Review: Anesthesia

This post is going to be a story about a time that I had anesthesia.

Once upon a time, my heart was confused and was not doing the beats the right way. Apparently even my heart doesn't have a good sense of rhythm. Maybe this is why I can't dance.

Anyway! There's this really simple procedure where they talk to your arteries in your groin (ew, gross) and laser out these extra electrical pathways in your heart that are messing up the beats and making you a bad dancer. It's really really common, and you don't even have to be asleep during the whole thing.

Since you don't have to be asleep, the anesthetic they give you isn't the kind that will necessarily knock you out. The doctor told me right before that almost everyone falls asleep, or at least lightly dozes, so I should expect to fall asleep.

Guess who doesn't react normally to anesthetic?

My anesthesiologist (or nurse anesthetist, whichever he was (the word anesthesia SUCKS)) was a guy named Dale. As he switched the IV over to the anesthetic, he told me to tell him if I felt anything and needed more or less. 90 seconds later, drugged-me took this as an invitation to tell Dale anything and everything that I had ever thought about ever.

They wheeled me into the operating room at some point. Or maybe it was just a regular room. I don't remember. Dale was sitting next to my table/bed/flat thing that I was lying on.

"Dale," I said, "the ceiling is moving."
"No," Dale said firmly, "it is not."
"But Dale, are you looking at it?"
"Yep."
"I see it moving."
"Well, it's not."
"But Dale, I'm looking right at it and it is moving!"
"I promise you, it's not moving."
I turned my head slightly to look at him. "Well your head just turned into a giant eagle, so whatever."
Dale made a sound through his beak that sounded like a chuckle.
"Kay. Talk to me when you're done being a bird."

At that moment, Dr. Kleinberg walked in (that's not his real name, I changed it to protect his privacy) (cuz you know, I'm super cool and professional and whatnot).

"Hey Dr. Kleinberg!" I shouted.
"Good morning Beth. How are you feeling?"
"I feel so amazing right now!"
"Good, good."
"How are you feeling?!" I was still shouting.
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Dr. Kleinberg, I did not shave my armpits before I came here."
"That's okay."
"Also I didn't get a bikini wax."
"Okay."
I looked back at Dale. "Hey Dale, you're back!"
"Hi Beth."
"Dale, this one time I got really drunk at a Passover seder, and it was really fun."
"That's nice."
"But guess what?"
"What?"
"This is SO much better!"
"Hm.
"No really, this stuff is fantastic! Can I take some home?"
"Nope."
"Can I buy it?"
"No."
"You're such a Debbie Downer, Dale."
"Yep."
"Dale Downer! You're such a Dale Downer! Hey guys," I yelled at all the nurses and miscellaneous people wearing scrubs and lab coats, "Dale is a Dale Downer!"

At some point, they got to the part where they were actually laser-ing in my heart. I knew this because I felt it. It didn't hurt. If you can imagine what it would feel like if your heart was drinking hot chocolate or tea, that's exactly what it felt like.

"Oh my god. Dale! I feel the laser! Guys, I am AWAKE right now! I am going to remember this when I wake up!"
"Okay, okay," Dr. Kleinberg mumbled.
"Dale, is he trying to tell me to be quiet?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Okay, I will whisper," I said in my loudest whisper voice. "Dale, I think we just bonded."
"Okay."
"Are we friends now?"
"Sure."
"You're a good friend, Dale."
"Thank you."

And I NEVER SAW DALE AGAIN.

I did see Dr. Kleinberg after, where he told my parents that I am very animated when given anesthetic. I had to stay in the hospital for the rest of the day so that they could keep me in a bed that was standing up. They wouldn't let me move or eat or go to the bathroom or anything. Instead, they used the IV to give my stomach food and water and such.

And this is the most exciting part: at one point, I said that I was super thirsty, and the nurse said, "I can fix that," and she switched something on the IV and it was the WEIRDEST feeling. It felt like I was drinking water, but through my veins. My throat wasn't dry anymore, and then I had an epiphany-- this is what a tree must feel like! Because trees don't have mouths, they drink through their roots, which are kind of like veins!

