Tuesday, January 5, 2010

you know, like madonna!

i hope you're eating your breakfast, because i'm going to write about my sweet, gorgeous asshole. i had surgery on my bum yesterday. are you jealous? you should be.

let's get all medical and shit:

procedure: colonoscopy with biopsies.

details of the procedure: a rectal examination was performed. the variable-stiffness adult colonoscope was inserted into the rectum and advanced under direct vision to the terminal ileum. the quality of the colonic preparation was poor. narrow-band imaging was utilized to assist in the detection of flat lesions where appropriate. a careful inspection was made as the colonoscope was withdrawn, including a retroflexed view of the rectum; findings and interventions are described below. the patient tolerated the procedure well, and there were no complications. she was taken to the recovery area in stable condition.

findings and interventions: tortuous and fixated colon, consistent with adhesions. normal colonic mucosa throughout, although visualization limited by poor prep. possible scarring in the terminal ileum, s/p biopsies. hemorrhoids (internal), moderate in size.

post procedure status: stable.

estimated blood loss: minimal.

specimen: yes, see intra-op B note.

recommendations: i believe the patient has isolated small bowel crohn's disease. the inflammation seen on multiple prior studies has likely caused pelvic adhesion. this likely also accounts for her atypical pain and other symptoms. given her frequent need for steroids, i would consider an immunomodulator such as imuran, she can continue her pentasa for now.

a copy of this report was given to the patient.

love, dr. gorgeous heartheartheart i love you heart. xo

(i might have embellished that last bit.)

what, you didn't understand all that? you mean you geniuses don't really get what he's saying?! GOOD. me neither. i just wanted to make sure you dudes are as confused as i was. because doctor delicious delivered this glorious news while i was groggily coming to in recovery, zoinked out of my mind grapes on fentanyl and midazolam. he may as well have been speaking chinese. i couldn't understand a fucking word he was saying. all i remember is nodding and wondering whether the oxygen tubes stuck in my nose and wrapped around my ears left an impression in my face while i was sleeping and if he had noticed that my asshole was all cleaned up after my run-in with that crazy wax lady. my hand was hurting SO BADLY from the iv, and i'd woken up with my body curled around my hand like an animal protecting its wounded cub. his voice distracted me from the pulsing pain coursing up my right arm; i like watching his lips move.

he called me his "favorite patient" again when he came into the procedure room, and that loosened my booty cheeks right up. i had a terrible time with the prep this time around. i just couldn't keep it down, despite the fact that they'd given me some anti-nausea meds to take beforehand. that shit tastes so vile that i cannot even come up with the words to accurately describe it. and i thought i was doing myself a favor by using the cherry flavor packet (last time i did lemon-lime, EPIC MISTAKE), but it just tasted like cherries that had been left to rot in a sewer and picked up with a pooper-scooper. i drank as much of that horrific slime as i could, but my guts were all, "bitch, please" and kept sending it right back up. i just stood in my little kitchen drinking through a straw (doesn't help) and barfing into the sink while helen meowed and coiled around my ankles in sympathy. i talked to lori on the phone about halfway through and was so evil and disconsolate that she hurried herself off the phone and left me to stew in my bile and misery. i had icky mud butt all night (not cute) and while i got pretty empty, i still had dirty stools yesterday morning. sexxxy!

i had to wear a pressure cuff during, and i swear to god every single fucking time they give me the ones made for linebackers and fucking pro wrestlers. it was on my left arm, and i had monitors stuck to my chest in two places and in one spot on my left forearm, and all those tubes and wires are tricky to navigate, particularly when you are naked and cold and out of your mind and jiggling all over. so the cuff was ill-placed and he asked me to turn on my side and i couldn't get in a good position and it was like an episode of benny hill or something, me and nurses and technicians running around on fast forward trying to shift the bed and the pillows and my hips and my arm and reposition the cuff and move the tubes and adjust the monitors and turn on the oxygen...it was goddamned exhausting. finally i was lying how he wanted me (hiyo!) and he raised the bed and started the drugs and


fucking la-la land.

