I'll just jump right in. I don't expect anyone to read this, really. I'm no Liberace or anything. This is more for my piece of mind, quite literally, I may be losing it. But I'm trying to hang on to what I have left.
I am waiting to poop out a camera. No, really. The latest in a series of mind-numbing, body-invading tests I've had to find the cause of my chronic D. I haven't left the house in weeks (4? or is it 5? I've lost track) except to go to the DRs or a test. I don't drive anywhere anymore either. I'm afraid I will shit myself in public. My poor husband takes me. Or my parents. Maybe they left town so they don't have to anymore. No that's not it.
Barium swallow. Abdominal CT. Barium intestinal x-ray. Chest x-ray. Stool collection. Endless fasting and swallowing of vile concoctions that keep us up all night with an ass fountain. They have no idea what they put us through. Or maybe they are sadists. They should go through these test annually themselves so they know. And remember.
Yesterday was the PillCam™ test. Fasting for 18 hours, no water for 12. TWO laxitives taken late at night, past my usual bedtime, that prevented sleep of any kind. The nurse ushered us into the front exam room with the automatic height-adjusting table.
"Lay down, I need to connect you." And she attached large sticky electrodes all over my front connected octopus style to a computer cable. Firing up the miniature laptop, she took the camera-capsule out of the protective package and held it in her bare hand, "I need to activate it. See that's my hand."
"I'm going to be eating that," I wanted to say as she fingered the horse-pill camera, but didn't.
(to be continued, maybe)
