“I told you not to read it.”
I asked for the number of the nearest cab service.
“You can’t leave now,” the nurse insisted. “I’ve already given you a shot. What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid my testicles will get burned off and I will die,” I said.
Before I could get out of my hospital gown and back into my clothes—you wouldn’t have much luck hailing a cab with a bare bottom, I decided—they came to take me away for the catheterization.
They were bringing in another victim as I left the prep room. A nurse handed him his release.
“Just sign it,” I said to him.
“But shouldn’t I read it first?” he asked.
“Not unless you think you can catch a cab half-naked,” I said, as they rolled me away.
The first thing I asked the doctor, once I had been strapped down on the platform that poses for a bed in the catheterization room was, “How much is this going to hurt?”
“You are hardly going to feel a thing,” he answered.
The next thing I asked the doctor was, “Have you ever undergone this procedure yourself?”
“No,” he answered.
Just as I thought. He’s going to cut open my arm on the other side of my elbow, stick tubes into my heart, inject dyes that will burn my testicles, and I am hardly going to feel a thing.
There is, in fact, this awesome communications gap between the medical profession and its patients when it comes to pain.
I happen to be an expert on pain. I can get hurt pouring a glass of milk.
To me, pain is anything even slightly uncomfortable that is caused by somebody other than myself poking, picking, sticking, or jabbing me.
Pain to the medical profession probably would be something like cutting off your left foot without first giving you an aspirin.
The next time you’re having something done to your body by a doctor, ask him, “Is this going to hurt?”
He will likely answer, “It might sting a little.”
Sting is a word they use a lot in medicine. Sting, to me, means a slight pain, a level or two under a mosquito bite.
When a doctor says, “This might sting a little,” he really means, “Have you ever been bitten by a large animal with very sharp teeth?”
Here are some other phrases to be careful of the next time you go to the doctor or spend any time in the hospital:
— “You might feel a little pressure here.” This means the brakes on the delivery truck full of frozen pudding that is unloading in front of the hospital are about to give way and the truck, all ten tons of it, is going to roll over you. That’s the “little pressure” you’re going to feel.
— “This might pull a little.” They used to say the very same thing to enemies of the state just before they put them on the rack. If a doctor says, “This might pull a little,” prepare for your kidneys to be yanked up to your throat. I’m no expert on the anatomy, but your kidneys have no business in your throat.
If you happen to be in the hospital or at your doctor’s office and somebody mentions something about something “pulling a little,” run as fast as you can for the nearest bus, even if you are half-naked.
— “I did this same thing to a seven-year-old boy this morning, and he didn’t even whimper.” Had the child been conscious, however . . .
— “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Not if you’re used to finishing third in ax fights, no.
— “Very few of my other patients even complain about this procedure.” That doesn’t surprise me at all, Dr. Quincy.
— “This may tingle a bit when the needle goes through the nerve.” Look around for a soft place to land.
— “I think the anesthetic has had plenty of time to take effect.” Couldn’t we wait just six more weeks to be sure?
— “If you will just relax, this will be over before you know it.” Be especially careful of this one. The doctor is just trying to buy time before you start trying to hurt him back. What he really means is that the British fleet can turn around and sail all the way back home from the Falkland Islands and this tube will still be stuck straight up Argentina.
I am strapped onto the bed. The room is out of the Mad Scientist. I am wishing they had put me to sleep for this. They don’t put you to sleep for catheterization because there are times when they want you to cough and hold your breath. All they can do, I suppose, is make your mouth dry.
“One thing before we start,” said a nurse. “If your nose itches, don’t try to scratch it. We want you to lie still. If your nose itches, ask me and I will scratch it for you.”
Why did she have to say that? My nose hadn’t itched for years. As soon as she said not to scratch my nose, it started itching. It itched during the entire two hours of the procedure.
You can get somebody to scratch your back. You can get somebody to scratch your head. Your nose is something else. Only the person who owns the nose can adequately scratch it.
The catheterization. They deadened my right arm with shots of Novacain before making the incision. There are no nerves inside the heart, so there was no pain involved with the tubes. I felt the shots all the way down to my fingers.
The dye.
“This is going to burn a little,” said the doctor.
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