![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Barium Six Feet Deep
Jan. 12th, 2004 06:19 pmAnd then there was the time I had to go to the hospital for yet another barrage of tests. This time, I had to drink a barium milkshake paired with medicinal poprocks. Basically, the ladies in scrubs wanted to get a good view of my innards. The poprocks made my guts expand, and the barium let my inflated valves show up on the viewfinder.
While drinking the foul milky shite, I received a direct order from the doctor: "Whatever you do, don't burp."
"Uh, ok," I said. And then the waiting game began.
I bode my time on a hard bench. I could feel my stomach beginning to swell quickly and uncomfortably. An almost overwhelming need to belch arose, and an air bubble the size of Newfoundland rolled about my esophagus. With great effort, I swallowed that bubble. My stomach dilated even more. It was like going through an entire pregnancy in about twenty minutes.
I was sent to a busy waiting room, and the urgent need to burp left me, without warning. I grew worried. All that gas had to go somewhere. Where do you suppose it went?
Bingo.
I suspect medical poprocks are primarily composed of Olestra. Great, greasy gollops of gas gushed from my keister with fwooshing sounds. There wasn't so much an odour as there was a viscous yellow residue coating the insides of everyone's noses. I had absolutely no control over my anus. It was both sentient and evil, and was dead set on wreaking olid havoc on the city of Fredericton. People all around me gasped and covered their faces with whatever was handy. I was hugely embarassed. One little old lady tutted between stertorous breaths and fanned the air with an ancient National Geographic magazine.
Feeling another stink explosion grappling its way from betwixt my clenched buttocks, I helplessly made my way to a wastepaper basket. My brains were obviously scrambled by the fug, because what I did next made no sense, whatsoever. I squatted over the garbage can and let loose the flatus atrox foetidus. It ricocheted off the inside of the container and barraged everyone with olfactory shrapnel. I whimpered.
I remember it being particularly cold, that day. My mother had taken me to the hospital, but she refused to drive me anywhere, afterwards. I had to walk for about fifteen minutes in very subzero temperatures to the restaurant where we were to dine together. Thank goodness the walk seemed to have cleared out the last of Mr. Stinky-Gas.
While drinking the foul milky shite, I received a direct order from the doctor: "Whatever you do, don't burp."
"Uh, ok," I said. And then the waiting game began.
I bode my time on a hard bench. I could feel my stomach beginning to swell quickly and uncomfortably. An almost overwhelming need to belch arose, and an air bubble the size of Newfoundland rolled about my esophagus. With great effort, I swallowed that bubble. My stomach dilated even more. It was like going through an entire pregnancy in about twenty minutes.
I was sent to a busy waiting room, and the urgent need to burp left me, without warning. I grew worried. All that gas had to go somewhere. Where do you suppose it went?
Bingo.
I suspect medical poprocks are primarily composed of Olestra. Great, greasy gollops of gas gushed from my keister with fwooshing sounds. There wasn't so much an odour as there was a viscous yellow residue coating the insides of everyone's noses. I had absolutely no control over my anus. It was both sentient and evil, and was dead set on wreaking olid havoc on the city of Fredericton. People all around me gasped and covered their faces with whatever was handy. I was hugely embarassed. One little old lady tutted between stertorous breaths and fanned the air with an ancient National Geographic magazine.
Feeling another stink explosion grappling its way from betwixt my clenched buttocks, I helplessly made my way to a wastepaper basket. My brains were obviously scrambled by the fug, because what I did next made no sense, whatsoever. I squatted over the garbage can and let loose the flatus atrox foetidus. It ricocheted off the inside of the container and barraged everyone with olfactory shrapnel. I whimpered.
I remember it being particularly cold, that day. My mother had taken me to the hospital, but she refused to drive me anywhere, afterwards. I had to walk for about fifteen minutes in very subzero temperatures to the restaurant where we were to dine together. Thank goodness the walk seemed to have cleared out the last of Mr. Stinky-Gas.
