There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon

The battle against chronic pain continues!

And I WILL win. But not without a few casualties.

Those casualties, unfortunately, will be me. Only in singular. Casualty.

Last week my doctor sat at her computer with her handy book, What Pills HASN’T JD Taken? at her side. She came up with a duo of pharmaceuticals that would beat my back and hip pain into submission.

She shook her tiny clenched fists in the air.

“This is going to work!”

But then she paused and added darkly, “But at what cost?”

Um . . .

The cost, according to her book, of taking a muscle relaxer called something like Tizidizidin (“Tizanidine” — Ed.) was dizziness.

Excellent. Dizzy is fun! Who doesn’t love to spin around until they puke? ME! I mean, me? What I don’t want is drowsy. Drowsy is no good. It’s fine if I’m just planning to lie on the sofa all day and watch a marathon of Hell’s Kitchen (DO NOT JUDGE), but I wanted to get some things done this weekend. Nevertheless, I waited until Saturday afternoon, after I’d run my errands, to take my first Tizidizidin.

The first thing I felt was a distinct lack of pain. Oh, my gaw. I never believed it would really work. I am not in pain. I am moving and things are not hurting. BIZARRE!

The second thing I felt was a distinct slowing down of motor skills, followed by vicious dry mouth and lack of will to live. Nevertheless, I proceeded with my planned activities.

Dear Makers of Tizidizidin: In addition to the usual warnings of “don’t drive, don’t operate heavy machinery,” etc., I suggest you include the following:

• Don’t Nair your legs
• Don’t take a shower, especially in a tub where you’ve rinsed Nair off your legs and created a slippery surface even a sober person would have trouble navigating
• Don’t eat crackers and tuna salad, as this will be reduced to a paste the likes of which will take you approximately a month to swallow
• Don’t sort through the mail. You will throw out the checks and try to stick the bills under the refrigerator.
• Don’t get dressed. Those leg holes will be the death of you.
• Don’t brush your hair. What is hair? It doesn’t exist. It’s only a concept.
• Don’t talk on the phone. Those voices are trying to make you go into the scary attic.
• Don’t try to breathe. You don’t need to breathe. You are a starfish!

After standing and staring into space for about an hour, I made a move. For my camera.

I may or may not have been naked when I took this photo.

Finally I fell onto the bed. Every now and then I surfaced enough to form a thought: I am taking the most excellent nap! But I wasn’t really asleep so much as I was dead-ish.

Later — MUCH later, I read the directions:

Symptoms of overdose may include:

• drowsiness
• extreme tiredness
• confusion
• slow heartbeat
• fainting
• dizziness
• slow or shallow breathing
• loss of consciousness

Bingo-How-Fun! All of the above, I think. It’s hard to remember what with all the loss of consciousness.

Soooo . . . will I be taking Tizidizidin again?

Aw, HELL, yeah! It’s a killer appetite suppressant!

*        *        *

So what’s YOUR favorite muscle relaxer? Have you ever tried Tizidizidin? Please don’t tell me if it made you die. I need to fit into that dress I bought.

Yeah, it took some help
With lots of machines, the experts could tell

Yup! I recently enjoyed a lovely stay at a 5-star hospital. And here’s what it was like.

My Digs

I had the best room on the floor. Far from the noise of the nurses’ station and set off so that the other patients couldn’t peer into my room when they walked around. I know this, because when I walked around, I could easily peer into theirs. Nevertheless, people still bothered me.

Hospital volunteer: “Harrumaharrumahoobaba?”

Annoyed JD: “Huh?“

Hospital volunteer: “Whurrrhummanummabooba?”

Annoyed JD: “Old man say WHAT?”

Hospital volunteer: “Would you like a newspaper?”

Oh. Geez. I felt like getting up and offering him my bed. This poor old guy needed it more than I did.

I do love a strawed drink (note pinky finger).

The Staff

The nurses were awesome. Somehow I got on the subject of blogging (I SWEAR I didn’t bring it up) with the nurse who was inserting my IV, and she confessed to reading many blogs. “Have you heard of the Bloggess?” she asked. Damn it! I quickly gave her my card. “If you like the Bloggess, you might like my blog,” I suggested boldly AND SHE TOTALLY DID.

