When I left my doc's visit last Thursday, I was under the distinct impression that I would be attending a 7AM MRI this morning. Now, not that I don't enjoy waking up at the crack-ass of dawn, but I didn't really want to go and be made into a, as my friend Cindy put it, "Holly Manicotti." However, after a rousing game of morning "Who's Got Your (Insert Body Part Here)?" with my dear sweet, understanding hubby left me crying and holding my ribs and - worse yet - unable to - ya know - fully compete to "win" (Harry's comforting words: "Hey, at least one of us did!" Grrr.) I have decided that I need to get this - whatever the hell it is - fixed.
So I arrive at St. Mary's and head to their "Outpatient Services" building. I stand in the lobby and look at the marquee. I guess I'm searching for some sort of a large arrow or glowing sign that says "Here is Where Holly Needs to Be." Seeing none - I do the next best thing - I accost some poor chick who's walking by in lime green scrubs.
"Do you work here?" I ask, holding my "A Dirty Job" book by Christopher Moore in one hand and my slip for treatment in the other.
She looks down at her scrubs, her id tag and then at me: "Uh, yeah."
"Can you please tell me where I need to go for this?" I thrust the paper at her and she, even though it was so early Roosters were still napping, smiled at me.
"You need to go to the first floor," she explained slowly as if I was insane. Which - before 8 AM - I kinda am.
I looked at the glass doors behind us and then at the elevators.
"This is the 'Ground Floor.' You need to go up." She even got the elevator for my dumb ass and then grilled me to make sure I hadn't eaten anything past midnight.
Two pagers and an armband later, I'm lying on my back with my shirt pushed up under my armpits thinking "What? Not even gonna get breakfast first?" while a nice woman, Angela, covered my robust tummy with goo.
"Hey, Angela?" I ask as she smoothes the jelly-like substance over my belly.
"Yes, dear?" She says.
"Will you please let me know if there's anything bad in there? Like anything with tentacles, claws or googly-eyes?"
"Of course, dear. Of course."
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