Wednesday night's shenanagins, brought to you by the Northwestern Medical Hospital.

7:30. Arrive, wait for the paperwork processor for get off the phone and quit talking with a nurse. Paperwork's copied, I sign my health records away, and settle in to wait.
7:45 I am taken thru the women's dressing room, where I leave my things and my jewelry (but not my clothes, so that's a bonus) and settle in the CT waiting room. Lost is on, meaning it's an evening of ABC. There are 5 women already waiting.

8:02. The new Alias begins, and I'm disappointed. It's not very good, and the intermittent MRI noises aren't a pleasant counterpoint.
8:15 I'm taken into another room where I'm fitted with a flexible IV tube-thing. I'm taped into place and sent back to wait, missing very little Alias. Women are called, giving me hope. I might be home by 9.
8:45. I'm the only one left in the waiting area. Alias continued to disappoint, with a final moment that made me cranky.

9:04. It's been 8 hours since my last piece of food. I couldn't eat after 4, so I'm feeling my inner system start to go wonky. Since I've been sitting around this whole time, when I stand up to gget a new magazine, I feel that shift for a moment. I'm pissed, now.
9:10 I consider laying on the attached chairs (like a love seat) to watch tv and chill. I'm debating whether it's worth it or sanitary to put my head on the seat...I know it's a hospital and all, but there are a lot of be-gowned people on these chairs between infrequent cleanings.
9:20 I ask a nurse if I have to faint to get some attention. He's off to 'find out where my name is in the list'. I would assume it's pretty high, since I'm the ONLY ONE LEFT. That Tim Daly show is pretty lame.
9:26 My angel returns with 5.5 ounces of warm orange juice and a graham cracker. Neither is good, but dayum, I needed that shot of juice. I'm 'the next chart'. Riiiiight.
9:31 It's been 2 hours. I still have this thing in my left arm, and the knowledge that while I don't have to sit around in a drafty gown or be entombed in the clicking MRI machine, I do have to have an iodine IV that will give me 'a metallic taste at the back of my throat and a hot flash'. Hot diggity, kids, I think I've found my favorite way to spend a Wednesday night. I don't know why I'm surprised, but...sheesh, people. How can this be so hard to schedule? The way I see it, there's not a lot involved. You arrive, get prepped, and have your test. Bim, bam, boom. And then I go home to my dirty dishes and yummy leftovers and stuff my face because I can.
Assuming, of course, I ever get out of here. The 'soothing' blue chairs and the eye-boggling carpet are as grating as Tim Daly's odd facial ticks.
9:45 My left arm feels like it's asleep yet fully functioning. It's weird, and I'm squarely placing blame on the bit of plastic protruding thru my vein and skin. It's not like I've got my arm folded up in a 30 degree angle, constricting blood flow and whatnot. I'm just typing. And reading. And WAITING.
Jesus.
I might take back everything nice I've ever said about NMH at the rate this is going. I'm just glad that I'm not here for something utterly frightening like other people.

9:50 The MRI has become a soothing white noise that is sort off like a washing machine's agitating cycle.
9:55 My radiologist arrives and takes me down the hall. The greige donut is waiting for me and he explains the procedure as I lie on the table. He hooks me into the IV pump/dispenser thingy and positions my hands and shoulders and chin with the admonition to not move. At this point adrenaline starts to spike and the need to stay still becomes incredibly diffficult. I'm getting mentally twitchy and anxious so then I concentrate extra hard on not moving anything, straining muscles I didn't know I had. That, or I was giving them the workout they've been missing for the past year. My tray-table slides my head into the donut and the whirring begins. All I can think of is the Cylon eye/beam thing, and I swallow an irrational giggle. After my base scans, some iodine is shot into my arm. At least I hope it is; if not, the only other explanation for the pool of heat in my jeans/seat is one that includes bladder control gone awry. Another thing for my brain to churn thru as I�m shot thru with miniscule x-ray slices� The heat rolls thru my veins and my chin isn't saucy enough so it's given a new insouciant tilt for my next round of close-ups. The whirling dervish does its magic and spins around me, throwing in a tilt to get a new scan angle. Finally the technician comes back into the drab room and rescues me. I try to relax a bit but every muscle is is keyed up. I realize the other reason I'm on edge is that metallic taste in my mouth. Without a conscious thought, I was as tense as if I'd bitten a piece of tin foil. He takes out the IV (finally) and gets me bandaged up. I'm admonished to drink a lot of water for 2 days and sent home. I walk back to the lounge and the lights are off, the hall only has emergency lights on, and I realize that they're done at 10p and, finally, so am I.

10:07 I'm back at my locker, gathering my things, and have no fine motor skills to put jewelry back on. I try out a few shuddering yoga breaths and stretches to calm myself down, and find that as much as I want to nick a pair of blue footies, I just don�t have that criminal element in me tonight. I need some food, some water, and a lot of sleep. I'm exhausted, I'm relieved, I'm full of weird things and I just want my arm to not ache anymore. (Note: 10:52 now, and the ache's still there. It's less, but like the third day after a strenuous softball game full of batting. I can't explain it, so I should just quit) I notice I bled on the cuff of my sweater, but decide in the elevator that it's only from Old Navy and I could get another if I really needed another heather-blue cotton ribbed sweater.
10:09 I step outside to an empty street and spy a cab at the drive-thru drop-off zone of the pavilion. As I walk up to the cab, he pulls away, ignoring my indignant bellow. I trudge to Michigan, wondering if it�ll rain on me before or after I hail a cab. I flag one down and immediately regret it. My driver is not a frequent bather and is, in a word, crazy. He didn�t need any help from me to carry the conversation, but I couldn't find the energy to tell him to put a cork in it. He was singing Da Mare's praises and talking about some big snowstorm, and I just wanted to teleport home and skip the unpleasantness.
10:35 I get home to a pathetic and mewling Clem, who promptly ignores me once I take my coat off and approach her. I hustle to the kitchen to heat some food because I need to eat, start to drink water, and can't wait any longer. I eat my spinach lasagna half-warm, half-cold, caring less about presentation and more about rapid assimilation by my stomach. Clem's trying to eat my toes as I perch on the couch, I'm debating the risk/reward ratio of a shower (sleep is delayed/sleep is better because I'm clean) and I'm finishing this up because I've found that sometimes I'm more clever and interesting on my last fumes.
Tonight's no exception. Bed wins, with the promise of an early morning. G'night.