The Entertainment

I didn’t feel much like reading. Luckily, I had HDTV! Unluckily, not much was on, so I watched the Olympics. When one of the nurses commented on the fact that the Olympics were on, I said, “Yeah. I don’t usually watch them, but . . .” And she finished, “But now you have to.” That kind of summed up a lot of things about the hospital.

The Commode

I had a bad reaction to one of my medications and I ALMOST DIED. I may be exaggerating a bit. In truth, my heart rate and blood pressure plummeted to DANGEROUS lows (and I almost died). I was put on an IV and forbidden to walk. Even to the bathroom. You know what’s coming. Yes, the dreaded commode. I was like, Well, I’m just not going to go to the bathroom ever! But with 300 gallons of fluid pumping into my system, that proved a little difficult.

The commode is better than a bedpan sort of because you can at least pretend it’s a toilet, albeit a toilet IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR ROOM. But at least with the bedpan, they take it away whereas the commode just sits there judgmentally.

Lookit how close it is to my BED!!!

Breaking the Law, Breaking the Law

Even after the commode was removed, I wasn’t s’posed to walk on my own. I was told to call a nurse whenever I had to use the facilities. Um, I am JD. I go to the bathroom alone or not at all. “Not at all” was not an option, so I sneakily unplugged the IV machine and dragged it behind me. Hee hee hee, I thought to myself, plugging it back into the wall. They’ll never know!

Well, they totally knew. At first I suspected motion sensors, but apparently the nurses can tell when you unplug your IV machine. Dang! But they were cool, as I was obviously better than the day before, when I was pretty much in a coma and almost died.

The damn IV beeped constantly for no reason. Look! I’m pointing at something.

JD Needs . . .

Dave rushed to the hospital after getting the call from my mom. He grabbed a few things he thought I might need: A picture of Gus and Pru, my pink bathrobe, and a cat-shaped pillow. Aw! He also brought a rather skimpy nightie, which . . . no. Later he would return, weighed down with the essentials: laptop, iPod, camera, books, magazines, the mattress from our bed, and Gus.

I got to spend Valentine’s Day in the hospital . . .

. . . and if you want proof of how awful I felt, I actually shared the candy with nurses and visitors instead of hiding it in my contraband drawer like the selfish pig I usually am.

Contraband drawer

I don’t know why exactly I was hoarding Jell-o and crackers.

The Syrup-Stained Gown

Ah, hospital food! It tasted fine, but everything I ordered smelled like a dirty sponge. Sorry, hospital! I did enjoy the fact that you could order whatever you wanted, just like room service. But please don’t call it blueberry compote when it’s really just blueberries.

NOT compote

The blueberry pancakes were pretty good, even though the room service lady ignored my plea for extra syrup and extra-EXTRA butter. Maybe because they know what happens when you eat pancakes in bed with one arm attached to an IV and a lot of hair in your face and a saggy gown. They do their best to make eating and drinking spill-proof, but my sheets were changed more than once that day, my friends.

They put a straw in everything.

And Finally

WTF does this mean? Even my doctor didn’t know. It was on the side of the bed, next to the speaker. I’m gonna go with:

“If your lungs are filled with branches, lie on your stomach.”

In conclusion, a hospital stay can be quite a lot of fun. Just don’t wear a skimpy nightie. You’ll want to be adequately covered when that old man busts in on you using the commode.

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Sooo, you may recall that I was in the hospital for 5 days recently. Why? I was sick. Can we leave it at that for now? Thanks.

Visual Proof of Sickness

Like, I am NOT even faking this. (And yet . . . the hair!)

_____________________________________

If that photo isn’t proof enough for you that I really was in the hospital, I have some videos below.

(And if you’re wondering why I have a camera with me, then you are obviously not a blogger.)

Anyway, I DO have a full-out hospital post coming up, but I thought we’d do the Caramel Milky Way contest before that, so there isn’t so much hospitalness. Would you like that? That will be something nice to look forward to. Maybe this weekend.

In the meantime, please enjoy these two professionally filmed videos I made while in the hospital. Don’t worry! Neither is more than about 2 minutes, and each minute is PACKED with JD goodness. Mostly.

And I’m sorry I can’t embed YouTube videos. Every time I try, it works, and I’m all relieved, but five minutes later it’s GONE and I feel like a jerk.

So won’t you please feel just as excited by these giant boldfaced clickable words? They will lead you to a strange and fantastical place.

WATCH NOW!

JD! Live and Sideways from a Hospital Bathroom!

