotypes; it’s fucking true. How am I gonna pack three pairs of shoes, more clothes than I’ll wear in six days, a book or four, my 18,000 meds, ahhhhhh. Yeah, that’s gonna be a huge challenge. But I want that bitch to be a carry-on. Fuck paying to check a bag. Plus wheels get broken and shit. Fuck that noise.
Nummer neun: Perhaps the most important of all, I’ve been trying to figure out who the fuck I am. What makes me tick. What I want. Where I’m headed. How I matter. What my purpose is. Why I’m here. What my future looks like. City life is NOT what I want. I hope to live as cheaply as possible and bank mad savings so I can live a peripatetic life in the forests, woods, beaches, cultures of the world, and a cozy little shack to return to now and then to recharge my batteries. But the shit I wanna do takes money. The experiences I wanna have takes money. Fucking money. I fucking hate money. I hate the constructs of this false existence. I don’t want to exist. I want to live. I want reality. The real reality. And the bitch of it is, the fact that I see things for what they are is a huge source of my anxiety and depression. Cool how that works, huh?
This applies to my soul, my dreams, my desires, my all. Give me a peripatetic lifestyle and a soul-lover to share it with, and I’ll be content.
Số Mười: I’ve been in another depressive phase, basically since I wrote that post about having a major panic attack and spiraling downward. So I have zero faith in the current med cocktail I’m on. I’m not saying I’m averse to trying something else. But this shit is not working. Not kidding. I’m damn near back to where I was before I started this mental health journey. I wish I had the blinders on that so many others seem to. In the meantime, I’ll just keep trudging along. Treading water is surely better than drowning in it, yes? Most days that’s what I tell myself.
Disclaimer: I don’t have time to edit this right now. Forgive egregious errors. Meds kicked in, and I’m out. Also, the douchenozzle that is WordPress is fucking with my spacing between words and lines. Looks fine in my editor. Fucked to hell and back on the actual site. Fuck it. I’m out! Night my friends!
A great blogger friend, Cameron over at World’s Biggest Fridge Magnet, is undertaking a massive charity walk to raise money and awareness for HENRY (Health Exercise Nutrition for the Really Young). This charity hits home for me, because I was raised on terrible food and knew nothing of proper nutrition – and this still impacts me, to this day. If we can teach parents and children about proper nutrition and physical education, then we do much to improve their emotional well-being. For life.
Cameron has started a GoFundMe page to help alleviate the expenses of such an undertaking so that he can focus more on actually raising awareness.
Please consider contributing, playing your own part in raising money and awareness for HENRY. Even a buck or two will make a difference. You can donate here. Taking care of our children is one of the most important things in this life. And they’re all our children. They learn from all of us, and they deserve the best shot at this life that we can give them.
Check out the links I included. And if you can’t help out, that’s fine too! Duh! But perhaps you can help spread the word on your blog or on Facebook. It’s for an awesome cause. And Cameron is one of the best guys around. Think about it, homies.
So I forgot to tell y’all about my MRI. (Y’all can thank my dear friend Magarisa for staying on me – not like that ya pervs – to post! Go have a visit. Poke around – still being pervs, I see – do it. Or I’ll cut you.) What on earth can I possibly say that’s even remotely interesting about an MRI? And did y’all even see that title? I mean seriously. What in the name of Cookie Monster does any of that have to do with an MRI? I know; I know. Thou shalt not take the name of thy Cookie Monster in vain, but damnit times are tough and I was desperate. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that one must occasionally utter cookiefanities in order to get one’s point across with the proper amount of vehemence. (Feel free to use that little truth nugget. Go on. Write it down. I’ll wait. Well fuck you, too, then!) (Don’t worry. I don’t know what the fuck I’m on about, either.)
Pope Cookius Monstericus the Fourthus. His first declaration was: C is for Cookie. His second was: Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.
Without further ado, let us commence with solving the title/content conundrum.
