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Updated: Bottoms-Up! (Literally, unfortunately.)

3 Apr

For those of you who read this earlier… an update has been posted at the bottom. I survived! 

I’m posting from the hospital room, waiting for someone to come and wheel me down for a colonoscopy. I wish I were joking – or over the age of 60 since this would at least be par for the course. As it is, I’m sitting here with an empty stomach, clenching my ass checks and scowling at the empty gallon jug of GoLYTELY next to my bed.

Don’t know what GoLYTELY is? Consider yourself lucky. It sounds cute, and I was tempted to applaud the pharmaceutical pun-master who named it, since it’s a laxative with the explicit goal of “cleaning you out to the point that your stool becomes clear liquid.” Sorry, but something that does that definitely does not go lightly.

In fact, there were times in the past 12 hours where I was alternately curled in my bed, moaning, “What have I done to deserve this?”  and staring at the toilet paper roll thinking, “I feel like a POW.”

Quick backstory… I came to the ER yesterday because I’d had sharp abdominal pains for 24 hours and was thinking it might be appendicitis. I’d put it off for quite a while because I remember one of my friends who is an ER doctor telling me that most people who think they have appendicitis just need to pass gas. I did not want to be that person, forced to slink out of the ER with a can of Glade. Hence why I waited 24 hours.

Once I was admitted they did a CT scan. The nice guy who administered the CT scan had a thick Indian accent, so I couldn’t exactly understand everything he was saying. As he explained the procedure to me, I thought I heard him say the word “anus” but I quickly dismissed it. But then he was standing in front of me with something that looked like a whoopie cushion with a tube hanging out of it, saying, “Roll onto your side.”

What. The. F+ck.

Hours later, I received confirmation that my appendix was perfectly fine, but that they found something that might be an indicator of Crohn’s Disease. Next thing I knew, I was admitted overnight to prep me for a colonoscopy. I nodded my assent, thinking, “Katie Couric had a colonoscopy on TV. No big deal.”

Turns out? I kind of want to bitch-slap Katie for false advertising. That, or maybe rich people don’t have to go through the whole GoLYTELY prep. Maybe they just go in and let loose all over the table like a woman giving birth, but the hospital charges so much that it makes it worth their while.

Fortunately, the night nurse (who is about my age and awesome) prepared me for what would happen, so I was able in turn to prepare my roommate, whose bed (unfortunately) is right next to our shared bathroom. “Ma’am,” I told her. “I apologize in advance. They’re about to pump me full of something that will have me trotting in there repeatedly, and I don’t expect it will be silent.”

As it turns out, she’s using a bedpan, so while I may have beaten her in frequency, she’s the one who should’ve offered an aromatic candle as a hostess gift.

Also: I felt sorry for her when I checked in because her chart indicates that pain management is a top goal, whereas I’ve been in virtually no pain since getting to the room. This morning, however, when her breakfast arrived – filling the room with smells of bacon and coffee – I’m thinking I’d gladly trade places with her… I haven’t eaten anything since Sunday. This is like Torture, Part II.

Of course, I suppose I should be careful what I wish for or define as torture. I still have the actual procedure ahead of me. Wish me luck!

UPDATE: I survived! The actual colonoscopy was a piece of cake compared to the prep.

When they rolled me into the room for the procedure, I had two doctors, two nurses and an anesthesiologist surrounding me. I looked around before they put me under and said with a straight face, “I’m pretty sure you’re about to have an amazing experience.” 

As it turns out, they did. How do I know? Because I WOKE UP (no joke) halfway through, looked around and said, “Shouldn’t I be out for this?” right before they adjusted the drip and knocked me back out. Apparently my need to manage situations is a bit hard to give up. 

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Nice to meet you. Where’s your bathroom?

31 Mar

Last post about my trip to Atlanta, I swear.

The weather was gorgeous while I was in Atlanta, so Liz and I took a few long (five mile?) walks. Liz is in fantastic shape, so I’ve always found it hard to keep up with her when we walk. She’s an arm-pumping kind of walker. I’m more of a stroller. As a result, I’m usually winded, so my strategy is to lob questions at her so she’ll do most of the talking.

This time, when I saw her loading up Jackson in his stroller, I was excited because I thought it meant we’d be going at a leisurely pace. Silly me! She walks just as fast with a stroller – even going up hills and across rocky paths. She’s like a human tank that only weighs 100 lbs. It’s truly impressive.

