In a time not so distant nor far a way, one that took place in the waning years of the previous century, it was determined by someone with initials after their name, that I had a problem with my kidneys. I eventually reached a point that I was privileged to visit a dialysis clinic three time's a week for a period of 23 months. Then I was privileged to receive a new kidney from someone who had the misfortune of passing away. I was sorry for them and their family, but happy for me. Kinda one of those things that makes one think, as my fortune was based on someone else's misfortune. Well, I rocked along with this new kidney for nearly 14 years and then something happened. What, I don't know, but those people with all the initials after their names have a name for it. And that is the purpose of this post. Not the name, but the process of determining it. So, if you dare, read on. If not, click off and go do something useless, like get on facebook or something. Not that reading this post is useful.
It seems that back in October of last year, at one of the bi annual checkup's I have, it was determined that there was a problem with this transplanted kidney. So, in December I went to the local vampire's and they sucked out some blood to be tested and it was determined that I had too much blood, so I had to go back the following week and have more blood extracted by a gleeful lady who enjoys her job way too much. ( Actually, she has problems of her own and is a very nice lady, but to say that would contrary to the theme of this post. )
As a result of that extraction, it was decided that I needed further testing by drilling a hole in the transplanted kidney and getting a core sample or three. So, back to the local vampire to have 10 tubes of blood sucked out of my fainting body and sent off to the Doctors with all the initials to decide what, exactly, needed to be done. it was decided that early in this year, I was to report to a surgical center in Albuquerque at 7 o'clock in the a.m. of the appointed day. Thus, my wife and I hooked the horses up to the wagon, threw in a little luggage and off we went to check in at a local hostel in the fair city where my future was to be determined. At 6:50 in the a.m. of the appointed day, I, with my wife, arrived at the place of needles and scalpels, and a cute little nurse crooked her finger at me and said, "Here, take off all your clothes and put on this dress." Maybe I need to back up just a little. I was told to take a shower with a special soap on the night before the appointment and then shower again on the morning of the appointment. The wanted to be sure I smelled good for them. I didn't ask if they had to smell good for me also. Now, when the nurse told me to undress and then put on the dress, she said I could leave my socks on. Guess she was afraid of foot odor or something, although she seemed to have a foot fetish, cause she kept massaging my feet. Her memory wasn't very good, either, as she kept asking me what my name was and what my birthday was. That seemed odd to me, as she had all that written down on a paper that she had. She seemed to be really nice, but the next thing I knew, she was needleing me. And this dress she had me put on opened at the back. Now, I have been married for a year or 50 and I know that, Hollywood excepted, dresses that open in the back have a zipper or something to close it up. All this one had was a couple of little strings to tie at the neck to keep it from falling off. And then after the nurse finished needleing me, she went under the front of my dress to slap three sticky pads on my chest area. Boy, I would be in trouble if I tried that. Then she ask me my name and birth date again. Then another nurse came in and she had a foot fetish also. And her memory wasn't any better than the first one, cause she kept asking for my name and birth date information. Finally, 20 minutes late, the Dr's. got there and the second nurse wheeled me into a surgical room. Where I met another lady with a camera on a tube that was supposed to look at my insides. And she couldn't remember my name or date of birth either. And they kept asking me that question. Man, I know they hadn't seen me before, but you would think they could remember that little bit of information longer than a few minutes, especially since they had it written down. I think they thought they would confuse me and I would forget, but I fooled them. I never did forget who I was. Then, the nurse with the camera tube and the Doctors, shot me with some kind of juice that made my skin numb, and then they used this long thin drill steel to drill into my kidney for a core sample. Seven times. Seems like all those initials after their names didn't help with the drilling process. They were finally satisfied, though, so then the nurse wheeled me to recovery room. There she turned me over to another nurse with a foot fetish. And a memory problem. I wonder if I had ask them what their name and birth date was if they would remember that without a paper in front of them. But, all in all, even with their fondness for massaging my feet and asking me who I was and when I was born, they were really nice. And then the first nurse that had me put on the dress, came in and needled me again and then she said I could take off the dress and put on my regular clothes. And she smoothly reversed the needle process that had started all this. Then, when she said she would escort me to my car, but I couldn't drive it, I ask her if she wanted to race. She said, nope, get in the wheel chair and she would wheel me there. Man, along with the fetish and the memory problems, these nurses sure can wheel people around. And with nary a bump any where along the way.
I guess I produced some blood while I was there, however, as I had to go to another vampire den the next morning so they could suck out three more tubes of blood. And other things that I will not mention here. For testing, they said.
All in all, most every thing in this post aside, I was treated very well, and know that all concerned had only my welfare at heart. And I thank them.
AND THAT IS THE VIEW FROM THE DITCH BANK