We've got issues here in Catootesville, back issues to be specific. SuperHubby has serious back fuckupedness from herniated & bulging discs in his lower spine that cause major pain and disruption of life. I don't blog about it much because it's a -hah hah- painful topic.
My guy is pretty tough. Even with pain every day, he goes to work, helps coach little league and spends time with our kids. He manages his pain and medications so he can be as productive as possible and not give in to the discomfort. He doesn't really whine that much and only asks for the occassional back rub. I know if I had to endure the pain he does all the time, I'd be drooling in the corner from all the narcotics being mainlined into my body. I'm a pansy ass. Better living through chemistry!
We've been navigating the pain management obstacle course for over two years now. At first there was this creepy scum sucking doctor who I think enjoyed his products waaaayyyy to much, but he came highly recommended. At first he seemed okay, even though I always got this feeling of being smothered by oozing crud when we were finished with an appointment. That could have been from the amount of hair gel he used. Then we realized he was totally a putz and more interested in prescribing further pharmaceuticals and billing us for his next car payment than he was in finding a way to fix my guy. Fuckhead.
Now we have a much better physician who is interested in doing what he can to correct the problem and help put SuperHubby's back together again. And this is how we ended up in the surgical center earlier today for a procedure called a discography. It sounds pretty cool, with lots of loud music and flashing sequins. But not so much.
It's a form of torture. Seriously. You lie stomach down on a table, perhaps strapped down so you can't move. There's a little bit of happy juice running through your veins, just enough to keep you mellow. Some topical anesthesia is applied to your back and then needles are inserted into the discs between your vertebrae. NEEDLES INSERTED INTO THE SPINE and then they inject fluid into the disc to create pressure. All of this is done without pain medication. Because they need to know where and how severe the pain gets and any number of other things. Then they whisk you off for a CT scan to see if all that stuff leaks out. Seriously, this is a form of torture that has been converted into scientific research.
Now, we knew the all the details on the test before we headed into the pre-op room. You don't just spring this on people so we knew what to expect. What we weren't prepared for was the ignorant dingbat sitting across from us in pre-op talking with some of the nurses.
As she was loud as hell, it was easy to learn that she was a hospital employee and was very busy and she was frustrated with Facebook because it was taking forever to load and that she was now friends with some people she hadn't seen since high school and her ex-boyfreind wouldn't friend her and some other woman was rude..and you get the idea. It was after that fascinating glimpse into her life that she began to describe the horrible discography she had recently, in graphic fucking detail. How painful it was when the needles were digging in her back. How she thought she was going to pass out from the pain and how she cried. And on she went, lamenting the pain, the tears, the agony.
SuperHubby and I kept looking at each other as she went on and on, partly in horror over what she was describing, because HEY! about to have this test done and in utter disbelief that she was so completely ignorant of where she was and how her words could be overheard by everyone. I kept waiting for her to shut the hell up already but she never fucking stopped talking, not even to take a breath, I swear. Really? She had more to say? Holy monkeyballs, it was a black comedy in color.
My guy started to laugh at the absurdity of it all and mentioned that you couldn't dream this shit up for bad TV and it was like an Albert Brooks movie, only real. I finally cracked and stood up. Casually strolling over to her, I leaned down and gently whispered, "My husband is about to have the test you so graphically described. Perhaps you can shut it now?" Leaving her with her mouth hanging open I strolled back over to my chair. At least she was finally quiet.
Dumb Ass.
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