Earthmovers and Sandcastles

All done, though. No sign of any perforations, bottom line, and I’m frankly inclined to defer any further testing without some pretty darn compelling arguments from my doctor (”You’ll sue me if things change for the worse” is not compelling for me).

As for the details, last night was…well, I suppose it could have been worse. One of Eric’s coworker saw her husband go through this, and he apparently spent the entire night on the toilet, sleeping between “bouts.” Wasn’t that awful for me; I only recall getting up a handful of times. Most of the night, I lay there listening to my insides burble and gripe.

By the time I got to the procedure this morning, I was feeling tired, sore, and weak. The test itself was just the icing on the cake, really; by that point, when they told me there’d be students observing (”because we don’t get to see this test very often!”), I was in no mood to care at all. The doctor who did the test was extremely bubbly, perky, and sort of what you’d expect to see on some morning talk show. I was entertained by her…right up until the point where she suddenly started wondering aloud if she was holding the camera remote backwards, and, when the technologist turned it around in her hands, gasped that none of the pictures she’d taken had been saved.

But it’s over now. All done. I’ve gotten to eat and have coffee, and I feel so much better that I’ll let mistakes born from rarely-used technology slide. No harm, no foul. (Except for the parts that were foul. But hey! I made it through this whole entry without using the word “poop”! Until now. )

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