GI Jane
An earnest, fresh-faced middle-aged woman stands alone on a desolate rock. She gazes skyward, yearning. Cut the camera to another mountaintop rock. A man, of indeterminate national origin stands alone, hair and clothes blowing in the wind. Then another shot of a man or woman standing alone, another nationality. All good looking people in their Lands End preppy clothes. Each standing tall and gazing expectantly. The camera pans wide and the desolate rocks start to shift in the bright blue skies. They are moving miraculously toward each other, the rocks joining to form a majestic mountain. Transcendent, rapturous music swells. One person reaches down to offer a hand to another and pull her up to the rock where he stands. One after the other, they reach for each other hoisting up, till together they reach... the ... peak! They stand there, triumphantly, faces glowing with glory.
This was a commercial for "the Purple Pill," you take for ACID REFLUX for godsake. Its overwrought drama of worlds coming together, peoples striving for ... what exactly?... exasperated me. The first 10 times I saw the commercial, I'd yell at the TV, "What is this commercial about??? Who does this?? What do people on a mountaintop have to do with heartburn?? This is the stupidest commercial I've ever seen!" After the family got tired of hearing me rant, the next 20 times I saw the commercial I would let out one brief expletive and change the channel.
I saw this commercial so often because I am part of the demographic target who watches the Nightly News - aging baby boomers. I mention it now, because I recently got tested for this acid reflux condition. Yet another of the joys of getting older, of being part of that special demographic.
I'm only partly kidding when I say "joy." It was kind of fun, in a "wow, I can't believe I'm doing this," sort of way. I suppose the trauma of it all allowed me to remove myself from my body and hover above, laughing and giggling at the whole thing as it unfolded.
So, I go to the local hospital's imaging service and get checked in. A nice lady named Jeannette, with auburn hair and a heavy latina accent tells me to, "Take evrythin off from de waist up. Put de gown on, open in de back. Den come back out here." I do as I'm told. She takes me into the exam room with the big GI imaging machine contraption. GI stands for Gastro-Intestinal. This is an "upper GI test." And this is what the machine looks like.
She lets me go to the bathroom before we start. When I come back, she is lining up Styrofoam cups on the counter. The first one has 8 ounces of thick (thicker than Pepto Bismol) white, chalky, minty liquid - kind of a smooth sludge. Then she opens a bottle and pours more of this stuff into a second 8 ounce cup. Then, there's a tiny cup full of chunky clear crystals - about two tablespoons. It looks like the salt stuff you use to melt ice on sidewalks. Last, there is a tiny cup with no more than two teaspoons of water.
The doctor comes in. He is a young, very skinny, nerdy looking doctor, wearing street clothes - dark pants, a shirt and a pullover brown sweater. No doctor coat, no stethoscope hanging around his neck. He puts on a green apron and a matching green collar to cover his throat. I assume these have lead in them and protect him from the radiation that will be going through me for the next 20 minutes.
The nurse tells me to take the chunky crystal stuff and throw it to the back of my throat "like doing a shot," and swallow it without water. I do so. Turns out it's not so much like ice salt as it is Pop Rocks, and it starts to fizz and pop in my throat as I'm trying to swallow it. I felt like I was on Fear Factor. After I managed to work the stuff down my throat, while it popped and clawed its way back up, she says, "You're going to want to burp, but don't, cause we need de air in dere." She gives me the two teaspoons of water to finally wash it down.
"Okay. Stand up on this little shelf," says the doctor. "Which way?" I ask. "Facing out," he says. I stand on it, straight up with my back against the machine's surface. He brings some scanning contraption with a big circle window in front of my chest and stomach. "Now, take four sips of this," they say, giving me the thick, white stuff. I do, and he starts to take pictures with the big circle scanner. So far, so good.
"Now drink the rest of it," they say. My eyes get big. "ALL of it? Holy cow!" I say. "We use this to look at the stomach." They smile and wait. You can't just chug Barium sludge. I'm trying. I'm talking to myself: "I can do this. Oh God, don't throw up." My mind flashes to a Friends episode where Ross is going to drink a glass of fat — pan drippings for gravy — to prove his love for Rachel - "It's just a milkshake, just a vanilla milkshake," he tells himself. I drink more. It's in my mouth. "Swallow, Carrie." I say to myself. Only half done. "Ohgod-ohgod-ohgod-bleh." Finally. "Good job!" says the nurse.
"Now we're going to tip you back to lie down," the doctor says. The whole thing, which I am standing straight up on, starts to tip back. I think this is very cool. Woo hoo. Like an amusement park ride. I don't have to bend my knees, I'm falling backward and I'm just fine! Fun.
