Meg and I cleaned our cars today.
To normal people, that likely means throwing away a dozen coffee cups and some gas receipts. Perhaps using glass cleaner to remove months of uncovered sneeze residue from the backside of your windshield (I won’t name names on who that refers to, but she knows who she is).
To parents, there is an entirely different level of cleaning a car: removing the car seats. You could feed a small country for a week on the sheer amount of cheddar goldfish and pretzels alone. A cluster of Cheerios fused together using melted chocolate and cinnamon sugar run off from Auntie Anne’s pretzels and has achieved sentience. I’m not sure if I should call the CDC for quarantine or the UN to negotiate with it. What I do know is that my shower doesn’t get hot enough to make me feel clean after this.
I had an MRI this morning to try once again to figure out this pancreas business. The CT and ultrasound I had a few weeks ago didn’t show anything, so at this point my doctor’s basic mentality is “Screw it, you have insurance, let’s try more tests and see what happens.” If this doesn’t show anything, the next steps are to jam a camera down my throat and then call the psychic hotline to see if they have a guess.
As a side note, this whole production has me realizing it’s a good thing I’m a software engineer and not a doctor. I’ve been in a tech lead position enough to know how to bullshit my way out of a bug report. There comes a point where you mark it as “cannot reproduce” long enough that you finally just flag it as “will fix in the next version” and hope the bug reporter has given up caring or I’ve moved on to another team. The medical equivalent of this would be for me to die and the doctor to hope my kids don’t have any issues or, if they do, that he’s moved on to another specialty by then.
Back to the MRI itself. I’m laying there on a cold slab of metal with my nuts hanging out of the bottom of my hospital gown when the nurse walks over and unceremoniously jams a needle into my arm.
“Ow, what the hell?”
“It’s for an IV.”
“Ya, I got that part. Why do I need one for an MRI?”
“The scan was ordered with contrast.”
It took her entirely too long to realize my blank stare indicated that I didn’t have a clue what that meant.
“The easiest way to explain it is that we’re going to inject some metal–”
“HOLY SHIT, LIKE WOLVERINE?”
Spoiler alert: It’s not like Wolverine. After 45 minutes of sitting in a tube looking like I was ready to be shot out into space, I basically just came home and shit out an iron ingot. I’m the lamest X-Man since Cypher.
One of the drawbacks of my recent issues with pancreatitis is that I can’t drink alcohol.
That normally wouldn’t bother me. I’m not a big drinker these days as it is. But a side effect is that it removes a fallback excuse for when I do something really stupid.
It is 10:20pm. I am about to go outside and pour a combination of ammonia and water onto three separate nests that house the largest mutant wasps I’ve ever seen. Because, apparently, that’s how you get rid of them.
This has bad fucking idea written all over it.