When I was in the hospital, I expected my second colonoscopy to go a lot like my first. It mostly did, but there were some differences. The first difference that I was more than happy to experience was that prep wasn’t nearly as viscous. I couldn’t even finish the laxatives last time because I was so exhausted and disgusted, but apparently I had had enough to go through the procedure. I had about a liter left. This second time around I was able to finish with several hours to spare. I just asked for nausea medicine ahead of time and just chugged it at random points in time.
I honestly wouldn’t recommend that method to anyone.
I was annoyed that I had to leave my glasses behind the second time around since my mom wasn’t there, but I just dealt with it. No one wanted to be held responsible for losing them. I didn’t even bring my contacts with me and the probably would’ve told me to take them out anyways.
As I was rolled on the gurney to the waiting room (it was more of an office), one of the nurses introduced himself and started asking me questions. What’s your full name, birth date, what procedure you’re getting done, how was your day – that sort of thing.
I always get half nervous that someone’s going to go “Wait, what?” when I answer the “What are you here for?” question.
“What are you here for?”
“Wait, I thought this was a kidney removal.”
But as he was typing all of this up on a computer, he turned toward the anesthesiologist and said “Well, it looks like if it weren’t for her colitis, we’d have a perfectly normal young lady right here.”
What does that even mean anymore? “Perfectly normal” has to have some sort of standard that I don’t know of, because I don’t think I’d ever fit that.
I could only really manage an awkward laugh as suddenly the room exploded with nurses trying to stick things onto me.
“No need to panic, these are just for the heart monitor,” someone with a pair of VERY cold hands said. I just ended up giving up and holding my arms out like Magneto ascending to the sky so everyone could do their work.
I feel like nurses are so lucky to have me. When I had braces, my orthodontist used to let his interns work on me because I was so chill. Of course he’d check on their work after, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been poked and prodded more than the average patient.
Then I was eventually wheeled into the procedure room, where they had techno/house music playing. That definitely threw me off.
Also, the nurses were super nice and even complimented my skin. Usually I just get comments of concern asking if I’m ok since I’m so pale.
The last thing I remember before getting knocked out was one of those oxygen nose things being put on me and the air conditioning in the room getting really loud. It sounded like I was in a wind tunnel.
I’m still trying to figure out, though, what that nurse meant by there being a possibility of me being perfectly normal. Didn’t the Dursleys pride themselves in being perfectly normal
, thank you very much? Then one day a baby wizard got dropped onto their doorstep and everything changed.
Is my ulcerative colitis my baby wizard?
Will it someday grow up and defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort and then join the wizard cops?
I’m definitely the best at analogies.