Tomorrow I have the pleasure of assessing my new Dr. Liver’s hand-eye coordination. Or maybe not, since I’ll be sedated, as you’ve come to expect. Give me the drugs and I’ll see you later, thanks.
I’m not really worried about Dr. Liver’s clinical skills, to be honest. When we first met during a recent hospital admission, on a Sunday no less, Dr. Liver was wearing a perfectly pressed suit with matching tie. Maybe he was coming from church, but more likely he was impeccably dressed because he was on call. Since that day, I’ve imagined his fine-motor skills to be right up there with his fashion sense. You’d draw the same conclusion from someone’s attire, wouldn’t you?
Tomorrow, faster than a speeding bullet–it will be over in a flash–Dr. Liver will be putting a skinny tube with a camera down my throat. This camera allows him to take a close look at my esophagus and stomach. That darn blood clot outside my liver puts pressure on veins there, and Dr. Liver will be ensuring that none are at risk of rupturing.
I have had this procedure done at regular intervals since my clot was first diagnosed many years ago. The goal is to pre-empt a more serious problem. As long as Dr. Liver’s hand is steady, I’ll be fine.
I could choose to be lucid throughout, to watch the little camera descend and hear a play-by-play, but why would I? Since I have the choice, I’d rather be in La-La Land. If Dr, Liver finds something untoward, I’ll find out soon enough. For now, I’d like to nap, thanks.
I can tell you it would not be a good thing if any of these veins ruptured. I’ve seen it happen on Gray’s Anatomy and the outcome wasn’t pretty. (I may have actually asked J. to change the channel.) I glean all my medical information from prime-time medical dramas, since we all know how accurate they are. Better TV than the internet.
If any of those veins are misbehaving, Dr. Liver will have to band me. This means he’ll put a little rubber band around the vein to kill it before the dangerous vein ruptures and kills me. Banding is not a complicated procedure, but I’d rather not watch it happening. I’ll know afterward when I wake up with a sore throat and find myself desperately seeking milkshakes and popsicles.
After the procedure, I’ll want to know all about what transpired. Dr. Liver will patiently explain his findings, knowing I will forget everything he tells me because I’m still under the influence. Thankfully J. will be fully lucid throughout my delerious absence, and she will review the results with me once the sedation has worn off.
As we leave to return home, I’ll stumble from wall to wall, stubbornly refusing J.’s arm for support. This impaired person always has a false sense of how impaired she is. For a few hours, I’ll be happy and carefree and I may even forget I have cancer. So sedate me, please. I wouldn’t have it any other way.