giving thanks

        
St. Mary's Hospital has a CAT Scanner. Big deal, you say. It is, I say back. The hospital serves a population of only 2,500 people spread across the Sunshine Coast, and the scanner was bought largely by donations from local residents and businesses. We done good.

Back in the day of the Back the CAT campaign, it was impossible not to throw money at it. It seemed like a portion of every dollar you spent on the Sunshine Coast went to the campaign.

Plus there were profits from fundraising raffles, concerts, garage sales and pancake breakfasts, and then there were those collection tins. They were everywhere, and the glares of the nearby public demanded that you drop in a few loonies and twonies. (If you're reading from outside Canada, that's what we call our money. Really. No, we don't call our banks "loonie bins.")

I wondered if a CAT Scanner was the best use for all that money raised, if it might not be better spent upgrading the operating room, or making the parking lot spaces a bit wider for those of us who don't drive a Smart car.

In those days, people were sent to Vancouver for their CAT Scans. This involved several hours' driving and a ferry trip, blowing the whole day for a ten-minute procedure. I've had at least half a dozen CAT Scans at St. Mary's Hospital, and I'm thankful that I didn't have to make that trip to Vancouver for each of them. I'm also thankful that I never once needed a CAT Scan before the machine was installed at St. Mary's.

One of these scans turned up cancer, even though Dr. Cairns thought the "wee spot" was scar tissue from the bronchitis, pneumonia or t.b. that I couldn't recall having. I'm thankful that I moved on to Dr. Ingrey, who refused to dismiss the wee spot, and I'm thankful for that CAT Scan at St. Mary's Hospital.

It's a cool machine that wouldn't look out of place aboard the starship Enterprise. The "Computerized Axial Tomography" procedure is typically fast and painless. This morning I enjoyed breakfast and coffee, verboten in so many of the tests I've been subjected to, and there was no inconvenient prep such as three days of fasting or a high-octane laxitive the day before.

All I had to do was drink water, more water, and more water after that. St. Mary's Hospital is half an hour's drive away, on a road that needs an election to get rid of its bumps, wows and potholes. Once there, I sprinted to the automatic doors of the hospital, squirmed while they opened enough for me to squeeze through, then bolted down the hall and around the corner, nearly coliding with a patient being pushed in a wheelchair. I was thankful, very thankful, that the single washroom in that wing of the hospital was not occupied.

The water is required to flush one's kidneys of the somewhat toxic contrast medium used for the scan, and it's best to drink too much than not enough. So, $3.50 for two more bottles of water, sign in, sit and wait. Must keep drinking water. A good half-hour later, I'm summoned to the room housing the CAT Scanner and directed to lie down on a sheet-covered slab. My knees are raised on a triangular piece of foam and my head is strapped down.

I don't know why these rooms are kept so freakin' cold; it feels like about 60 degrees Fahrenheit (15-16 Celsius), but the technician kindly drapes a soft, pre-warmed blanket over me, on top of the lead blanket covering the areas they don't want to see. I feel like a dish of lasagna, prepared in layers.

Now I'm lined into an i.v. drip of salt water, and I'm so wishing I hadn't drank all that water. I'm told not to move an inch, and the technician leaves the room, unaware of the heroic effort I'm making not to jump up and dash to the washroom.

The CAT Scanner fires up, sounding like an SR-71 Blackbird's jet engine warming up for takeoff, only not that loud. With a series of clicks, the slab creeps horizonatlly into the maw of the machine, carrying me into a white tunnel. I realize that life must be hell for claustrophobics. There is a pause, then I'm slid back out of the tunnel. Part One is complete.

Part Two involves waiting, unmoving, for several hours. Okay, it's only five minutes, but I'm dying to go to the toilet and ever second drags on forever.

Finally, the technician ditches the salt water i.v. solution and replaces it with contrast medium, which is really radioactive dye but "contrast medium" sounds so much healthier for something thats going straight into your vein. I've had so many CAT Scans, PET Scans, MRIs and X-rays in the past year that I do not understand why I don't glow in the dark.

As the technician begins the dye feed, she says in a perky voice, "You'll feel like you peed yourself but you haven't!" It's been over half a century since I've peed myself and I can't remember what it feels like. It feels very warm in the area of my crotch. I think with horror, maybe I really have peed myself, all that water and all that waiting has my poor bladder screaming for relief.

Now I'm surprised by a sharp, strong, metallic taste in the back of my throat, which wasn't mentioned. Gah! Apparently only some people get this. Lucky me. The bad taste and the crotch warmth subside quickly and I'm thankful to learn that I've not peed myself after all.

Now the turbines fire up again, the clicking starts, and I'm moving into the snug white tunnel for a second time. I wonder if a Freudian psychologist with a sense of humour might call the CAT Scan a "Pussy Scan," given their fondness for back-to-the-womb symbolism. I wonder how they perform a CAT Scan on a really big person. They certainly wouldn't fit into the tunnel. Maybe they have super-size CAT Scanners. Then, the slab kicks into reverse and I'm back in the room, unhooked from the i.v., unwrapped and sent on my way.

I am most thankful to finally get out of that teeth-chatteringly cold room and back to the bathroom, not a second too soon!