![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Because it's hard to liveblog something while you're unconscious for part of the time.
We began where I left off yesterday by watching a couple of Doyle episodes. Veteran Canadian actor Victor Garber returns, mid season 2, for a second appearance as Renowned Author Garrison Steele, who apparently thinks he's Jesus H. Christ because he once was almost 50 years ago. IMDB tells us we have two more cameos of his to see over the life of the series, and these will be among the few things about this show I will not be looking forward to seeing; the character is insufferable. But at least we saw the entire episode straight through, which was an improvement on the night before. There, around 7:30, we were watching Only Murders in the Building. In the middle of episode 3, in a semi-dream sequence, Martin Short yells at a Chorus Line-style gaggle of suspects, “GET OFF THE STAGE! LEAVE!”
…and our power promptly went out.
Came back a few minutes later. We never did figure out if it was areawide or just us.
By this point last night, though, the goop was all down, and most of its intended purpose had been served. Eleanor had sushi for dinner. I had a bottle of water. But not before someone posted one of those Facebook things asking:
If you won a life time supply of the last thing you drank, what are you stuck drinking?
Since things obviously were heading badly, I turned in, not knowing if I would win my day's match or if the Mets would hold onto a one-run lead. (Neither, as it turned out.) But I was up this morning in plenty of time for the drive Up The Transit and was ready for my close-up!
----
This was my first time having the procedure done at this place, but the third time I'd been there. First was six years ago, when, after I'd prepped and driven all the way there, I then found out that my then-insurer would only cover them at 10 year intervals and did I want to pay for the whole thing out of pocket? (Hard, um, pass. They now have you get preapproval from insurers before you drink from the cup of suffering.) The second was four Fridays ago, when our roles were reversed and I was chauffeuring Eleanor. Hers was later in the morning, and she was behind (heh) several others, one of whom came out of the anaesthesia pretty feisty, so it wound up taking longer.
Just waiting was more pleasant than my last actual scoping, now eleven years ago at a local horsepital's outpatient surgery center. That place did all kinds of procedures, so they thought it was just a great idea to have boxes of donuts, and a piping hot coffee bar, in a waiting room where at least I hadn't eaten in 24 hours or touched a drop of beverage since midnight. Also, only one unisex bathroom, and that was being mopped out- not surprising, given what at least some of us were there for. Today's was clean and free of consumables.
First you're prepped. A more pleasant routine than the previous day's at home "prep," where all you have to do is strip and lie down, answer 100 questions, get your IV set up (back of the hand, and she had to switch to the left because veins get small after 24 hours of restricted intake), and then wait. I swear I heard Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" on their audio system. I presumed the nurse-anesthetist would come in to Sting's "Every Breath You Take," but I was wrong. She was really the only downer in the process, because after I told her about a longago surgery to correct sleep apnea that didn't really correct it, she lectured me about how important it was to get it treated because of all the strain on the heart and, oh, it makes her job harder because she has to monitor more closely during the procedure. Bite me, Karen.
Then the doctor came in for a quick introduction. Nice guy. Not the one from six years before. Gave me the candid risk assessment- there's a one-in-2000 chance I'll put a hole in your colon but I'll try not to do that- and then the oxygen went in, the drip went on, and before I knew...
Oh. We're done?!?
We were. It was off to the Fart Room (I swear I am not making that up), where such expressions are not only tolerated but encouraged. Then back to dress, get the take-home paperwork, and find out from the briefly returning doctor that there's not even any need for a followup appointment in two weeks:
This is probably the first time somebody’s going to tell you you’re perfectly normal.
Not even any benign polyps to remove. I'm good for ten more years. Or maybe it's five. I'll be on Medicare by then either way, so I'll give Bernie Sanders a call and check.
I've eaten, had an extra cuppa, and other than operating heavy machinery, I should be good to go.
We began where I left off yesterday by watching a couple of Doyle episodes. Veteran Canadian actor Victor Garber returns, mid season 2, for a second appearance as Renowned Author Garrison Steele, who apparently thinks he's Jesus H. Christ because he once was almost 50 years ago. IMDB tells us we have two more cameos of his to see over the life of the series, and these will be among the few things about this show I will not be looking forward to seeing; the character is insufferable. But at least we saw the entire episode straight through, which was an improvement on the night before. There, around 7:30, we were watching Only Murders in the Building. In the middle of episode 3, in a semi-dream sequence, Martin Short yells at a Chorus Line-style gaggle of suspects, “GET OFF THE STAGE! LEAVE!”
…and our power promptly went out.
Came back a few minutes later. We never did figure out if it was areawide or just us.
By this point last night, though, the goop was all down, and most of its intended purpose had been served. Eleanor had sushi for dinner. I had a bottle of water. But not before someone posted one of those Facebook things asking:
If you won a life time supply of the last thing you drank, what are you stuck drinking?
Since things obviously were heading badly, I turned in, not knowing if I would win my day's match or if the Mets would hold onto a one-run lead. (Neither, as it turned out.) But I was up this morning in plenty of time for the drive Up The Transit and was ready for my close-up!
----
This was my first time having the procedure done at this place, but the third time I'd been there. First was six years ago, when, after I'd prepped and driven all the way there, I then found out that my then-insurer would only cover them at 10 year intervals and did I want to pay for the whole thing out of pocket? (Hard, um, pass. They now have you get preapproval from insurers before you drink from the cup of suffering.) The second was four Fridays ago, when our roles were reversed and I was chauffeuring Eleanor. Hers was later in the morning, and she was behind (heh) several others, one of whom came out of the anaesthesia pretty feisty, so it wound up taking longer.
Just waiting was more pleasant than my last actual scoping, now eleven years ago at a local horsepital's outpatient surgery center. That place did all kinds of procedures, so they thought it was just a great idea to have boxes of donuts, and a piping hot coffee bar, in a waiting room where at least I hadn't eaten in 24 hours or touched a drop of beverage since midnight. Also, only one unisex bathroom, and that was being mopped out- not surprising, given what at least some of us were there for. Today's was clean and free of consumables.
First you're prepped. A more pleasant routine than the previous day's at home "prep," where all you have to do is strip and lie down, answer 100 questions, get your IV set up (back of the hand, and she had to switch to the left because veins get small after 24 hours of restricted intake), and then wait. I swear I heard Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" on their audio system. I presumed the nurse-anesthetist would come in to Sting's "Every Breath You Take," but I was wrong. She was really the only downer in the process, because after I told her about a longago surgery to correct sleep apnea that didn't really correct it, she lectured me about how important it was to get it treated because of all the strain on the heart and, oh, it makes her job harder because she has to monitor more closely during the procedure. Bite me, Karen.
Then the doctor came in for a quick introduction. Nice guy. Not the one from six years before. Gave me the candid risk assessment- there's a one-in-2000 chance I'll put a hole in your colon but I'll try not to do that- and then the oxygen went in, the drip went on, and before I knew...
Oh. We're done?!?
We were. It was off to the Fart Room (I swear I am not making that up), where such expressions are not only tolerated but encouraged. Then back to dress, get the take-home paperwork, and find out from the briefly returning doctor that there's not even any need for a followup appointment in two weeks:
This is probably the first time somebody’s going to tell you you’re perfectly normal.
Not even any benign polyps to remove. I'm good for ten more years. Or maybe it's five. I'll be on Medicare by then either way, so I'll give Bernie Sanders a call and check.
I've eaten, had an extra cuppa, and other than operating heavy machinery, I should be good to go.