Waking up to work for me is almost like how people are exposed to fire drills. When I wake up, I get panicked and know I need to get out, but I can't leave the house like this! To make up for it, my mind runs on some autopilot based on countless training simulations and I try to reflexively remember what my body has been told to do in the hopes that it gets it right. I think of it like controlling your body through voice commanding a French Siri.
"Get up. Get up. Okay now go to the bathroom. Use the toilet. Pick up toothbrush. No, not toilet brush. Pick up toothbrush. Grab tube. Squeeze tube. No, squeeze it from the back. No, squeeze it onto the toothbrush. You know what, let's just go to the kitchen."
Normally waking up like this is fine to some degree(?), but hospital visits tend to exacerbate your slapdash attempt to look like a normal human because you're adding an extra function to a program that barely manages to work as-is. It's like a crazy mixup at the fruit roll up factory, except instead of it involving happy accidents with tasty fake fruit, it just ends up making you wonder if you can even convince anyone you're supposedly a functioning adult.
Through accidental genius, I ended up putting two appointments at the same hospital on the same day. I was not unintentionally clever enough to place the appointments early enough to make it a quick trip, but enough to make me feel like I could tolerate it if I had to reenact this scene in an airport terminal next to a power outlet and a crowd of other people trying to silently win the impersonation for the most miserable person of the day.
So I did do some prepping. My pockets had some ear buds, a charging brick, while I stuffed a backpack with Michelle's Switch and Allie Brosh's book which I purchased because I kept forgetting to read her blog.
Someone else must have been asleep at the wheel because after the pleasant 60 degree weather the other day, I cleared snow off the car on May the 1st. I'd like to think that somewhere the night before, a tiny kid just scored the winning point against people twice their age, a relationship was born between the most unlikely of people, or Donald Trump ate a salad without dressing on it. I'd like to think that someone was there at the start of this chance circumstance and thought, "yeah that'll be a cold day in hell when that happens" and then woke up, saw the snow, and realized, "Well, what do you know, they did it."
So the problem I find with living with half a brain in the mornings is that the half I'm missing tends to remember my date of birth well and healthcare institutions seem addicted to me announcing my date of birth every time I meet someone. Sometimes my conservations with providers throughout the day would ask me about my day and then out of nowhere I was asked about my date of birth. It's probably HIPAA protocol, and everything about it made me wonder if I should announce my birthday the same way Javert announced Jean's prison number in Les Miserables.
The other problem is that all my reminders are a bit incoherent. I told check in at 8 o'clock that I was there for a 10 o'clock. Then there was this wearing of a gown that might as well have been like trying to put on an space suit at that point. I found there was large and xtra large gowns and I wasn't sure if it went on backwards or not and then I wasnt sure if it was too big so, tossed the gown into the hamper, got a large, and then found it turned me into a clothbound sausage. Okay, I did need an xtra large.
The practitioner came into the room at that point to check on me, which meant that I was already two gowns wasted and five minutes behind.
So the gown finally gets figured out and I stepped out feeling like I was ready for someone's ghetto toga party. I never got to actually use the bathroom this morning by the way, as I was already up late and put most of my time slamming crap into my bag and throwing a quick lunch together for Michelle before we stepped out, so all while I'm in my pants and a potentially misworn gown, I'm packing a few logs that were never delivered to the bathroom and had just reminded me they exist.
So if you had an ultrasound, I'm sure your experience was painless and rather bland, maybe even friendly.
For me, an ultrasound amounted to someone pouring warm cream on my skin and me breathing deeply as someone boredly rubs a metal instrument into my body. I felt like I was stuck in the worst porno for 15 minutes of the experience right down to the lady telling me she was done and I could wipe off the warm cream all over my stomach.
I didn't realize ultrasound tests were not another word for "an hour of discomfort" but "15 minutes," so it meant I had four hours to wait between. So I went to a restroom to finish doing the things that I was supposed to do in bathrooms, then found a corner and collected my thoughts reading some of the book (I should catch up on her blog when I have the chance to remember), then played Minecraft, then typed this up as I waited. I felt like a drifter, but I figured this spot made me at least pretend I was some guy waiting for results from a patient. No one complained or reached me about anything yet, so this might have been my most effective plan yet today.
My preregistration for the second appointment involved another trip to someone checking my information. She asked if any details had changed and I told her that nothing changed in the last four hours. She did not seem to find that very amusing, and I don't think seeing the smile on my face as I said it helped much, either.
Pulmonology was another word for sit around and suck air through a mouthhole. The healthcare practitioner, as nurse whom I could tell probably had a side business as a yoga instructor, directed my breaths with motions of her arms as though breathing was a form of tai chi exercise. At one point, I am directed into a round, hermetically sealed container that reminded me I would be okay if a biological weapon hit the hospital and I may have been playing too much Fallout, but it was amusing.
I warned them about my allergies and the hay fever. In the end, it sounded like the results really had nothing that stuck out. Plus I don't even smoke, so it was like I cut the efforts in half. I might come back, but for now, I escape the clutches of the tube, though I doubt my wallet will be so lucky.
Addendum
By the way, does anyone else ever have people comment on everything you buy in B&N?
I feel like every trip to the counter has involved clerks discussing my purchases like they were selling me a used car they know has flaws and are trying their hardest to hide it from me and the day I bought Hyperbole and A Half it was no exception. I don't mind to much, but it seems replying to their banter gets me this confused expression like I just Kramer'd my way through a door to interrupt their discussion with the president. This was seriously what happened when the clerk asked me if the Allie Brosh book was funny and I told her about my familiarity with her blog.
Supermarket clerks do once in awhile too, but it boils down to "that's a nice sale" or "how is that?" I reply and we go on with our day. Maybe the B&N cashier trade is training wheels for TSA inspections.
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