I had a minor surgical procedure today (I'm just fine, thank you). As usual, when I am incognito, I can't help tweaking the medical professionals just a bit. And since this was the outpatient surgical center, nobody knew I was a doctor. So I had a pleasant time chatting with the nurses and receptionists, they brought me back and got me prepped and hooked up. We chatted a bit about theamazing pharmacopoeia found in Anna Nicole Smith's corpse. And then the anesthesiologist came in to do his pre-op bit, and going through his routine rapid-fire questions.
"We're going to be giving you an antibiotic in your IV. It's called Ancef. You're not allergic to anything, are you?"
"No." (He starts the IV running. After a moment, I remember) "Though once I had anaphylaxis to Kefzol."
"Did you take any medications this morning?"
"No. Well, only my coumadin."
"Why are you on coumadin?"
"I don't know. They never told me."
Rolling down the hall to the OR my stomach growled audibly. I groaned a little and rubbed my stomach. "Man, I shouldn't have had so much Gatorade this morning"
As they positioned me on the table and I started feeling a little light-headed from the Fentanyl I told him, "I was told once I might have myasthenia gravis. I hope that's not a problem for you."
As I drifted off to sleep I told him I was going to be really pissed if I woke up with a colostomy. (I was not going in for an abdominal procedure.)
Fortunately, he had me figured out pretty quick. Which was good because I didn't actually want to get my case canceled. I really should be more careful, though, because payback can be a bitch. When I woke up I half-expected to see a faux colostomy bag taped to my belly.
To paraphrase Patrick O'Brien, nobody has ever taken so much pleasure from so very very little wit as I do.
Originally posted 27 March 2007