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I had to visit the hospital for an ultrasound. Not pregnant, just had to get checked out. No biggie.
The pre-ultrasound directions required me to ingest several thousand gallons of water precisely one half hour before my scheduled “appointment time”. Dutifully, I complied.
My ultrasound was scheduled at the same hospital where “the incident” occurred last September (while I was  sick, and AWOL from this blog. Sorry about that).
Sigh.
Last September, in a fever induced fit of rage, and unhappy with the quality of service I was receiving (from wherever I was, I wasn’t 100% on that) I yanked an IV out of my arm, (don’t try this at home)  cursed at the Dr. (I wish I could remember what I said) and then did the Maggie Simpson (step step crash, step step crash) out to our blurry car, (luckily I found the right one) while my husband tried desperately to finish up the paperwork before I began to think about driving. Or flying.

Maybe they won’t recognize me.

It’s 3 degrees outside and 90 degrees in the hospital. I am sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee.
I smell and I have to pee. I present myself to outpatient services, say the secret word (my doctor said that if you say “diagnostic” with a wink and nod, they get you in faster… Although there is a good possibility that she was shitting me) and got my pretty bracelet. I settle in the waiting room, strip my clothes off, moist stinky layer by moist stinky layer, wring the sweat out, and begin to make camp. Who knows how long it’ll be.
Almost immediately they call my name. The voice sounds like a choir of angels:

“naptimethooooooughts”.

I’m so surprised I almost piss myself.
I got up (checked the chair just in case) and tried desperately to disguise the pee pee dance I did back to the ultrasound room. Cha-cha-cha…
The tech is really nice. She understands my predicament and says she’ll work as quickly as possible so I can “relieve my discomfort promptly”.
She tells me to peel off the last of my stinky moist clothing and put this on:

photo 2
In case you can’t see– there are three holes for two arms.

Hmmmmm…. Is one of those holes for my head? I took a quick inventory:
I know for sure that I do not have three arms. It’s also unlikely that any of those holes are for my legs, as she called the thing a robe, and I’m reasonably sure that there are no robes with leg holes.
Time was ticking away. She’d be back soon, and if I didn’t put the thing on she’d walk in on me, still contemplating my hospital wear in the buff.
So I put my head in the middle hole, arms in the sides, and hoped for the best. As the seconds ticked by, I became more and more sure that I had made the wrong choice. The thing was like a python, cutting off my air flow a little more with every breath.
It was too late.
In comes the tech. I put on a confident smile in hopes that it will derail any questions she might have regarding my quiet gasping for air and the conscientious way I’m holding on to my robe.
No good.
She immediately directs my attention to the large sign on the wall that says:
“Directions:”
We try again. Apparently that third hole is just there to see if you can follow directions.

I do not excel at following directions.

It was close, but I got it in the second half. The tech is nice enough not to mention my prior fumble.

While she squirts goo all over my naked torso, I tell her:
“Usually I charge extra for this”.
She laughs at my terrible joke.
She covers me so thoroughly in goo that I begin to wonder if she’s trying to reinsert my body into the Matrix.
I’m all sweaty in a puddle of goo, laying there doing a horizontal pee pee dance (cleverly disguised as coolly crossing and recrossing my legs), when she finally grabs her thingamabob and begins to swirl my goo sweat around. Once she seems satisfied with the consistency of my sweat goo and positive that I could not hold it any longer, she suddenly takes a southerly turn to my bladder and pushes.
There was a definite squirt.

I WASN’T READY. You can’t just shove somebody’s bladder around after they drank several thousand gallons of water with no warning.

She is a liar and I do not like her anymore. Plus, she laughs like spongebob squarepants.
There’s not much use making conversation after that. She does her thing. I lie in quiet humiliation (or as quiet as one gets while doing a horizontal pee pee dance.
It took 4 towels to wipe all the goo and sweat off when she was done.
At least I finally got to pee; where we all know a grown person ought to pee.

There were directions for the robe in the bathroom too.

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