Last week found me heading over to the nearest radiology center to have a chest CT scan. I didn't want to have a CT scan, as claustrophobic as I am. However, the chest x-ray required before my surgery next week showed a "density", and the surgeon wanted to make sure that I hadn't accidentally inhaled a chicken bone in my post chemo eating. Preparing for this surgery has required EKGs, blood draws, and x-rays--way more than I had with my initial diagnosis.
I filled out the paperwork asking if I am, or might be, pregnant for the 433rd time in the last three years. Then I waited for someone to call my name. The lady lead me to a dressing room and asked me to change into a gown. Unfortunately they only had an extra large gown. It took me five minutes to figure out how to tie it. Then it was time for the insertion of the IV, through which the special contrast dye would be administered.
I was escorted to the CT room by a lovely lady who was very cheerful and energetic. She helped me up onto the table, chattering about what she was going to do and what was going to happen. I was initially monosyllabic in my responses; I was focusing on my anxiety. I remember the technician saying something about the dye making me feel as though I had to pee, and then I was heading toward the machine.
Fortunately for my claustrophobia, the scan was only of my chest area, so my head never went into the danger zone. I was so relieved that I was finished that I started talking to the tech about my doctor's edict regarding caffeine. She commiserated with me as she removed the needle from my arm. I continued talking as she came over to my side and gripped my arm to help me up. I clenched my abdominal muscles and sat up.
And then I tooted.
Little kids have an advantage over adults. Their bodily functions are considered cute. When a two year old passes gas, everyone giggles and coos over them. I'm fifty, and that is well beyond the "farts are cute" stage. I froze at the sound, appalled.
"I'm so sorry!" I said to the nice technician, who probably hears lots of toots over the course of her job. It's likely one of the side effects of the dye. She didn't even blink as she finished helping me up and opened the door. I was still horrified, but I managed to find my way back to the dressing room and change. I texted my husband, hoping for some sympathy.
"I tooted when they were helping me up after the CT scan. I can never go back there."
And Larry, my supportive and loving husband, texted back:
"LOL!!! Instead of giving a hoot, you gave a toot!"
He's lucky he was in another town, or I might have punched him for that.