They started to draw my blood and number my insides when I was 15. I have 27 years of needles and machines at my back. I've seen my bones and arteries and guts. I've reviewed the numbers. I'm not only this medical body, but it is a big part of me.
The nurse misses her mark when she tries to get the IV needle in; fluid goes into my arm and it burns and burns. She has a warm touch and a sweet Jamaican accent but bad aim. It helps when they are friendly; though I think I would chose accuracy over charm on this one. The second nurse slides the needle in quickly and smoothly despite my nervously retreating veins.
Once the IV fluid is flowing well, they take me to the CT machine and lay me out. I have been in this room many times. A brand new machine means I will be out of here faster, but it also means that they have to “push” the dye through my system so that it floods quickly into the vascularized organs. Heralded by a strange metallic taste, the dye runs into me with an odd heat and pressure. The equipment spins around me taking its 3D pictures. Arms back over my head, I wonder if my body will reveal any of its secrets or if the cause of the abdominal pain will remain in obscurity.
They let me rest awhile and then take the IV out. I watch the small, bloody plastic tube as it is pulled from the vein. I wrestle with my aversion to admitting inorganic medical instruments into my body. The clash of the gastroscopy camera versus my flesh was greater than this small intrusion, but still, I am not comfortable with it. Not after so many years of this.
Self portrait in red and blue
2 comments:
Well, that's a bit disturbing vision of the future - actually it is a rather disturbing vision of the past and present too - maybe because 27 years of needles sounds like my version of hell.
I actually changed the post after reading your comment because it made me realize that I had made things sound too bleak. I don't have the phobia you do around needles, so I don't see this as hellish. Not the tests, anyway. My pain is hellish, for sure. The medical stuff is complicated: it is strange and tiring and fosters a weird, disconnected relationship with my body. It's a tough one to articulate. It's a complicated life, this.
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