Moral of the story: I know what it feels like to be a tree. I am the Tree-Whisperer and it is the greatest thing ever. The end!

Also drugs are the best thing ever.

Review of Politics

I hate politics. This is code for "I hate talking about politics because I have feelings and sometimes I cry." Everyone who knows me can affirm that this is factual. It's okay though, crying is good for cleaning out your eyes (true story).

The only time I ever had fun talking about politics was last summer when I got a call from a strange number. I only picked up because he kept calling over and over again. Like legit three times in a row, one right after the other. So I assumed it was Important or An Emergency or something, right? Well. It was not.

The guy told me it would only take 15-20 minutes. 30 minutes later, he was desperate to get off the phone.

The conversation went somewhat like this:

Guy: I'm going to tell you some names, and for each name I'd like you to choose a number between 0-100 to rate that person, 0 being the least favorable and 100 being the most favorable.

Me: Do I have to use whole numbers?

Guy: What?

Me: Like fractions and decimals, can I use those?

Guy: I mean... it's 0-100...

Me: So no?

Guy: Yeah, if you find that you're at 89.999 for someone, then you can pretty much just say 90.

Me: That's a B+ to an A-.

Guy: Uh... it's a different scale, we're not grading them.

Me: Oh. Okay.

Guy: Are you ready to hear the names?

Me: Yes.

Guy: Barack Obama.

Me: Hm. I mean, I've never met him, but he seems like a nice guy. He smiles a lot.

Guy: Well, yeah, you're not expected to have met these people.

Me: That makes sense.

Guy: So as a politician, not as a person.

Me: Okay, um... 100.

Guy: Okay, Mitt Romney.

Me: 100.

Guy: Uh, okay... Bob Dold.

Me: 100.

Guy: Brad Schneider.

Me: 100.

Guy: Pat Quinn.

Me: 100.

Guy: Rahm Emmanuel.

Me: 100.

Guy: Mark Kirk.

Me: Ooh! 100! I met him once in eighth grade on our Washington trip, he was very nice.

Guy: Okay... Dick Durbin.

Me: 100.

Guy: Michael Madigan.

Me: Um... is he related to Lisa Madigan?

Guy: Uh, I don't know.

Me: She used to have signs around... on the road...


It went on like that for some time.

Guy: If you had to vote right now, who would you vote for?

Me: Is there an option for having a mental breakdown in the voting booth and having to be taken to the hospital?

Guy: Uh... no, but you could say 'Undecided'.

Me: Well then what's the point of asking me the question?

Guy: I think it's just to see who you're leaning toward.

Me: It's a bad question. You should tell them that at your polling hideout.


Towards the end of the 30 minutes...

Me: (ending my entire life story) It's just confusing, you know, like I feel so conflicted all the time, because I don't want anyone to feel bad, and I just want everyone to hug and be friends and everything, and I really don't want to get disowned by my parents and/or grandparents, and sometimes things make me mad but I know I'm just being stupid, so really I don't even know if I should be allowed to vote, because I don't even read the news all that often, but that's because if I did, I'd never get anything done, and I would sit in the woods and cry all the time because of the futility of life.

Guy: (pauses to reflect on the poignancy of what I've just said) I... okay. It's a multiple choice question, so...

Me: (explodes)



Story of my life.

Review of Telemarketers

Nobody likes telemarketers.

It's pretty reasonable, really. No one wants to be sought out on the phone to be pressured to buy something, especially when the product is something stupid that no one even wants. Like getting rid of credit card debt, or saving money on your mortgage, or not paying taxes, or whatever.

You know what all those things have in common? They are all BORING. You know what would be exciting? A jetski, or a moon-bounce, or a dog sleigh. If someone called me and offered me eight huskies and a toboggan, I would give them all my credit card information in a heartbeat.

How could anyone say no to Balto?