* * *

WATCH NOW!

JD! Gives YOU a Personal Tour of Her Hospital Room! (With a Special Appearance by Taylor the Nurse!)*

Subtitled “I Have a Blog”

*Taylor is a girl nurse, so don’t get all excited. Or . . . do?

____________________________________________

Editor’s note. Despite this tremendously witty and well-written post, I’m still not quite up to my full capacity. For example, when I finished, I went back to bed. For 7 hours. But I am getting better and BETTER and soon I will be BETTEREST!

And that will be rather scary, I think.

* * *

PS: It has not escaped my notice that the Caramel Milky Way contest post has gotten WAY more comments than my poor, pathetic hospital post. Just sayin’.

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And it’s a hospital with pretty spotty wi-fi, so I’ll have to make this quick.

Never mind why I’m here; it’s unimportant. Rest assured I’ll be fine and home soon — and more important, I will have a good blog post for you (Hint: it will include words like “commode” and “syrup-stained gown”!)

Anyway, I’m sorry but I have to postpone the Caramel Milky Way contest. NO! This is not a ruse to cover up the fact that I ate them all. I have photographic proof that I am actually in the hospital. In a syrup-stained gown! So please hang on. The contest WILL take place, probably early next week.

Miss you guys!

Later,
Hospitalized JD

I don’t want to hear it
‘Cuz I know what I’ve done

OK! So I went to see my orthopedist for my MRI results.

BUT FIRST!

Like everyone else, I had to wait. In a packed waiting room. Christmas carols blasting over the speakers and small children running around. A woman hacking WITH PHLEGM into a worryingly flimsy tissue. Sitting adjacent to me and ALMOST TOUCHING me is an old lady with her husband and son. So I surmise, anyway. I’m guessing the son was there to help the old lady (his mother), as she apparently didn’t speak English.

Even if I had wanted to, there was no room to lie down on the floor. And anyway, I brought my laptop because this doctor is always running late and I had a ton of work.

“JD?” Oh, phew. I stood up to follow the nurse to the exam room, when . . .

DISASTER!

I dropped my laptop — MY LAPTOP!

My laptop! My precious laptop! Damn, I really dropped it. My laptop! NO!

Mere nanoseconds after I registered the horror of my laptop falling to the ground, I realized that on its way it had bounced — hard — off that old lady’s foot.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I helplessly put my hand on her foot, like I have some kind of healing touch (well, maybe I do; I’ve never tested it. But if this old lady was any indication, I do not).

I was genuinely sorry and horrified, until I noticed that a small piece of my computer was lying near her foot.

Dear god! My computer is BROKEN! Noooooo!

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

I turned reluctantly back to the old lady.

“I’m sorry. Really. I, uh . . . hmmm!” I looked at the husband and he was no help at all. The son was nowhere to be seen. I grabbed the piece of my computer and stared at it. Did it fit into the back somehow? Was it part of the innards?

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

“Um, I’m sorry, OK? So . . .  all right, then.” What the hell was I supposed to say? The old lady wouldn’t even acknowledge me. I know, she didn’t speak English, but how about saying SOMEthing besides “Ow! Ow! Ow!”? How about one of those dismissive hand waves that indicate “Oh, it’s OK. I’ll be fine. Go off to your appointment.” If not that, I’d unhappily settle for an accusatory finger or a mean look.

I could feel everyone staring. No one was helping me! The nurse who had called my name seemed to be frozen.

HELP ME!

What do I do? How do I extricate myself from this hellish situation? If I’d spilled something on her coat, I’d offer to pay for the cleaning, then leave. If I hit her in my car, I’d trade insurance information. And then LEAVE. But what does the law say about a laptop dropped on a foot? How do I leave?

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

Oh, shut up! I know! Your damn foot hurts. I get it. EVERYone gets it. Now let’s move on, shall we?

She would NOT move on. She continued moaning and whimpering and refusing to look at anyone.  Ow freaking Ow. I was kneeling on the floor, staring helplessly at her stupid foot. Really, it looked fine to me.

What would you have done? What could ANYone do? What is the protocol? How was I supposed to make the transition from kneeling on the floor and apologizing to getting on with my life? Should I have given her my insurance card? My business card? My business card is basically a picture of my blog header. What would this old lady do with THAT? Leave me a nasty comment?