Stop. "Okay, now, we have to mix this in your stomach, so roll over." I roll to my stomach. "Now roll onto your back." I roll my rather large girth onto my back. "Now keep going and roll onto your stomach again." Geeeez. You guessed it: "Now keep going and roll onto your back." "This is like a bad night's sleep," I say. Stop.
Now he starts scanning again. I can see the monitor if I turn my head; I watch the white stuff moving through my insides. "Stop breathing," he says. I stop. "Breathe," he says. I breathe. Okay, so now I have exploding gas Pop Rocks in my stomach, mixed up nicely with Barium sludge milkshake and I'm lying down - who wouldn't "reflux" in such a situation?? It gets better. They ask me to turn onto my stomach again, double a pillow under my head, get the SECOND Styrofoam cup of sludge, with a straw, and while lying on my stomach, ask me to drink more. "You've got to be kidding," I think. I do it. Then, the doctor gets a paddle with an inflatable middle. "I'm going to slide this under your stomach, and you're going to feel it blow up like a balloon." Can you imagine? This is all just too funny to me, but I don't dare laugh, because he is also still telling me from time to time to stop breathing, breathe, tilt this way, now that way. And, if I laughed, I'd probably hurl all over them.
Finally they tip the machine back and I get a little ride until I am standing straight up again. I can't stop the gas that comes up along with my tilt, but it's okay by now, 'cause the test is over. The nurse tells me to go to the rest room and wash cause, "You have a little white stuff around your lips... not too bad." Ya think?
And that's it. I think I did pretty well. My gown didn't come undone what with all that rolling, and the fact that it was too small. I kept the white sludge in my stomach instead of letting it explode all over them. I didn't dissolve into laughter or tears. All in all I was a trooper - a real GI Jane.
The doctor says there seems to be some reflux there, and he has to check to see if there is any damage to the esophagus. He'll let me know. Honestly, I don't know where the rapturous music comes in, or my good-looking international friends on high rocks in the sky. And if I gotta take the little Purple Pill, so be it. But I don't think I'll look at my next vanilla milkshake quite the same.
My son recently told me he has to go see a GI doctor, so I hope this preview helps - good luck dear!
Copyright (c) 2008
This was a commercial for "the Purple Pill," you take for ACID REFLUX for godsake. Its overwrought drama of worlds coming together, peoples striving for ... what exactly?... exasperated me. The first 10 times I saw the commercial, I'd yell at the TV, "What is this commercial about??? Who does this?? What do people on a mountaintop have to do with heartburn?? This is the stupidest commercial I've ever seen!" After the family got tired of hearing me rant, the next 20 times I saw the commercial I would let out one brief expletive and change the channel.
I saw this commercial so often because I am part of the demographic target who watches the Nightly News - aging baby boomers. I mention it now, because I recently got tested for this acid reflux condition. Yet another of the joys of getting older, of being part of that special demographic.
I'm only partly kidding when I say "joy." It was kind of fun, in a "wow, I can't believe I'm doing this," sort of way. I suppose the trauma of it all allowed me to remove myself from my body and hover above, laughing and giggling at the whole thing as it unfolded.
So, I go to the local hospital's imaging service and get checked in. A nice lady named Jeannette, with auburn hair and a heavy latina accent tells me to, "Take evrythin off from de waist up. Put de gown on, open in de back. Den come back out here." I do as I'm told. She takes me into the exam room with the big GI imaging machine contraption. GI stands for Gastro-Intestinal. This is an "upper GI test." And this is what the machine looks like.
She lets me go to the bathroom before we start. When I come back, she is lining up Styrofoam cups on the counter. The first one has 8 ounces of thick (thicker than Pepto Bismol) white, chalky, minty liquid - kind of a smooth sludge. Then she opens a bottle and pours more of this stuff into a second 8 ounce cup. Then, there's a tiny cup full of chunky clear crystals - about two tablespoons. It looks like the salt stuff you use to melt ice on sidewalks. Last, there is a tiny cup with no more than two teaspoons of water.
The doctor comes in. He is a young, very skinny, nerdy looking doctor, wearing street clothes - dark pants, a shirt and a pullover brown sweater. No doctor coat, no stethoscope hanging around his neck. He puts on a green apron and a matching green collar to cover his throat. I assume these have lead in them and protect him from the radiation that will be going through me for the next 20 minutes.
The nurse tells me to take the chunky crystal stuff and throw it to the back of my throat "like doing a shot," and swallow it without water. I do so. Turns out it's not so much like ice salt as it is Pop Rocks, and it starts to fizz and pop in my throat as I'm trying to swallow it. I felt like I was on Fear Factor. After I managed to work the stuff down my throat, while it popped and clawed its way back up, she says, "You're going to want to burp, but don't, cause we need de air in dere." She gives me the two teaspoons of water to finally wash it down.
