initial state. But there are some odd shadows here—and here—they look almost tubercular. But it could be cancerous. We’d better schedule a biopsy. Can you come back on Friday?”
“Can’t you do it now?”
“Mrs. Petrizzi is eighty-two years old. I can’t keep her waiting.”
“After that?”
“Two more.”
“After that?”
“It’s going to be at least a three-hour wait.”
“I’ll wait.”
I keep insanity at bay for another hour and a half by going through the much-thumbed and smeared waiting room copies of today’s papers. U.S. Marines are in Italy trying to plug up an erupting Mount Etna with seven-ton concrete blocks. And they say we believe in witchcraft. A New York City program to buy illegal weapons with no questions asked has brought in 1,246 guns in three weeks, a local library is being closed for lack of funds, and a sharp entrepreneur is cashing in on the “Kill the Imports” craze by charging one dollar a whack for anybody who wants to stop by his Chrysler dealership and swing a sledgehammer at a Honda Civic. He’s made $122 so far. But the human interest item that just brightens my day is a brief on the KKK’s public disavowal of any connection with a group that has claimed responsibility for two bombings that killed a federal judge and a lawyer in Arkansas. The Grand Wizard says he never heard of the group and that it has no connection with the Klan. “I think it is a group trying to make the Klan and the racist groups look bad in front of the public,” he said. I’m not kidding.
I call Colomba to see if everything’s all right, and ask to speak to Antonia. She’s playing happily, and doesn’t want to come to the phone. I guess that’s okay.
Two hours later Dora gives me a shot of local anesthetic in my butt (for my throat?) followed by a squirt of dark brown goo that I’m supposed to keep on my tongue as long as possible. As it slowly seeps down, I lose some feeling in my gullet. Dr. Stanley Wrennch returns, wheeling in what I learn is a bronchoscope. He’s planning to send this fiber optic tube down my trachea to my lungs, hack a bit off, and come out again. Dora rubs my shoulders a bit to relax me so I don’t bite down on $30,000 worth of fiber optics, and Dr. Stan gets to work.
“Are you taking any medication?” he asks. Why do they always ask you questions when your mouth is full of medical equipment?
“Just birth control pills,” I manage to answer. Don’t know why, since I haven’t had sex in three months. At least he doesn’t ask me that.
Okay, here goes. This one-centimeter-wide tube goes sliding past my tongue, down my throat until I lose contact with it. Thank God for anesthesia. I guess I’d be throwing up by now, normally. Some of my mucus gets on the ocular, and he has to activate a fine spray, which makes me cough furiously and fogs up the lens even more. When I’ve stopped coughing, he risks a little more spray to clear the tip, and the tickle almost makes me cough. I suppress it.
“That’s it, Filomena,” he says. “Hold it. Just a little bit more.”
“You’re doing good,” says the nurse.
Isn’t this what everybody kept saying to me when I was giving birth? They haven’t changed their material in four years? Inexcusable.
Finally it’s over. Dr. Stan retracts the bronchoscope, bottles the sample and peels off his rubber gloves.
“Okay, we’ll have the results in a couple of days.” He scribbles a few lines in my file, checks off half a dozen boxes on the billing log, and tells me to take it to the receptionist who’ll schedule me for a follow-up.
“In the meantime?” I ask him.
I can see that he doesn’t have an answer. He’s newer than I thought.
“Thanks, doc,” I tell him. He nods and is gone out the door.
I take the papers up to the desk, get it all processed, then take the bill to a small office down the hall. By some miracle I have brought all the right papers proving who I am and that I have been rejected
“Can’t you do it now?”
“Mrs. Petrizzi is eighty-two years old. I can’t keep her waiting.”
“After that?”
“Two more.”
“After that?”
“It’s going to be at least a three-hour wait.”
“I’ll wait.”
I keep insanity at bay for another hour and a half by going through the much-thumbed and smeared waiting room copies of today’s papers. U.S. Marines are in Italy trying to plug up an erupting Mount Etna with seven-ton concrete blocks. And they say we believe in witchcraft. A New York City program to buy illegal weapons with no questions asked has brought in 1,246 guns in three weeks, a local library is being closed for lack of funds, and a sharp entrepreneur is cashing in on the “Kill the Imports” craze by charging one dollar a whack for anybody who wants to stop by his Chrysler dealership and swing a sledgehammer at a Honda Civic. He’s made $122 so far. But the human interest item that just brightens my day is a brief on the KKK’s public disavowal of any connection with a group that has claimed responsibility for two bombings that killed a federal judge and a lawyer in Arkansas. The Grand Wizard says he never heard of the group and that it has no connection with the Klan. “I think it is a group trying to make the Klan and the racist groups look bad in front of the public,” he said. I’m not kidding.
I call Colomba to see if everything’s all right, and ask to speak to Antonia. She’s playing happily, and doesn’t want to come to the phone. I guess that’s okay.
Two hours later Dora gives me a shot of local anesthetic in my butt (for my throat?) followed by a squirt of dark brown goo that I’m supposed to keep on my tongue as long as possible. As it slowly seeps down, I lose some feeling in my gullet. Dr. Stanley Wrennch returns, wheeling in what I learn is a bronchoscope. He’s planning to send this fiber optic tube down my trachea to my lungs, hack a bit off, and come out again. Dora rubs my shoulders a bit to relax me so I don’t bite down on $30,000 worth of fiber optics, and Dr. Stan gets to work.
“Are you taking any medication?” he asks. Why do they always ask you questions when your mouth is full of medical equipment?
“Just birth control pills,” I manage to answer. Don’t know why, since I haven’t had sex in three months. At least he doesn’t ask me that.
Okay, here goes. This one-centimeter-wide tube goes sliding past my tongue, down my throat until I lose contact with it. Thank God for anesthesia. I guess I’d be throwing up by now, normally. Some of my mucus gets on the ocular, and he has to activate a fine spray, which makes me cough furiously and fogs up the lens even more. When I’ve stopped coughing, he risks a little more spray to clear the tip, and the tickle almost makes me cough. I suppress it.
“That’s it, Filomena,” he says. “Hold it. Just a little bit more.”
“You’re doing good,” says the nurse.
Isn’t this what everybody kept saying to me when I was giving birth? They haven’t changed their material in four years? Inexcusable.
Finally it’s over. Dr. Stan retracts the bronchoscope, bottles the sample and peels off his rubber gloves.
“Okay, we’ll have the results in a couple of days.” He scribbles a few lines in my file, checks off half a dozen boxes on the billing log, and tells me to take it to the receptionist who’ll schedule me for a follow-up.
“In the meantime?” I ask him.
I can see that he doesn’t have an answer. He’s newer than I thought.
“Thanks, doc,” I tell him. He nods and is gone out the door.
I take the papers up to the desk, get it all processed, then take the bill to a small office down the hall. By some miracle I have brought all the right papers proving who I am and that I have been rejected
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