So we ventured out for a long hustle, and about halfway through my stomach seized up. “Liz,” I asked nervously. “Is there a bathroom anywhere around here?” (We were on a pretty busy road lined by office buildings, but I wasn’t seeing anything that would be open on a weekend.)

“There’s a Starbucks up ahead of us, maybe a half mile,” she said. Then she looked at my face and said, “Oh. Do you think you can make it?”

“I sure as hell hope so,” I told her. “Or else this visit is going to live in infamy.”

I won’t keep you in suspense: I made it to Starbucks just in the nick of time. And I’ll no longer complain about the cost of a cup of coffee there. I now understand their cost structure: that seemingly huge profit margin actually goes toward toilet paper and janitorial services for random people who stop in to use the facilities.

Because we were a good 2.5 miles away from home, I was nervous about the return walk, so I pulled off about two feet of toilet paper and carefully folded it around my hand. Then, because I didn’t have any pockets, I tucked it into my sports bra.

Feeling very much the Boy Scout for my worst-case planning efforts, I met back up with Liz outside and we continued our walk. When we were about a mile from her home, she saw some of her friends out on their deck, so we waved and walked over.

We chatted with them for ten minutes or so, politely establishing how we all knew each other, where we work, etc.

As we walked away, I told Liz, “They seem really nice.” Then I looked down because something caught my eye. I stopped. “Liz! Look at me.” She looked and started cracking up. “Was this hanging out the entire time we were talking with them?” About eight inches of toilet paper was hanging out of the neck of my shirt, as if I were a walking dispenser.

Liz nodded. “I even noticed it,” she said, “but I just thought, ‘Oh yeah – there’s Alison’s toilet paper,’ like it was a normal thing for you to have hanging out of your shirt.” Which, given the weekend we had, probably makes sense.

Let’s agree: I certainly know how to make an impression.

Apparently, I roll like a celebrity.

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Exactly how old am I? Twenty?

26 Mar

I’ve long suspected I’m not Junior League material, but this past weekend, I confirmed it.  I was in Atlanta, visiting my friend Liz. Friday we went out for dinner, hit an art opening, then people watched at the bar of the St. Regis. It was a nice, chill evening, with only one problem: the drinks.

We had a mojito with dinner, then wine at the art opening. Then, at the St. Regis, we ordered a glass of wine and the bartender presented us with some kind of coffee drink with whipped cream vodka. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an evening that involves anything more than splitting a bottle of wine, and I can’t remember when I last drank liquor, so this definitely constituted a wild night.

And man was I feeling it the next morning when we pulled out of Liz’s driveway, heading out on a home tour organized by the Junior League of Atlanta. I slumped in the passenger seat, wearing sunglasses and pounding water. On our way to pick up her friend Erin, who was joining us for the tour, Liz pointed to a garbage can on the sidewalk in Buckhead and said, “See that? That’s where Erin threw up last year before the house tour.”

I sized it up. “Maybe I should do the same thing,” I told her. “Then when we grab her, you can introduce me as someone who has something unique in common with her.” I was only half-joking.

But then as we drove the tour route, the roads turned twisty and hilly, a combination that would induce car-sickness on a good day. Definitely not what you want to combine with a hangover.

Outside each home, perfectly made-up southern girls sat at a table, smiling as they checked our tickets and gave us blue booties to slip over our shoes so we wouldn’t scuff the floor. “Y’all enjoy yourselves,” they’d urge and I’d wince.

Inside the second house, staring at the kitchen’s flawless marble counters and admiring its chilled under-counter beverage drawer, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. I looked around in a slight panic, wondering if anyone had ever soiled a home on the tour.

It has been years since I’ve thrown up for any reason, but when my mouth started salivating as I left the home, I knew what was coming. Without missing a beat, I walked down the driveway, crossed the street into a small park next to a set of occupied tennis courts, and knelt – Tebow-style – before silently barfing in a cluster of liriope.

To anyone watching, it would’ve looked like I was simply tying my shoe. Until you noticed I was wearing flipflops.

Liz and Erin had wisely hung back on the sidewalk, and questioningly flashed me thumbs-ups as I walked back to them. I simply nodded, trying to be discreet as I passed a woman walking two small white dogs past me into the park.

As we climbed into the car, Erin piped up from the backseat. “Gee Liz – we’re going 2/2 on this home tour. Guess next year it will be your turn!”  We both shuddered; Liz, undoubtedly at the thought of being the one to toss her cookies in public.

