Yesterday, I had an appointment at Northwestern Hospital unlike any appointment I’ve ever had at any hospital. Rather than go in for a procedure or a bag o’ iron juice, I went in for a massage. A massage at the hospital! Who ever heard of such a thing!
It sounds pretty fance — and I suppose getting a massage is pretty fance, no matter where you get it — but this particular massage was more detail, less indulgence; more technical, less recreational. I’ve been having some tightness at my former ostomy site(s), you see, and I understand massage is effective in combatting adhesions, and I believe adhesions are the cause of the weirdness, here.
An adhesion is “an abnormal union of membranous surfaces due to inflammation or injury”, so that’s cute. And these (internal) adhesions, aside from being super adorable, can be somewhat dangerous, especially when they’re hanging around your guts, since they can twist around said organs and cause blockages and stuff. Adhesions are the kudzu of the body, and the more surgery you have, then more adhesions you ave. So I’ve been doing some tummy poking on my own, but when my GI doc said Northwestern offered massage on the hospital campus, I made an appointment. The gal could poke me with more flair and also work on my shoulders.
So I’m in the room, chatting with Cassandra, the nice lady who was to smoosh me around, and I decided I should pee first.
“Cassandra,” I said, “I’d like to run to the bathroom real quick before we get started. Would that be okay?”
The lovely Cassandra said it was just fine, so I hopped off the slab, dashed out the door, and ran down the hall to the bathroom. I had to hurry because the clock was ticking — and I wanted every maneuver Cassandra had in her repertoire before the bell tolled and I found myself in the state of no longer being massaged.
I threw open the door to the bathroom and when my feet hit the tile, I remembered I was barefoot. Hm. But I squinched up and thought, “Well, it’s not the best to not have shoes or socks or flip-flops on right now, but I’ll be in and out of this joint in five seconds.”
At which point I sort of leaped over to the toilet and was about to do my lil’ biz — when I stepped in pee.
I stepped in pee, y’all.
I howled. My body recoiled and thrashed at the same time (not easy) and I managed to get my foot further away from the rest of my body than it had ever been before. My mouth was in a Macauley Culkin-in-Home Alone-style scream as I hopped to the sink and swung my leg up so that my foot would go into the sink.
Would I die?? Whose icky pee was this?? No! Don’t tell me! I flapped my hands under the motion-sensor antibacterial soap dispenser thing. More! I needed more! What was this anemic foam?? I needed a Haz-Mat team. I needed surgery. I needed divine intervention. The water out of the faucet got super hot, thank goodness, and I washed and washed and tried not to barf. By the time I was done, my left foot had never been cleaner.
When I hopped out of the sink I took a bunch of paper towels and fashioned little slider-slipper things for myself to get out the door, then I shot back to Cassandra’s room. I did not tell her about the pee because it wasn’t an issue at that point and I was burning daylight on this massage.
I shall never be the same. Cassandra worked on the knots in my shoulder, but she can never relax the trauma in my soul.