Half the time, the telemarketers are trying to sell me something I can't even physically buy. Like mortgages. I'm under the impression that you need to own a house to have a mortgage. In fact, now that I'm thinking about it, 90% of the telemarketing calls I get are for products or services related to owning a house. Do they know that I don't own a house? Even if they managed to get my credit card information, I feel like they wouldn't even be able to use it. How can you buy electricity for a house that doesn't exist? Or plumbing, or miscellaneous legal contracts, or insurance? Or life insurance? There are literally ZERO PEOPLE that I financially support. There are several people who support me, but I don't think they benefit from me having life insurance. So why do people keep trying to sell it to me?

The other thing about telemarketers is that they give me this intense inner conflict.

Below is an example of said internal conflict:

Me 1: I'm going to play a prank on this telemarketer and tell them that I'm dead!
Me 2: First of all, that is really dumb. Second, don't pick up. Just leave them alone.
1: Why? They don't have to call me. If they want to call, then they should be prepared to deal with the consequences.
2: But the actual person calling is just a call center rep. They don't really care whether you buy the product or not, they're just doing their job.
1: Well then maybe I should answer and mess with them. Maybe that little bit of entertainment is going to brighten their boring day of calling people.
2: No, it's not. Do you think you're the first person to try and tell a telemarketer that you're dead? That shit is not funny.
1: If they thought I was dead, maybe they would stop calling me.
2: Nope. Also that makes you a bad person.
1: Remember that time I told a telemarketer that they couldn't talk to my dad because he'd moved to Siberia?
2: Remember that time that you were a twelve year old idiot and thought Siberia was an actual separate country?
1: Siberia is where fun goes to die.
2: I'm hungry.

Lately, the telemarketing issue has gotten out of control. It's all fine and good to ignore a sales call if they only call once or twice, but what do you do if they keep calling? And calling? And CALLING? If someone calls me three times in an hour, then they must have something important to say, right? Plus what if it's someone that I actually would want to talk to? What if it's a friend, or a job opportunity, or a mysterious attractive person that has managed to acquire my phone number out of the ether? Or what if it's a stalker?!

But when curiosity eventually convinces me to pick up the phone, it ends up being someone who wants to let me know that I could be saving SO MUCH MONEY if I just signed up for a financial-analyst-contract-package-miscellaneous-boring-words-thingie. 

And sometimes they know my name. They do that thing where they ask for you by name, which lulls you into a false sense of security, then they whip out the sales pitch.

But now I feel bad, because telemarketers are the most hated people on the planet. All they want is to sell you their crap, just like everyone else in the world. And people are really shitty to them, not just with stupid pranks but with threats and violent words and such. That kind of thing can weigh on your soul.

Also, this one time, I bonded with a telemarketer. It was a very touching experience. He wanted to sell me something else house related, and he said his name was Tom.

Tom: I was wondering if I could talk to you about a blahblahblah house thing?
Me: You know I'm like, 22, right? I live with my parents, I can't even buy that.
Tom: Oh! Uh, would I be able to speak with the homeowner please?
Me: Not exactly, this is my cell phone and I'm at school. Because I'm a student and do not have a house. And I can't give out my parents' phone numbers because I would be in really really big trouble.
Tom: Ah, I see.
Me: Sorry Tom.
Tom: That's okay. Take care!

One week later, I'm at Disney World with my sister and I get a call from the same number.

Tom: Blahblahblah sales pitch that is exactly the same as the other one.
Me: Wait, Tom!
Tom: Uh, yes?
Me: We've already had this conversation.
Tom: Um.
Me: Do you remember? Where you called me, and I was at school, and this is my cell phone?
Tom: Oh yeah, I do remember that.
Me: Yeah. Now I'm at Disney World.
Tom: Oh. That's very nice.
Me: Yep! It's a lot of fun.
Tom: Well, have a good time.
Me: You too, Tom!  

Now, every time I get a call from a telemarketer, I think about Tom and I feel badly. He had a very attractive voice.

Too bad I didn't get his number! Ha ha! (Drum sound for puns)