it is a cruel joke straight from satan that you cannot remember a single thing you say or do during this torture (because yes, you are kinda sorta technically awake and you can hear things the doctor and nurses say to you and respond and move where they tell you to) but you can totally hear yourself snoring. so loud, as a matter of fact, that you're sure he's inserted the scope so far that it's in your nose or throat or some other ungodly place that's making you sound like that. because you're a delicate creature from heaven, right?, and you would NEVER make such a horrific racket! efuckinggads, kittens. SO. FUCKING. LOUD. i do remember feeling the probe in my midsection. hot damn! it's like having a pirate sword wedged up your backside and twisted around! they don't just take a little peek around your rectum and call it a day, they get all up in there!

one thing that tickled me about the whole thing is how you can totally tell doctors and hospitals are in crisis mode trying to cover their fucking asses. i was asked, and i wish i were exaggerating, at least seven times to recite my full name, date of birth, and the reason for my visit. i said my name forwards, backwards, upside-down, without the consonants, doubling the vowels, and every other gd way a person can say samantha mckiv--


sorry. that shit really knocks a bitch on her ass. 100 bitches ask you 100 times who you are and what you need and who is coming to pick you up. and i always think, "pshaw. i can take the train home. fuck all this precaution!" and then when i'm teetering around the room on sea legs trying to put my underwear back on without slipping and cracking my skull open on the table or the chair or the monitor i'm always glad that i had a few emergency numbers to write on the list.
and many many many thanks to the lovely and talented carol greene for being my ambulance driver yesterday. thank god for other people's moms, and i am not even kidding. she even came in the room while i was waking up and at my most delirious! plus, she got to meet dr. handsome, and she can confirm that i AM NOT EVEN PLAYING when i talk about how smoking that dude is. i think i even saw her blush when he shook her hand. AND she got me some butter cookies at three tarts (if you don't know you better ask somebody, preferably me) and they were the most delicious little bursts of sunshine to ever melt on my tongue.

an aside: for serious, those of you who eat shitty cake i simply do not understand. i have a vicious anal disease (har), and even i don't eat raggedy cake. if you were at my birthday party last year (and where the fuck were you if you weren't?!) and got to have a piece of that delectable three-tiered banana confection, count yourself lucky. that bad girl was from three tarts! my 30th birthday is fast approaching and i will have another extravagant shindig this year, to which you are all invited. really, our goal is to shut the city down this year. i write that in all seriousness.(speaking of, my usual birthday soiree space, the amazing sonotheque, is fucking closed! what?! gah! so i need some hotspot suggestions from all you party people.) and there will be fancy fucking cake, so get your bellies ready. because it is my goal to enlighten and educate, these are acceptable places from which you kids can purchase and eat cake: three tarts, vanil, dinkel's, bittersweet, rolf's patisserie, molly's cupcakes, and sugar bliss cake boutique. and i worked in a bakery for four years, so i am a veritable expert. stop eating cakes from fucking dominicks. that is all.

let's just gloss over the fact that i can never eat cake again. i mean, not REALLY eat it. i can have a bite of yours, maybe, but that's about it. and i'm off the sauce, too. which is lame because i have a case of high life in my refrigerator that needs to get drunk. so come over already. i'm not quite ready to deal with all of this. because, thanks to my handy medical translator "the interwebs," a "tortuous colon" means that little sister is all twisted up and "adhesions" means it's stuck to itself. BOLLOCKS. my "terminal ileum" is a part of my small intestine, and i think you all know what "scarring" means. "internal hemorrhoids" are exactly what you think they are, i just can't see or feel them. gnarly. they're the reason i've been all bleedy out the backside lately. "pelvic adhesions" are scar tissue that links organs together abnormally. and if you've never witness my "atypical pain," consider yourself lucky. crohns pain is an evil, searing beast from hell. the worst. only a handful of people have seen me while undergoing that excruciating shit, and it's enough to make the most hardened asshole tear up on my behalf.