Commencing to Solve the Title/Content Conundrum
The Players: One Stephanie, complete with all body parts, at least according to last year’s inventory. One attractive middle-aged Rad-Tech, with a warm smile and an ice cold handshake. One MRI machine.
The Place: Are you paying afuckingtention at all, people? I mean, seriously. Why do I even bother? Let me reiterate: an MRI machine in a deep freeze frigid ass room. Seriously, I think they teleported me to Antarctica. In a lake. That was covered in ice. Without a jacket. Because everyone knows that jackets keep the chill out when one is submersed in frozen Antarctic lakes. Duh. Where the hell did y’all go to school? I learned that shit from my esteemed instructor, Señor Cracker Jack Box.
The Setup: Stephanie’s jacked up left foot has been hurting since Jufuckingly. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Stephanie together again. So a lowly peasant woman (a lovely Nurse Practitioner) referred her for an MRI while one of the kings was out playing croquet or shagging his lawyer’s wife or having his pool boy give him a pleasure enema or some shit. Fucking sicko. (Apologies if you get off on enemas.) (Sicko.)
Having an MRI: A Duet That Always Goes South when Someone (ahem MRI) Exposes a Nipple at Halftime
Step 1: Get naked. Really? Y’all believe that? What the fuck is the matter with you? If you got naked at your last MRI, you totally got hospital herpes (aka hospes) and got knocked up by the dude who cleans up the vomit and diarrhea that splatters on the floors in the rooms of the less healthy patients. Yeah. Naked. You hodonkey cockgobbler. Will the real Step 1 please stand up?
Step 1: Get naked. Dudes, what is wrong with y’all tonight? The real step one involves a buttload of paperwork, a hospital wristband (seriously?) and meeting your entire fucking deductible and maxing out your HSA on the seventh damn day of the year.
Step 2: Wait for the rad-tech to show up. Rather impatiently, I might add. Gotta get to work, people! Time is money! Life is short! Why oh why the fuck can’t I be in the forest around Cape Flattery? Le sigh. Oh here he is now!
Step 3: A little more paperwork, and a slight bit of eyeing the forty-something cutie.
Step 4: Doff the hoodie, hang it in a locker. Shoes in the locker. Earrings in the locker. Wallet, phone, keys in the locker. He kindly informed me I wouldn’t need to don a gown and wouldn’t even have to remove my bra. Thanks, doc. Here I was hoping to lose my virginity at prom. Thanks for stringing a girl along. He also said my fillings wouldn’t be a problem. I assured him of my relief, seeing as I’d left my pliers at home. Silly me.
Step 5: Go into the doom MRI room, receive instructions, lie down and have the rad-tech position my legs (very funny, guys) and my pillow (oh yeah, this is getting good now).
Step 6: Squish the proffered earplugs in. (Wait, what? Earplugs? Kinky.)
Step 7: Rad-tech slides in (me, that is, into the machine). I go in all the way to the hip and that’s it. Then he leaves the room, and I get superduper still, as instructed. Stephanie’s totally at ease. “I’ve got this,” she thinks, mentally thrusting her fist in the air.
Step 8: Stephanie embarks upon a slow descent into madness. Let’s peek into her thoughts, shall we? Shhhh, we’ll simply be quiet observers. Leave nothing disturbed (it’s already quite disturbed, as we shall see). Listen and be edified.
I’m cold.
Seriously, I’m really fucking cold.
Stay still, dumbass. You don’t wanna be here all day. OhmyFUCK how about a blanket, fuckwad? I read about MRIs online, and I’m supposed to get a motherfucking blanket! WHERE’S MY MOTHERFUCKING BLANKET.
Fuck.
Are my nipples hard? My nipples are hard. That’s about fucking right.
My bra covers that up, right? He can totally see my nipples.
That’s it. I will never leave the house again.
What the hell was that?
