Yesterday I had an ultrasound, where a medical technician squirts some gook on you then moves this metal gizmo called a transducer across your skin. This creates high-frequency sound waves that are transmitted via a computer and an image is displayed on a monitor. No, I’m not pregnant, more’s the pity, though I was waiting for him to say something like “See, there’s the head, here’re the two little arms, and the legs, and there’re the cute little feet.”
This was a renal ultrasound where he’s looking at my troublesome kidneys. When I scheduled the test, he told me to be sure and drink lots of water before the procedure so that there would be plenty in my system at the time of the ultrasound itself. I knew in advance that this would be problematic and I was right. It started when I was checking in at the clinic.
“Can we hurry this along,” I told the woman. “I’ve been drinking water all morning for this test.”
“I understand,” she said, shuffling the paperwork. Then she answered the phone.
“How long will this take?” I asked the technician. “I’ve consumed a lot of water this morning as I was told to do.”
“Not too long,” he said, preoccupied with his machine. “Try to relax.”
He had a monitor to look at but there was also one over my head so that I could see too. The ultimate reality show, it was my own personal version of “Survival.”
“Hmmm,” I heard him say.
Hmmm, I thought.
He looks at the right kidney. He looks at the left kidney. He looks at my bladder. Finally… finally, I’m told to get up and handed a small plastic container in which I’m to leave a urine sample.
“That’s not nearly big enough,” I say. He gives me a look. “No, I mean, I’ve been drinking water all morning.”
“That’s all they’ll need,” he tells me.
I head to the bathroom. When I return, he gets me back onto the table and checks my bladder again to see if I left any.
“I could have filled up three of those things,” I tell him, pointlessly.
When it’s done I head for the grocery store with my wife’s shopping list. There’s a guy shelving canned goods in one of the aisles. I go up to him.
“Where’s the men’s room?” I ask him.