The nurse FINALLY spoke up. She asked the old lady which doctor she was seeing. Of course it was the same doctor I was seeing. There was talk of X-raying the old lady’s foot, and that seemed to bring some closure to the situation. I bolted out of the waiting room.

“I’m so sorry!” I said to the nurse on our way to the exam room.

“Oh, it’s OK.” She didn’t sound very convincing. “We’ll have to file an incident report, but it won’t have anything to do with you.”

Are you sure? It was really more of an accident than an incident. Also, I just spent $400 on an MRI. I can’t be paying old ladies’ foot bills!

When my doctor came in, I felt obliged to tell him what happened. After all, he was going to have to deal with the old lady and her foot after me. His response made me feel a little better.

“Oh, my god! Is your computer OK?”

“Luckily, her foot helped to break its fall,” I explained.

Oh, boy. We’re both going to hell. I tried to ease my guilty conscience by saying how sorry I was for the hundredth time.

“Oh, well. Everyone has problems!”

This is my kind of doctor. What a healthy outlook. I hope that old lady feels the same way.

He insisted on taking me into the hallway to show me my MRI film. Why is the MRI screen in the hallway, where that old lady can get me? I could barely hear what he was saying; I was too busy listening for “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

Shit, man! There’s the son, just around the corner! And next to him is the old lady. At least she’s not in a wheelchair.

“Is there a back entrance?” I asked the nurse, practically pushing her over in my hurry to get the hell out of there.

“Do you want your coat?” she called after me.

I managed to elude the old lady. I don’t know what happened to her and her foot. I’m waiting for a letter addressed to “Laptop Lady from the Waiting Room Who Didn’t Do the Right Thing or Really Even Apologize Sufficiently.”

Oh, and the results?

Well, I think everything will be OK. It was my caps lock key that fell off. It’s still loose, but it seems to work. I may have to . . .

OH, my MRI results?

Eh. Everything looks pretty much the same as it did on my 2002 MRI. Scoliosis, some bulging discs. No happy monsters or half-formed twins. No explanation of the white spots or misshapen “organs.” I’m relieved. But . . .

Now I need a hip MRI. And you know what that means.

Another $400.

In the meantime, I’ll be staking out waiting rooms, coffee shops, and airports. I’ll find the person easily enough. She’ll be preoccupied and clumsy. In a hurry. When she gets up, she won’t have a firm grip on her laptop.

My foot will be waiting.

I’ll collect my $400 AND get my caps lock key fixed. I’m already practicing.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

________________________

Foot came from here

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My bed is pulling me,
Gravity
Daysleeper. Daysleeper.

One day, an innocent young woman fearfully climbed into a tube and proceeded to have a panic attack. A disembodied voice politely asked her to “stop moving around in there.” She reacted by . . .

But this is not that story.

THIS story happens to involve that same young(ish) woman, who, nine years later and no longer bothered by panic attacks, decided to take a fistful of sedatives prior to her MRI because she didn’t want to get yelled at again.

BUT FIRST!

She shared her nervousness with her Facebook friends, hoping to get some comfort and reassurance.

OK, this is not exactly comfort and reassurance, but it made me laugh, and that is even better.

After one last Facebook comment in which I confirmed that I chose pink underwear, I got ready to leave.

BUT FIRST!

Following the credo “If one is good, five are better,” I prepared my pre-procedure sedation prep. See above. I’m not taking any chances.

I was told that the MRI center is a one-story gray building with green windows. I enter an office park filled with one-story, gray buildings with green windows. Scanning for the building number, I almost hit a flock of geese crossing the road in front of me. Is this an omen? Are geese bad luck? Maybe only if you hit one.

The office is quiet. Thank god. I fill out the forms, which, I’ve noted, have me down for “one spine.” I hope they don’t find two spines, but at $400 a pop, it might be good if they found SOMEthing: a vestigial tail or a half-formed calcified twin or at least one of those cysts with the teeth and fingernails.

My sedation prep is kicking in, and I am feeling super relaxed now. SUPER. Relaxed. Now. Nothing sounds better than a nice cool tube to lie down in.

But still I wait. And wait. I’m downright sleepy. The floor is starting to look very comfortable; after all, it’s carpeted and who would care? I’m here for an MRI, presumably I’m in some sort of discomfort, right?

