You Know What Really Sticks in My Craw?

(Warning: This was written yesterday, while still under the effects of "twilight" anesthesia.)

Be careful 'cuz I am now bugged. I'm wired for sound. In fact, this post is probably being recorded as I type, so comment at your own risk. Oh, I'm also still doped up on funny juice, so forgive the flrb mmrshn grm.

This morning, I had a "procedure" foisted upon me called the "Bravo pH Test" and boy, is my larynx tired. It's part of the endless barrage of tests invented by doctors to frighten, humiliate and, ultimately, relieve me of the spawnages' college money.

The Old Lady and I drove to the "surgery center" at the crackhole of dawn, I filled out some paperwork absolving everyone in the state of Michigan of my inevitable death, and then I was told to strip down to the waist, slip into a backwards shirt and put a shower cap on. It was nice to have a nurse order me to do that instead of the Old Lady, for a change.

Then they jabbed a needle in my hand (my hand!), rolled me into the surgery room and put what I think was a ball-gag in my mouth. Those stomach doctors are are some kinky-ass mofos (they put the "enter" in gastroenterology). Then a guy who looked a lot like Joe from the Three Stooges came in and told me what kind of roofies he was going to slip into my drip and it was off to fairyville.

When I woke up, one second later, I was in a different room, the Old Lady was standing over me with that "How did my life become this?" look I've grown to know so well, the ball-gag was gone and someone had drawn a Rollie Fingers mustache on my face in permanent Sharpie. Oh, and it felt like a homunculus was inside my esophagus, pinching the fuck out of it.

Basically, they snaked a tube down my throat (not a euphemism) and attached a small(ish) capsule to the wall of my esophagus that transmits a (most-likely lethal) signal to a little (genitalia sterilizing) receiver I have to wear around my neck that makes me look like a low-rent Darth Vader. There are three buttons on the receiver that I'm supposed to press whenever I have a specific sensation. There's one for "reflux," one for "regurgitation" and I think the third one dispenses a Pez out of my throat.

I'm supposed to wear the monitor for 24 hours and then turn it back in to the doc's office. Then, apparently, the capsule is supposed to release its death-grip and detach from my throat in "7 to 10 days." Seven to ten days?! I'll never fucking make it. I'll die from "pinched esophagus syndrome" by day three. No, if it doesn't detach after 48 hours, I'm grabbing the tongs off our barbecue and extracting that fucker myself.

Eating has been fairly brutal. Toast was a bad idea. Chips? No fucking way. Even chicken noodle soup felt like I was swallowing chicken-flavored fiberglass. So far, the only thing I can eat without wincing is ice cream so, fuck it, 48 hours of ice cream it'll have to be.

Five bucks says I gain 40 pounds and end up with "the diabeetus."