Yesterday morning, I had a PROCEDURE done.
A medical PROCEDURE.
The doctor came in to talk to me, asked what the problem is, and I told him. He asked, “do you drink?”
I said, “Not really.”
He said, “Why not?”
And I thought that was odd. I mean, I do have a drink now and then, but every time I answer that question, it’s always framed in terms of how many drinks you have in a week. I don’t drink alcohol for months at a time. Or if I do, it’s a couple of drinks once a month. I don’t like alcohol. Sadly, I love the taste of cherry bourbon rye mixed with cola. I wish it wasn’t alcoholic. In fact, I love the taste of grenadine and cola just as much.
Anyway, I thought it was weird that the doctor would ask why I *don’t* drink.
Here’s the thing. For this medical PROCEDURE, they sprayed stuff on the back of my throat to freeze it. The stuff tasted so horrible I nearly gagged. In fact, I asked if it was WD-40. They tell me it wasn’t. I’m not sure I believe them.
They shoved a tube with wings in my mouth and affixed it to my head with an elastic band. Then they gave me a “sedative”. (Now, I don’t know how many “sedatives” you’ve had. I can count on one hand the number I’ve had. This one was, by far, the most effective.) Then they did a bunch of stuff I don’t remember. They could have dressed up like aliens and anally probed me for all I know. They could have asked me to line dance. They could have had a tea party on my bare belly.
Because these are TRAINED MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS, I highly doubt they did any of those things. I remember hearing their voices, but I don’t remember what they said. I remember my tongue feeling thick, and thinking “man. I’m stoned”, and then I remember *making the decision* to go to sleep. Then I remember more voices.
Someone put my glasses on my face. Someone gave me my phone. Apparently, I was quite coherent when I asked for my phone. I was not, however, coherent for the first several minutes of what I did with my phone. If you’re on Twitter, you saw this:
I’m high and my loos rad numb. Um, I’m high and my lips are. Numb. IM ALIVE!!!
Then you saw a photograph of my massive cleavage. (I have since removed the photograph.) Mostly, this photograph was due to Ms.Crisis replying to that Tweet with: “YAY! Now show us your boobies!” This means that either I oughtn’t have my phone when stoned out of my nut on benzodiazepine derivatives, or Ms.Crisis oughn’t give me advice she knows I’d follow with only slightly more restraint were I in my right mind.
But this isn’t the best bit. The best bit are the texts I sent before I was fully in control of my faculties. I will begin with one I sent my co-workers:
I *think* I was trying to say “I need to get some of this shit”, but clearly, my thumbs weren’t working owing to the fact that I was heavily sedated. Muscle relaxant, you know. Following advising my co-worker and my boss that I was A-OK and in tiptop shape and could probably return to work immediately, I reassured my friend Tall Dude that I had, in fact, pulled through THE PROCEDURE without dying:
To be honest, I totally texted His Nibs before I sent anything to anyone else. But my texts with him are my favourites, so I’ve left them ’til last. Because this is what I said to my patient and loving husband. I think I told him at least three times that I would be an hour:
The very best part of this experience was riding in the vehicle after His Nibs came to fetch me, and going over the texts I didn’t remember sending. That was one of the funniest ten minutes of my LIFE.