First I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall. Gradually I slide down. I’m lying on my back on the floor of a waiting room. This doesn’t faze me. If I look up, I can see the lady at the check-in desk peering down on me, but she isn’t fazed either, plus if I close my eyes I can’t see her.

No sooner do I get comfy than I’m called back to the MRI room, where I change into a pair of giant stretchy shorts. I am told to leave my iPod in the locker; it won’t work in the tube. I am not offered headphones OR a complimentary Valium. I’d feel indignant if I weren’t so damn relaxed.

I lie down on the nice, soft bed-thingy and am slid into the tube. I’m relieved to discover that the other end is open and if I tilt my head up, I can see daylight. If I need to, I can claw my way outta there.

The technician gives me something to hold onto — a beeper? — in case I need to claw my way outta there.

The clanging begins. It’s mega-loud. But it’s just noise, after all. I’m not feeling the least bit panicky. I’m not even feeling the least bit awake. I’m not even feeling . . .

“Ten more minutes!”

Wha-a-a-a-a? Yes, I’ve fallen asleep. For at least half an hour.

I feel disoriented and crabby. I needed more sleep in there. The technician stops me before I stumble out into the waiting room in my giant stretchy shorts. Oh, yeah. I’ll be needing my pants. And probably my car keys.

“Um . . . did someone drive you here today? The technician asks.

“Oh, yeah. My mom. Uhhhh . . . she dropped me off tho. She’s not in the waiting room, if you were to check or anything. I’m, uh, I’m meeting her. At Target.”

The technician’s look is a combination of “I know you’re lying” and “I could care less.”

On my way out of the office building maze, I come across that same flock of geese. Although my reflexes are not quite what they should be, I do JUST barely avoid hitting them.

As soon as I get home (but after I nap for four hours), I eagerly check out the MRI CD of my scans.

What in the bleeping bleep is this messed-up mess?

That can’t be me. My hips aren’t that lumpy. Also are those my lungs? Kidneys? WTF?

Maybe a sideview will help.

?????????????????????????????????

What’s that white thing? Fatty lining? Did someone leave a deflated ballon in me? Seriously, what IS that?

What are all these white spots? Cancer? Gum? Gas pockets? Probably gas pockets, right?

THIS is why you don’t get MRIs, people!

(“Actually, THIS why you don’t let patients SEE their MRIs,” say 1,000 doctors.)

The results?

Oh, didn’t I tell you?

THIS IS ONLY PART 1!!!!

Unless someone can interpret these damn things for me and save me a co-pay.

__________________________

MRI came from here

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Shot through the butt
And you’re to blame
You give butts
A BAD NAME

Hi!

I had to get a shot the other day, and I thought I’d share my experience with you. I know many of y’all are squeamish (I first typed “squeamous”!) about getting a shot, so let Dr. JD take you through it in a non-squeamous way.

First, remember that shot I got a few weeks ago for back pain? And how I felt so great and mermaid-y? Well, it lasted about a week. Oh, but what a week it was, my peeps. I enjoyed it to its fullest.

But then: tragedy.

It was like in the movie Flowers for Algernon where Cliff Robertson is mentally challenged but then they inject him with rat serum and he gets all smart but then the rat serum wears off and he gets, er, non-smart again. And it’s heartbreaking because there’s that one point in the transition from smart to non-smart at which he’s still smart enough to realize he’s not so smart anymore. You cry. But by the end, he’s too stupid (I’m sorry, I was trying so hard to avoid that word!) to know any better. The end.

But in my case, I am NOT stupid, and I know that those damn drugs wore off. I don’t need no stinkin’ rat to tell ME!

So, I went to see my doctor, whose last name is similar enough to “Vegas” that I accidentally called him “Dr. Vegas” ONE TIME, and now he will forever be Dr. Vegas. It’s the price he has to pay for having me as a patient.

It went down something like this:

Dr. Vegas comes in, and we talk about how I’m doing. At one point I voice my concerns about Vicodin. I swear to you, the following conversation is somewhat shortened but otherwise verbatim:

Me: I think I’m taking too much Vicodin.
Dr. Vegas: Well, you know Vicodin is very addictive and . . . (insert long, boring story about Vicodin here).
Me: Yes, I see.
Dr. Vegas: And so, in conclusion, here’s some more Vicodin.
Me: Thank you?

Having dispensed the drugs (oh, yes, there were more), it was time for the shot.