so jb and i are friends again, which is cute. i guess. he wears me out more than a toddler would, and much in the same way: constantly angling for my attention, doing bad ass shit just to see if he can get away with it, being too loud and babbling incoherently, dropping his food on the floor, throwing temper tantrums, depending too much on the bottle (zing!), and desperately trying to show me his latest creations. though instead of showing me his fingerpaints and macaroni necklaces, he unloads pocketfuls of phone numbers and primitive drawing that he passes off as "high art."

apparently he thought i was joking when i told him that if you tell me to beat it, then beat it i shall. no calling, no texting, no emailing. i just evaporate into the ether without a second thought, free to hang with my kewler friends. so back he came, snivelling and crawling and pledging his undying devotion. just how i like 'em. this asshole has a phd in eastern metaphysics (pretentious. fucking. wanker.) and he dilly-dallied at oxford and MIT and harvard and all these other smartypants institutions for years and years and y e a r s before deciding to settle for the simple life of banging dumb girls and foisting childish arts and crafts on unsuspecting novice art dealers and collectors as ultramodern, au courant artistic innovation. PSHAW.

i love that sissy, though. we're good buds. he's the smartest fucker ever, and you hoes know how i feel about a dummy. can't do it, not even for one second. for reals. of all the assholes i let club me over the head and drag me back to their caves, you won't find a stupid one in the bunch. i don't care about shoe size, i want to know your IQ score. i need to see some proof of scholastic aptitude, dang it. anyway, he bought me pads for the bed and helped change my diapers (those of you within spitting distance of my apartment should THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS that i didn't dial your phone numbers) and got me in the shower. he scrubbed the bathroom and hosed down the kitchen vomit and even washed a load of inside pants because i'd leaked blood and/or poo in every single pair over the course of the last week. (i told y'all a bitch was sick!) don't go misty in the eyes just yet. he did "accidentally" give me an anal probe (jerk!) but was swiftly repaid by a torrent of bloodarrhea straight to the face.

and thank god for him. there is no other dirty, overeducated, chronically-unemployed, thirty-four year old hipster lothario who lived two years in india yet speaks fluent mandarin (wtf?) i'd rather have washing my soiled linens and peeling the yucky diapers off my grouchy old ass. he could be a certified cna at this point! while he makes a fantastic omelette and waffle brunch, he can't cook shit else, so if you hoes want to drop off some delicious soups i promise i will answer the door. (i'm looking at you, melissa.) i also promise not to poop on you because, tragic though it may seem, i've got this adult diaper thing on LOCK. bring on old age!

(no. rilly. don't. i'll jump off a building.)

anyway, jb and i vowed that this is the year we "reinvent" ourselves. you know, like madonna! mostly because it sounds cooler than icky resolutions. resolutions are for poor people, right whitney? more on the reinvention in the coming days. let's just say a certain someone has to "develop healthier habits" (pshaw) and "be nicer to people (PSHAW).

i'm bloated and in a whole lotta pain (ouchies!) and was idiot enough to come to work today, but what is the alternative? lay around with helen, not making a dime? better to drag it in here and collect all these pity looks. although not THAT many...these tricks have been down the samantha gastrointestinal highway of horrors a million times already. what's another? i'm sure at this point they all blend together, just like that burrito you just ate.

so get over here and bring me some soup. or something fibrous. or some crackers. or some trashy magazines. i'm dyyyyying. (and i smell a little bit.)

*and while you're at it, mark jan 16 on your goddamned calendars. that is my show. you will enjoy yourself, and probably laugh a lot. if you've never seen me in person, i sort of look hilariously stupid.
i will be doing a few readings from these here archives, and some hot new shit i'm working on especially for the occasion.

i will also be showing you slideshow pictures from this latest colonic episode. i make a mean powerpoint, son! byobarfbag.