"Okay. Stand up on this little shelf," says the doctor. "Which way?" I ask. "Facing out," he says. I stand on it, straight up with my back against the machine's surface. He brings some scanning contraption with a big circle window in front of my chest and stomach. "Now, take four sips of this," they say, giving me the thick, white stuff. I do, and he starts to take pictures with the big circle scanner. So far, so good.
"Now drink the rest of it," they say. My eyes get big. "ALL of it? Holy cow!" I say. "We use this to look at the stomach." They smile and wait. You can't just chug Barium sludge. I'm trying. I'm talking to myself: "I can do this. Oh God, don't throw up." My mind flashes to a Friends episode where Ross is going to drink a glass of fat — pan drippings for gravy — to prove his love for Rachel - "It's just a milkshake, just a vanilla milkshake," he tells himself. I drink more. It's in my mouth. "Swallow, Carrie." I say to myself. Only half done. "Ohgod-ohgod-ohgod-bleh." Finally. "Good job!" says the nurse.
"Now we're going to tip you back to lie down," the doctor says. The whole thing, which I am standing straight up on, starts to tip back. I think this is very cool. Woo hoo. Like an amusement park ride. I don't have to bend my knees, I'm falling backward and I'm just fine! Fun.
Stop. "Okay, now, we have to mix this in your stomach, so roll over." I roll to my stomach. "Now roll onto your back." I roll my rather large girth onto my back. "Now keep going and roll onto your stomach again." Geeeez. You guessed it: "Now keep going and roll onto your back." "This is like a bad night's sleep," I say. Stop.
Now he starts scanning again. I can see the monitor if I turn my head; I watch the white stuff moving through my insides. "Stop breathing," he says. I stop. "Breathe," he says. I breathe. Okay, so now I have exploding gas Pop Rocks in my stomach, mixed up nicely with Barium sludge milkshake and I'm lying down - who wouldn't "reflux" in such a situation?? It gets better. They ask me to turn onto my stomach again, double a pillow under my head, get the SECOND Styrofoam cup of sludge, with a straw, and while lying on my stomach, ask me to drink more. "You've got to be kidding," I think. I do it. Then, the doctor gets a paddle with an inflatable middle. "I'm going to slide this under your stomach, and you're going to feel it blow up like a balloon." Can you imagine? This is all just too funny to me, but I don't dare laugh, because he is also still telling me from time to time to stop breathing, breathe, tilt this way, now that way. And, if I laughed, I'd probably hurl all over them.
Finally they tip the machine back and I get a little ride until I am standing straight up again. I can't stop the gas that comes up along with my tilt, but it's okay by now, 'cause the test is over. The nurse tells me to go to the rest room and wash cause, "You have a little white stuff around your lips... not too bad." Ya think?
And that's it. I think I did pretty well. My gown didn't come undone what with all that rolling, and the fact that it was too small. I kept the white sludge in my stomach instead of letting it explode all over them. I didn't dissolve into laughter or tears. All in all I was a trooper - a real GI Jane.
The doctor says there seems to be some reflux there, and he has to check to see if there is any damage to the esophagus. He'll let me know. Honestly, I don't know where the rapturous music comes in, or my good-looking international friends on high rocks in the sky. And if I gotta take the little Purple Pill, so be it. But I don't think I'll look at my next vanilla milkshake quite the same.
My son recently told me he has to go see a GI doctor, so I hope this preview helps - good luck dear!
Copyright (c) 2008
Oh my god, I have a stomach-ache from laughing so hard. How can someone with such a delightful sense of humor have stomach problems? In any case, wish you the best!
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Your description gave me my laugh for the day, or the week. Hope I never have to do anything like that. You've always been a trouper. Mom
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You won't want to hear this but i could not stop either reading or laughing. You are truly a great GIJane if you can take this torture and make it funny. Poor Ian, I actually hope he doesn't read this...I do want to know if the purple pill is in your future. maybe you can make a new commercial for it?
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This post was hilarious because it wasn't happening to me. I kept waiting for someone to bring out a rubber chicken or ask you to do the macarena or something - the instructions just kept getting more absurd! I have to go to a GI specialist on Thursday and I certainly hope it is nothing like what you described.
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You are hilarious! What fun. Good job, GI Jane.
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Oh man! That was hysterical! Having gone through one of those myself, many years ago, I have to say your experience sounded much more primitive! All they made me do was drink the milkshake, no pop rocks, no rocking & rolling to "mix" it all up. No good story to tell. Thanks for the laugh.
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