Dr. Vegas decided I should have two shots, three weeks apart, for maximum efficacy (fancy word for “to make more efficable”).

And I said, sure, why not. Shoot some stuff into my body, I don’t care. The nurse appeared to take me to the shot room.

So, here I go, again, on my own
Going down the only road I’ve . . .

Wait, how did Whitesnake get in here? Ignore that.

In a different room with scary equipment, I was told to lie down on my stomach. On a table, not the floor.

Gripping my koru necklace in terror (yes, I know, I’ve already HAD this exact shot already, but I have to make this story a little exciting), I felt the nurse pull up my shirt and yank down my pants. (“Ooh, there’s the excitement!” readers squeal.)

Um, excuse me. Last time the shot was administered to the lower-middle part of my back. Does my butt REALLY need to be hanging out? Apparently it does, because when Dr. Vegas walks in, I get all embarrassed and pull my pants up. Seconds later the evil nurse pulls them down again.

Will THIS be the worst part of the experience for JD????

Yes.

Because then really all that happened was that he rubbed the area with some stuff, stuck the needle in, injected the stuff, and did some other mysterious stuff that did NOT in the LEAST involve my exposed butt. And then. Done!

So you see, my children, getting a shot is really nothing to be afraid of. Especially when they give you Vicodin.

If YOU need to get a shot:

• Ignore that nurse and keep your butt covered. Unless you’re Kathy.
• I recommend lunges and squats just in case. If your butt must be exposed, it should at least look good.
• Ask for Dr. Vegas.

Stay tuned to find out!!!

DID the shot work? How long did it last? Will JD turn into a rat? When is she ever going to post a photo of her naked butt already? Did she take the Vicodin? (You’re stupider than Cliff Robertson if you have to ask THAT.)

_______________________________

Cat butt (modified) comes from here.

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Well, the tongue inside my mouth is not for sale

Thanks to little pixie for the photo.

______________________

Recently I was told I had a flat throat. After a sleep study and CT scan, a diagnosis has been made. But I think I would’ve been better off not knowing.

It’s not my enlarged thyroid. It’s not a tumor, narrowed windpipe, or life-threatening congenital deformity of the throat itself.

It’s my damn tongue.

The doctor explains: “You see, your tongue begins farther back than the normal tongue. This causes your throat opening to flatten. When you lie down, your tongue falls back and the opening is even flatter.”

Hearing this, my tongue tripled in size.

“Now, this isn’t bad or good. It’s just the way your tongue was designed. Some people are tall, some people are short . . .”

I finish the sentence: “And some people have freakish mutant tongues.”

He goes on to assure me it’s no big deal. The only issue is snoring, and if I’m bothered by that, my options are surgery, a palate-stretching procedure, or a mouth guard. No, no, and no.

I tell him I don’t care about the snoring and my husband can wear earplugs and can me and my freak tongue just get the hell out of there please?

Driving home, I think about my tongue. What else will I ever think about again? Currently, my tongue takes up my whole mouth. When I swallow, it’s full of tongue. Where does my tongue actually begin back there? What does it attach to? Have you ever thought about that? The root of your tongue? You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?

How am I going to eat with this tongue jammed halfway down my throat? Or talk? Tongue-y gibberish is the best I can hope for, along with stares of disgust and pity.

I can’t resist the urge to open wide and check out my tongue in my rearview mirror. Wider . . . wider . . . oops! You know, people should really cross at the light. A tongue-obsessed driver could be bearing down on you.

When I went to bed that night, I felt my huge, freakish tongue sliding inexorably back into my throat. But I knew I wasn’t really choking.

My problem is far worse than mere choking or suffocation.

I am aware of my tongue.

And now you are, too.

Peanuts cartoon courtesy of this site

Why can’t I breathe?

This picture came from here.

Woo-eeeee!

Sounds fancy, don’t it? You’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing, sitting here blogging when I should be in an intensive care unit with a giant tube down my throat.

But it’s not that exciting, I’m afraid. In fact, it’s pretty damn dull. Damnit!

Yeah, so. Remember that sleep study? I got the results. Of course I will share them with you! I will even go so far as to translate the difficult medical jargon (see pretty green letters).

STUDY PERFORMED: Nocturnal polysomnogram.

(Find out why patient snores.)