Did that ceiling tile just move? Oh my god, that ceiling tile just moved!
What if that’s a secret ninja hatch?
What if they’re here to kill me? What if they’re here to recruit me?
Ohfuckyes, that’s it! I’ll be the world’s first Fat Ninja!
I’ll sneak up on people, kill them with my ninja stars….then eat them. Hannibal Ninja! Ninjabal Lecter!
I bet they’re here to kill me.
SON. OF. A. BITCH.
My fucking leg just moved.
You traitorous motherfucker. Just wait’ll we get out of here.Just. You. Wait.
Oh my fuck, my foot just moved! It’s the drugs. The psychiatrist conspired with the MRI people to make you pay more to take more images because YOU WON’T STOP FUCKING TWITCHING YOU STUPIDHEAD!
I’m really, really, really fucking cold.
I can’t feel my legs anymore.
I’m shivering and I’m gonna fuck up this test! What would Buddha do? I know. I’ve got it. (Stephanie begins chanting in her head.) There is no cold. There is no cold. There is no cold. There is no cold.
You’re on a warm beach. Feel the warm sand and the cool breeze.
No! What the fuck is the matter with you? WARM breeze! WARM!
You’ve ruined everything.
There is no cold. There is no cold. There is no cold. There is no cold. Fuck it. If this isn’t over soon, all that’s left will be a Stephsicle.
You know what would be really awesome?
If this were a time capsule!
Where would I go, though?
Back in time to kill George Lucas before he can fuck up Star Wars, like Patton Oswalt said?
Maybe just to find out the winning lottery numbers, like everyone else says!
No, I totally wanna have a drink with Winston Churchill. We’d be homies!
Or maybe! Maybe! Back to July and not step off that fucking ledge all recklessly like you did! I just wanna go back 5 fucking minutes and ask for a motherfucking blanket.
You’re being crazy.
Seriously.
You’ve got to stop this nonsense, or you really will fuck the test up.
And stop thinking about fucking the test up!
Thinking about it will make you fuck it up!
Don’t you know anything?
Wait, I really can’t feel my legs. Except when they twitch.Oh no. I know what’s happened.
This can only mean one thing. I’m not in an MRI machine. No, it was never an MRI. It was all a ruse. It’s…it’s….it’s!
A Sarlacc! And it’s eating me! Legs first!
And I’m strapped in and can’t get out!
Why hasn’t the rad-tech spoken lately?
Oh my fuck, I know what’s happened!
He owes a blood debt to the Sarlacc, and to save himself and his starving children…. He feeds the beast the blood of the innocent!
omnomnom
Step 9: The rad-tech enters the room, helps Stephanie up and out of the machine and waits for Stephanie to remove her squishy earplugs.
Step 10: Rad-tech tells Stephanie she did such a wonderful job staying still. Rad-tech asks Stephanie how it was for her (snicker). Stephanie replies:
Oh that? I could hardly tell time was passing, I was so relaxed. I can’t believe it’s over already!
Stephanie thinks in her head:
You are fucking insane. Seriously. Certifiable. And if anyone ever tells you to have an MRI again, cut them. Into tiny little pieces and feed them to the Sarlacc. Because fuck this shit! P.S. He totally knows you’re lying. He saw your nipples, too. Whore.
~
And that, my darlings, is how not to take an MRI. Or do, because I have to admit…those crazy fantasies were kinda fun (when my heart wasn’t racing because I was alarming myself).
~
Oh yeah. P.S. The MRI showed that my foot is broken in two places. Since July and never healed. No joke, five doctors, eight visits, and two sets of x-rays…and no one could figure out why I’m still hurting. Frankly, none but one podiatrist and my rheumatologist’s Nurse Practitioner believed me. It’s thanks to her I got the MRI and am now be-booted. I thunk around like a bad TV version of Frankenstein’s monster. But at least I finally know what’s wrong and can start to heal…so I can go hiking again. Booyah!
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