Last December, I got pain injections in the facets of my cervical spine and adjacent trigger points, ultimately so that I would quit complaining so obnoxiously to God and all his minions. This pain in the neck comes courtesy of the guy with a revoked driver's license who ran a red light in his bigass truck and t-boned me, which sent me spiraling through the intersection. (Hey, thanks, buddy! This barrel of fun is the gift that keeps on giving.) So here for your reading pleasure is my first experience with facet injections.
The nurse invites me into the belly of the surgical denizen, where she says I can keep the skivs and socks, but everything else must go. Nurse then draws the curtain so I can undress amid gurneys, beeping gadgetry, and shadowy, probably naked figures from the other side of the curtains.
Now in my world, skivs are synonymous with thongs, and to be honest, these cheeks haven’t seen full coverage since the ’80s. Back then butt floss was all the rage, and on my sleek behind, they looked sexy. These days? Not so much. I still wear thongs for one reason: wearing them is akin to wearing nothing at all. On the comfort scale, "nothing at all" is right up there with warm velvety throws and cuddly plush toys — and, well, morphine. The fact that my ass has surpassed the half-century mark is inconsequential. People, comfort rules my underworld.
So I slide my arms into wrinkly cotton hospital couture, peek-a-boo to the back, and fumble for the tie thingies so that my limited modesty will have at least that. But there's only one tie thingy so modesty be damned! Pinching the flaps closed with one hand and balancing on the other, I climb awkwardly atop the gurney, into the chaise lounge position. All I need now is piña colada tanning lotion and a potent cocktail.
Nurse returns with a swish of the curtain. “You want to be sedated?”
Oh yeah! Just what I had in mind! But she looks unsure. "Is this a trick question? I thought I was supposed to be sedated.”
Nurse: “It’s up to you.”
“Me? We’re talking big needles in the spine here. How much will I feel it?”
From the other side of the curtain, a woman shouts, “You will definitely feel it!”
I cringe at Nurse. “Sedation, please. Make it a double.”
Ten minutes later, I am retrofitted with an IV, scribbled on with a purple marker (X marks the spots, Indy!), and adorned with paper booties and a paper shower cap. I’m then wheeled into the O.R. where my twelve-year-old doctor and a small crowd prepare to poke and prod me into a pain-free life.
Nurse has me scoot from my gurney to the adjacent operating table, doing my best impression of a drunk crab, then roll onto my stomach. My hospital gown flops open and my entire backside from the neck down is flashing like a neon sign. It hits me that I am overdressed for this affair — in black silk socks and a lacy yellow thong — while my audience is in scrubs and party masks. I am instructed to hang my chest over a folded pillow, forehead pressed into the table, posterior fanned into the full-moon position under glaring overhead lights — the kind you never want to see your ass in because they reveal every single imperfection you have — and some you didn't know you had. This moment, like no other in history, will commemorate all fifty-three years behind me.
I sense that all eyes are aghast at my personal business, parading around in slutty paraphernalia — at my age — and I wait for the giggles to erupt. But the only giggles are mine. “Just injecting a little humor into the air,” I bleat, wondering suddenly if they thought I'd farted.
Only the anesthetist speaks. “I’m going to sedate you now.”
I gasp, “Please hurry.”
An hour later, I wake in the recovery room. I don’t even remember that I have an ass. My daughter pulls her car up to the side door of the building as if she’s picking up a small appliance from Sears, and I wobble out there and slide into the front seat. I do not remember the ride home.
I underwent that procedure three times, and in two weeks I'll take the next step in treatment with facet denervation (rhizolysis) that will block the pain more permanently. But you can pretty much count on me not running out to buy traditional briefs from Wally World, just in case I have a Jack Nicholson moment. There’s just no substitute for a comfy thong. Even at my age.
.
Oh, there I am.
1 week ago