PROCEDURE: Technician-assisted study recording EEG, EOG movement, chin EMG, nasal and oral airflow, EKG, respiratory effort, oximetry, body position, snoring, pulse rate, and limb movement.

(Test will measure how much patient snores.)

SLEEP ARCHITECTURE: Total recording time was 556.5 minutes with a total sleep time of 376.0 minutes. Sleep efficiency of 85%. Total number of arousals [!!!]: 75.

(Patient snored for 376.0 minutes)

RESPIRATORY DATA: 5 episodes of hypopnea with a mean length of 24.8 seconds. 5 episodes of respiratory effort-related arousals [!!!]. Patient slept 2.5 minutes in supine position and 373.5 minutes in lateral position.

(Patient tends to snore on her side.)

OTHER: No abnormal limb movements.

(Patient did not fondle herself.)

CONCLUSION: Test showed evidence suggestive of mild sleep related breathing disorder.

(Patient snores.)

So that was a waste of a perfectly good night. And now my doctor wants to see me. Why? So he can tell me to my face I’m a big, fat snorer? Dave calls me that every morning. For free!

Oh, well. I still haven’t cleared up the mystery of why I have a flat throat. I’m sure that will be a similarly fascinating revelation. I’ll probably find out that excessive snoring causes the throat opening to flatten.

Have you checked your throat opening today?

You think you’re tired now, but wait until three

Buy this clock here!

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What if I did a sleep study and nothing funny happened? I guess I’d write about it anyway. Maybe some of you would like to know what went on.

I was to report at 7:30 PM, which, conveniently, is my bedtime. The only “special prep” I had to do that day was NOT take a nap and AVOID drinking water so I wouldn’t have to get up during the night and trip over the 5,000 wires that were affixed to various parts of my body.

The office was very nice and not at all medical-like, with a lobby stocked with magazines, snacks, and beverages. I was greeted by my lovely technician Kim, who asked if I wanted a firm or soft bed. ALWAYS firm!

The room is nice—imagine a small hotel room. Queen-sized bed, prints on the wall, TV, two nightstands, clean bathroom. Kim tells me to get settled in and she’ll be back in about 45 minutes to hook me up.

The first thing I do is crank down the heat. Then I see from the TV online guide that The Godfather is on. SWEET! There’s not much to do, other than unpack my magazines and iPod and get into my “special event” PJ’s—NOT the threadbare, ragged “nightie” I usually wear.

Kim comes in with a large container of wires and patches and gooey stuff. When she opens the door I hear “Who turned down the heat?” Oops. Apparently my thermostat controls more than just my room.

I sit in a chair facing the TV, and Kim starts attaching patches and leads, first to my legs to determine if I have restless leg syndrome. Then she puts a belt around my chest and one around my waist—these have sensors that measure my breathing. Meanwhile, Michael is shooting Sollozzo and McCluskey and this never stops being awesome. I make Kim watch, tho I’m not sure how much she appreciated the blood and gore.

I ask Kim about crazy clients. “Well, some guys fondle themselves.” HA! “Fondle.” I love that expression. “Were they asleep?” I ask, hoping that they weren’t, ‘cuz that would be hilarious. But, no. It was just innocent sleep-fondling.

More wires and patches on my chest, a “snore patch” on my neck, a blood pressure cuff on my finger, and then the real work begins: Affixing the sensors via gooey goop in my snarly mess of a rat’s nest hair. Top it all off with a nasal cannula (for measuring, not delivering, oxygen), some mouth thingie, and, an hour later: voila!

Oh, did I say nothing funny happened? Baby, I lied.

Don’t you feel sleepy just looking at that picture? Nothing puts me under faster than goo all over my face and plastic tubes up my nose.

Seriously, I am pretty tired by this point. I get as comfortable as I can with all the wires and tubes that are connected to a little box next to my pillow. I read for a bit, listen to some music, wave to the camera, and turn off the light.

Ten seconds later, Kim turns on the light and softly calls my name.

“It’s time to get up!”

The hell?

“Did I sleep?” I ask stupidly.

“Yes, you slept all night.”

Incredible. I’m dying to ask if I snored, screamed, or did anything else embarrassing, but the technicians aren’t allowed to tell you any of the results. Kim unhooks me and, by 6 AM, I’m on my way home to wash all the goop out of my hair.

At least I didn’t fondle myself. I hope.

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And you KNOW  I wouldn’t post an “after” picture of my hair without a “before” picture: