Yesterday I had to be back at the Diagnostikum for an appointment at 0800 for the CT (Computed Tomography) scan brought about by an unclear ultrasound scan a couple of weeks ago.
Instructions were 'nil by mouth', so I hadn't even had my morning cuppa. I'm not good in the mornings at the best of times, and this certainly wasn't one of those.
Nervous insomnia had hit the previous night: not nervous about the CT scan, as such, but more because it was the first step towards finding out what mysterious object is lurking inside me. I'd already been told that I would find out nothing at the clinic - it's down to my GP to tell me.
I waited in a corridor lined with yellow chairs opposite a series of narrow doors with large numbers on them. The receptionist handed me a clipboard with an information sheet and a questionnaire on it. I looked at the paperwork. It was all in German, of course. And I couldn't read all the medical language. I would have gone back to the receptionist but she spoke absolutely no English whatsoever, and my small amount of German wasn't understood. I figured it would all work out in the end.
Further down the line of chairs were a couple of ladies having a strange sort of tea party. One of the radiologists had given them bottles of white stuff to drink. I figured it was some sort of barium meal and tried unsuccessfully and anxiously to remember what that was for.
I'd grabbed a cheerful book from home to read as I waited, but as I went to pull it out of my bag, it suddenly occurred to me that to bring it into the open here, in Germany, could be a massive faux pas...
Oops!
As I said, I am just not with it in the mornings! I hastily shoved it to the bottom of my bag and tried to work out what the information sheet said instead.
At 0830 the radiologist advanced towards me with a bottle of the dreaded white stuff! Nooooo! I forestalled her instructions - I didn't understand her - and thrust the clipboard at her.
"I can't read this," I wailed.
She smiled sweetly and took it, but unfortunately left the white mixture with me saying, "Drink this at quarter past nine."
Bother.
An English information sheet was quickly brought over to me. It seems that the mixture - a 'contrast medium' - is standard for CT scans: to be drunk two hours before a scan if they're looking at the small intestine and immediately before if the stomach area is being investigated. From this I deduced my CT scan would be at 0915.
As I'd had nothing to drink since the previous night, it wasn't long before the gloopy, white mixture started to look appealing, in a perverse sort of way. My stomach was already rebelling at the thought of swallowing it. According to the information, it may have repercussions in some people... a joyful thought indeed.
Another thing I discovered from the info was that I'd probably also have an injection of another form of contrast medium. What a morning this was turning out to be.
Just before 0915 I dutifully poured out a cup of liquid. It didn't look any more appetising out of the bottle. Ah well, here we go. It had a sort of lemony flavour and didn't actually taste too bad. The psychological aspect of drinking it was worse. And there was about a pint of the stuff to get through.
Before I could start on the second cup I was called in. Around a corner and into a minuscule changing room. I was told to take everything off, apart from underpants. And I could keep my socks on too. That's nice.
I drank almost the rest of the liquid, but the last couple of mouthfuls had separated and looked like white snot. So I left that.
I manoeuvred myself around and around in the really very small changing room. Finally 'ready', it dawned on me that there were two doors and I couldn't remember which one I'd used to enter from the corridor!
Reader: I chose the wrong door.
Thank goodness there was a corner protecting the other patients from such a sight. And at least I had my socks on.
Someone was knocking on the other door. I pulled my jumper-dress back on and opened it. Aha, that was the right door.
The knocker was one of those very special, warm and gentle, people you generally only find in hospitals. Do you know the type? They project a comforting aura even when a language barrier prevent more standard communication. Immediately I felt much better as he carefully explained what would happen next. Although his English was about as limited as my German, he was patient and made sure I fully understood before commencing.
I lay on the bed and he pronounced my veins very good. They have a habit of disappearing when confronted by a needle so I think he was just being nice.
It wasn't an injection though... it was a whole intravenous drip affair.
Then he positioned my arms above my head, making sure the line was carefully contained. This was actually the most uncomfortable part of the whole session - RSI means my shoulders don't like being up there and within seconds I was feeling fidgity.
And then we were off. He left the room and spoke to me through a speaker on the giant Polo mint shaped bit of the machine. Lights flashed, the machine whirred and moved a bit and all I had to do was stay still. A couple of times I was instructed to hold my breath for a while.
At one point it was time to inject me with the intravenous contrast medium. He did warn me beforehand which was just as well because when it happened, I actually heard it gurgling! What a revolting sound. Almost immediately rush of warmth shot through my body. It was interesting, but I could have done without the sound effects.
And then it was all over. In all, it had probably taken about ten minutes.
I got dressed and was told to wait in reception for the pictures. They didn't take long to develop and I'm now the proud owner of several contact sheets showing 'slices' of my internal organs.
Tim spent a rather disturbing amount of time trying to analyse them last night. I shall wait for my doctor's appointment on Friday.