Trauma in the Surgical Unit..

Remember this?

That's right, folks.  It's the Pit of Despair.

Did Wesley really deserve this?

I mean really?

I went through something similar this morning.

Wesley, I know how you feel man. 

And I give you props for somehow coming back to life and winning your true love back.  I now appreciate what that actually required of you.  Kudos.

TRAUMA:

1. A deeply distressing or disturbing experience.

  2. Emotional shock following a stressful event or a physical injury, which may be associated with physical shock and sometimes leads to long-term neurosis.

A few years ago I was diagnosed with something called Barrett's Esophagus.  Don't ask me why it's called that...I have no clue.  But I sure hate that Barrett guy.

Anyway. 

After multiple tests and doctors followed by more tests and doctors,  they have finally decided I need surgery.  Like big deal surgery.  The kind where I can't drive for at least 2 weeks, can only consume liquids for at least 6 weeks, and that is likely to cause me to use every british swear word I know.  Because we all know british swearing sounds more sophisticated than regular swearing AND I honestly do not even know what those words mean so I obviously cannot be held accountable.

Before said surgery, to ensure that my esophagus works properly, I had to do ONE more test..a Motility test.  I'm not sure who thought this test was a good idea or really how it ever was accepted in the medical field.  Surely some terrorists somewhere are performing it as a torture method right now.

 So today I stroll casually into the same day surgery, not knowing what to expect.  I had a vague idea of what was to come since my Doc decided to skip over a real explanation of the procedure.

That should  have indicated "Warning..Danger ahead" to my unsuspecting brain.  

**Sigh**

So the nurse takes a tube. A very long, half the size of a pixie stix tube that has an pointy arrow contraption at the end of it.  The tube is marked with numbers by the centimeter.  

I hate centimeters.  

After the nurse and her accomplice explain to me that FEW people are able to actually follow through with this test, I decide to man up and go for it.  It can't be THAT bad, right?

Oh yes. It can.

 That tube was put through my nose all the way into my stomach. And I felt every second of it.  Actually, they only got halfway through the first time because I was gagging and coughing so much.  I'm completely positive that objects are NOT supposed to go through your nose.  It hurts.  It stings.  Your eyes water.  You wish you had your favorite teddy bear to snuggle with because surely this must be a nightmare.

But it was very real.   

The second attempt I drank sips of water to help the tube go down faster.  And then they leave you.  Alone. For like forever.  

Apparently this is so your body stops freaking out and "gets used" to the good for nothing tube.

Torture methods have been used for centuries.  And I'm telling you...this one, is brilliant.  Sayid from LOST would've been proud.

When the nurse and her buddy return, they've got a friend with them.  She looks nice enough.  Until she begins pulling the tube from my nose. One small, small centimeter at a time.  

 78.  That was the starting number.  I just laid there staring at the blinking red light on the smoke detector and listened to the "flight of the bumblebee" which somehow seemed quite appropriate.  Thanks Pandora.

This continues one centimeter per minute.  

Until you hit 40.

40 is the number where they stop taking the tube out of your nose and make you drink water that the terrorist, uh excuse me..nurse, syringes into your mouth.  This goes on for 10 minutes. 

Then the pulling continues until 25 where you proceed to drink some more water.

By now, the tube has been pulled so far back up my throat that I'm gagging and coughing and the nurse is telling me calmly to "try not to swallow" because it's disrupting her testing.  

And then I punched her.

Ok I wish I had punched her. 

Once the tube was completely yanked from my stomach, esophagus, throat, and finally nose I drove myself home.  And cried all the way.

Maybe I should've checked the other rooms on my way out to see if there were any other victims that needed to be rescued.  Maybe I should've requested to see Al Quaida since surely a few members were hanging out in a cozy office somewhere in the hospital, barking orders to obedient nurses to inflict terror and pain into each patient.

But really I just wanted to get the heck out of there.