Pavlov’s Mary

Today I am grateful for Pavlov’s Mary.  I’m sure you remember the old scientist who proved that dogs could be conditioned to ring a bell for the reward of a treat.  Eventually they would drool every time the bell rang, knowing the treat was on the way.

 

Well apparently I’ve been conditioned.  Indoctrinated.  Brainwashed, even.  Turned into Pavlov’s Mary.  Taken over to a new dimension that has me not only surprised, but a little tickled.  I bet I have your attention now, right?  Wait for it.

 

That. . .um. . .procedure that required the Super Bowl Prep kit I wrote about a few weeks ago happened yesterday.  Who but me would have a story from it?  No one, that’s who.  And since you already know I write from truth and personal experience, here goes.  (On the story, not the going, which happened prior to the test.)

 

The nurses at the hospital are overworked and understaffed.  I could feel it the minute my nurse came to take me back.  I picked up on it and it made me feel tense.  I don’t like that feeling, especially since I knew I was about to feel more tense because of what I was having done.  So I worked on her, empathizing with her work load and expressing appreciation for even the tiniest kindness she exhibited.  In my own fashion I had soon brought her around.

 

By the time I reached the procedure room I was feeling pretty good.  And that was before the “twilight” happy juice.  Then I learned that the IV was blocked or bent or twisted or just plain pissed off, so the happy juice couldn’t be administered.  Bummer!  They had to poke a new spot on my hand.  That didn’t work either so they had to find another spot on the other arm.  Swell.  When I drink water I can now be used as an irrigation system.

 

As they bent the arm with the tennis elbow in the exact way that makes me remember which arm it’s in, I felt my tension level rising.  What do I do under stress?  I start popping one-liners, making jokes.  “Hey, you have me tied down like “Fifty Shades of Gray.” And “There better not be a camera in here or I want residuals.”

 

They smile in a professional way, chuckle a little, but pretty much ignore me and go about their business.  There must have been five or six people meandering around the room and I wondered if there are always this many or am I special?

 

Finally the “twilight” happy juice starts being administered and I know I will be alternately in and out of various stages of consciousness, where I won’t really know what’s going on, but even if I did I wouldn’t really care enough to do anything about it.  Kind of like our government.

 

I drift into my intravenous coma, then out a little, where in the periphery of my brain I hear someone say the word, “Eagles.”  That’s it.  One word.  And I. . .in the middle of the “procedure”. . . SING the entire Eagles Fight Song!  The whole thing!  Including the chant at the end.  I swear I heard someone joining in “E.A.G.L.E.S, Eagles” with me. Then I was out again.

 

When they were done and I was brought out of my stupor, the entire assemblage was laughing and joking and saying, “This was a first!!!  You are amazing!”  They were talking to me, about me.  You can imagine the one-liners that popped into my head in light of why I was there.  Amazing?  How amazing can a colon be?   I’m not sure I’d use that term in this case.  Of all the aspects of me that I’d like to be declared amazing, well. . .

 

Then one of the guys said, “I don’t believe we’ve ever stood around and applauded at a colonoscopy before!  Do you remember singing the Eagles Fight Song?”  Vaguely.

 

“Did I know all the words and was I reasonably in tune?” I asked.

 

“Perfect.  Every word!  And in tune.  It really made our day!” he said, laughing hysterically along with the others.  It was a party in the procedure room.  You’re welcome.

 

A month ago I wasn’t a fan, didn’t know the song and could not have cared less who won the Super Bowl.  But apparently I’ve been indoctrinated and conditioned, yes, even brainwashed, like Pavlov’s dog, only my stimulus isn’t a bell.   It’s the word “Eagles.”

 

I am now the “Eagles” legend at the hospital.  The over-worked, stressed-out staff went home with a great story to tell at my expense . . . and to my joy.  But if something like this ever happens again, do me a favor.  Wake me up before the applause.  Pavlov’s Mary hates to miss a standing ovation.