The Former Traveling Spotlight

The tales of a "30" something gay former stand-up comic living in NYC who is searching for his soul mate or soul...which ever comes first.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Crying

tIt's time to admit something here. During theater school, I discovered very quickly that I was usually unable to cry. I'm not a crying kind of guy. Not because it isn't "manly" or butch, but I'm just not one to cry. Not that I haven't wanted to at times. What I discovered was that usually my sadness turns to anger, and from there we go straight into rage territory.

This was a problem for me when I was auditioning seriously, as roles that involved an emotional depth of sadness were often too difficult for me. I just couldn't break into those tears, and I refuse to "fake" cry. In fact, if I did, my old advisor would hunt me down and kill me.

In my personal life, it's been the same. I can only think of 4 people that have seen me cry since I turned 17, and only in the most extreme cases have I done so. During the whole time that I went through cancer treatment, the chemotherapy, the radiation treatments, the absolute hell...not a tear shed. Some of the worst pain I've ever gone through, but I remained in control. I've never even cried at the dentist (although I have had several panic attacks in the chair and now have a prescription for Xannax before going).

Yesterday, during one of the last medical tests I needed to have before surgery, I cried. Even with a nurse holding me, telling me I was doing fine while I couldn't stop shaking, I couldn't hold back.

***Warning, medical heebie jeebies begin here. If squeamish, perhaps you you would prefer to read yesterday's post again***

I arrived at the doctor's office and for the first time since I've began seeing doctors this year, brought back to the examining room at the scheduled time. The doctor asked that I remove my shirt and wear a rubber gown. He explained that sometimes people will gag and vomit this particular procedure, called an esophageal manometry. I love the way doctors refer to medieval torturing as procedures.
"We're going to stretch your arms and legs in opposite directions on this device we call a rack. It's a common procedure."

He asked that I open my mouth and say "ahhh", and as I was doing so, he sprayed the back of my throat with a numbing agent. Unfortunately, this is the only allowed anesthetic as any sedative can affect the esophageal muscle...causing the test results to be inconclusive. His nurse then held my shoulders still while he took a tube 1/4 of an inch thick and began threading it up the right nostril of my nose. He went a good six inches in before he had to remove the tube. Apparently, my prior history has involved a broken nose and the right nostril was too difficult to thread. So he switched to the left nostril.

Up the left nostril, through the sinus cavity and what felt like the bare grazing of my brain, he finally reached the back of my throat where he told me to begin swallowing. The quarter inch tube felt more like the size of a golf ball, and I began coughing as I swallowed more and more of this hideous contraption. Thankfully, I didn't puke.

This test is normally difficult for anyone, but with the scar tissue I've got accumulated from my past, I had to twist left and right several times just to get the tube further down. Each time I moved, I felt this tube cause pain in my sinus, throat, and cold feel it all the way in my chest.

Now during difficult procedures in the past, I've focused on pleasant imagery as a way of getting past the pain. It's how I got past the hours of puking after getting chemo, the buring sensation while getting a potassium drip, and magically...it got me past one particular time involving a hugely endowed boyfriend. But during this test, my mind was blank. All I could think of was the feeling of the tube being pushed further down my throat, and how it felt as it finally hit the top of my stomach. He had inserted about two feet of tubing.

It was at this point I cried.

For the next 40 minutes, this doctor would pull the tube out about an inch, have me swallow, and then place it back. Then pull out two inches, and put it back. Swallowing with water, swallowing without. Each swallow felt worse that the first as the anesthetic began wearing off. When he finally removed the entire tube, I just couldn't stop shaking. He let me sit in the room and just get my bearings as he prepared the results for the surgeon, and gave me a copy. The results were as expected, but I'm left thinking forward now.

This was the worst experience of my life. If this was bad...just how fucking bad is this surgery going to be? I know I'm just psyching myself out...but I would rather kill puppies for a living than do that test ever again.

I think I need to cry again.

Patrick - 1:57 PM -

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