I think the world of Temple Grandin and her valiant work to better the lives of domesticated cattle and other livestock. I'm starting to think they could use her consulting services in high-volume medical facilities.
Monday morning I went in for a follow-up ultrasound in Albuquerque. It had been scheduled since May. I actually kind of like ultrasounds. Well, externally conducted ones, at least. It's an excuse to lay in a darkened room and watch images of my insides dance across the screen. I'm fascinated by all the structures and little idiosyncrasies that make me, well... me. It had been almost seven months since my last one. Impressed with the friendliness and efficiency of the girl that checked me in, I had high hopes for the ultrasound experience, too. After handing over every form of ID and insurance card known to man I was ushered into a vast sea of chairs filled with people. I tried to ignore the holding pen atmosphere of the waiting area as I sat down and put away the various IDs they'd asked for.
My husband and I sat for a few minutes and then my name was called. We both got up to go back to the room. He had been with me for each and every procedure up until then. I'm not a wimp, but all of this has been one of the most harrowing, frightening processes I've ever been through. The tech informed me that my husband had to wait in the lobby. Huh? I felt like I was being culled from the herd of faces around me. I questioned her on why he couldn't go back too and she informed me there was "No where for him to be" in the exam room and it would "only take five minutes." Uh, okay. He has feet, doesn't he? It would seem to me that if the room is large enough to accommodate an exam table, it can probably fit one more person standing in a vertical position. I decided not to argue this time and left him behind.
I followed her into the radiology department, itself configured not unlike a stockyard with its maze of hallways until we reached the room. The very spacious room. She gestured to a chair other than hers and said, "You can put your stuff there." Like my husband, maybe? She had me take off my necklace, which I promptly dropped on the floor. It was all she could do to not let out the sigh of annoyance I could hear straining at the back of her throat as I fumbled to pick it up. I kept expecting to hear the white-hot sizzling arc of the cattle prod I was convinced she had hiding somewhere on her person.
With a minimal number of words and grunts I was directed to lie down on the table. I'm glad I complied or I'm pretty sure she would have whipped out the lariat and made me do it. I kept waiting to feel the sting of the tag ripping through my ear or
smell the burn of flesh coincide with the searing pain on my arse. She wasn't exactly rough, but the first few passes she somehow managed to forget the ultrasound gel. Then, realizing her error, she splotted a big dollop of the very warm stuff right on my throat. It took a moment for my mind to register that I hadn't just received the retched brand of the thyroidally insufficient. This time. I swallowed in surprise and you'd think I'd just peed on the floor, her irritation was so palpable. When I finally got to turn my head to the other side vertigo kicked in (I've had a vestibular issue lately when I lie on my right side or turn my head in that direction when horizontal). I clutched the edge of the bed hoping I wouldn't roll off in a nystagmus-induced frenzy. She finished with a particularly aggressive stroke of the wand and told me to sit up. I reeled to a sitting position and tried to get my bearings. She thrust a couple of washcloths into my hand to wipe away the gel. I stumbled to my feet and picked up my bag, then asked how to get back out. She vaguely gestured and told me to follow the way I came back. Gee, thanks.
After what felt like an eternity, I finally found my out. As I made my break for freedom I was pretty sure I could hear the lowing of other patients as they, too, roamed the halls in confusion, looking for their dignity and the exit.