And me? Well, I’d just seen the two white dogs discover their next meal.

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Paved with good intentions…

5 Mar

My parents were in town this last weekend, so we walked down to the Smithsonian to see an Annie Lebowitz exhibit at the American Art Museum. On our way, we swung into Five Guys to grab a burger for lunch.

The portions are huge, so although we’d only ordered a small fry, we ended up with (what appeared to be) an entire order left over. Rather than toss the food, we packaged it neatly with some ketchup, napkins and a dish of peanuts to give to a homeless person.

Nice thought, right? Turns out, it was better in theory.

The first homeless man we passed was peering into a garbage can when we spotted him. I approached and held out the bag, saying, “Would you like some french fries?”

He didn’t make eye contact and just turned his head away from me a hawked a loogey on the sidewalk in response.

I’ll take that as a no.

The next person I approached was a disheveled looking guy pacing around a newspaper box talking to himself. I walked up and was in the process of presenting the bag to him, about to open my mouth, when I noticed he had a bluetooth in his ear and was apparently on the phone.

I quickly retracted my arm, leaving him standing there, staring at me, no doubt wondering why I’d just come and waved my Five Guys bag in his face.

Remarkably, as we neared the entrance to the museum, I still hadn’t found anyone to give the food to. I eyed the trashcan nervously and scanned the benches flanking the steps.

BINGO. An elderly woman sat there, looking a bit out of it and decidedly homeless. She was the last possibility to keep those fries from going in the trashcan. I strode up to her and – as I got closer – I realized she had a full goatee.

And yet, as we made eye contact, I had my doubts. Was she homeless? Or did she just lack a razor? Confused, I simply set the bag of french fries on the bench next to her and — not wanting to offend her if she wasn’t homeless — simply said — [ready for this?] —

“You might want to check this out.” 

Um. WHAT?! What kind of approach was that? It totally sounded creepy. Like – “Go ahead. Open this. There’s some crazy shit in here.”

She gave me a puzzled, searching look and I hustled back to my parents. “Quick! Let’s get in the museum,” I urged them.

“Why?” my mom asked. “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” I told her. “But I’m worried she might not be homeless and she might throw those fries at us.”

My mom shook her head. “No way. She was definitely homeless. She didn’t have any teeth, Alison.”

And at this point, I’m pretty sure my dad – who had watched all this silently – interjected with all seriousness, “Then those peanuts might have been a bad inclusion.”

Indeed.

Next time? I’ll just buy a paper from the Street Sense vendor. At least now I know why they wear flourescent vests.

This has nothing to do with this post. Other than that it's about a peanut and it's hilarious. That's where the relevance ends.

 

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Day late. Dollar short.

29 Feb

Hind-sight is 20/20. As are belated comebacks.

Everyone has that moment, well after the comic timing has run out, when they realize what they should’ve said or done in a situation. Right? I think entire episodes of Seinfeld were based on this.

I pride myself on being pretty good at being snappy in the moment – sometimes a bit too snappy, since I’ve been accused of being stuck in “perpetual smartass mode” by a few people. (You know who you are.)

And yet, my instincts failed me Sunday night when I saw the driver who hit me last year. I simply ducked my chin and kept walking, just trying to avoid a conversation since I knew how long-winded she could be. (I shuddered to think how she stayed at the hospital, telling me her life story while I waited for an MRI. Let’s just say, I could ghost write her memoirs without a follow-up interview.)

Anyway. Afterward, I chatted with Alan, telling him I’d seen her.

Alan: What did you do?
Me: What do you mean?
Alan: Did she recognize you?
Me: No! I kept my chin down and went by as fast as I could.
Alan: But she was in her car?
Me: Yep. The same car. 
<<PAUSE. Slow dawning of an epiphany.>>
Me: You know what I should’ve done?
Alan: Waved?
Me: No. Better.
Alan: What?
Me: I should’ve rolled across her hood.
Alan: Huh?
Me: Instead of walking in front of her car – I should’ve just rolled across her hood and kept walking.
Alan: Dude. She was so traumatized last year – that would’ve pushed her over the edge.
Me: Probably. She would either weep that she’d hit two pedestrians…
Alan: Or?
Me: Recognize me and think that I had actually flung myself into her windshield the first time on purpose.
Alan: Brilliant.

…

Fortunately, I know where she lives, so there’s always time for a do-over. I’ll let you know how it goes.

It would've looked kind of like this. Except I wasn't wearing a pervy trenchcoat.

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