I don't want to alarm any of the millions of loyal DOL readers across this planet, but it's no secret your boi is in terrible shape. I don't need to give you the whole sob story about how a worldwide pandemic, democratic backsliding, widespread support for authoritarianism from people who can't even fucking read, corporate greed, billionaire owners trading away your favorite player for pennies on the dollar to save money, feeling trapped in a job you hate, general depression, deteriorating relationships, your friend group shrinking by the second, less talented people living your dream, crippling anxiety, and a broken dick (that was nothing to write home about in fully functioning condition) can cause you to eat your feelings to a point of a passive suicide where you can barely fit into any chair with arms, but alas we are here.
Despite constantly feeling broken, worthless, and alone, I'm trying to get my life back. Despite my inability to grow a following, I know I have a ton to offer the world. Not to suck my own broken dick too hard, but when I am in social settings, I still get the people going. There's no way to say this without sounding like an arrogant douche, but I'm funny and a great fucking writer. When I'm eventually #HIREDdozo, I know it'll all come to fruition. But there are plenty of times when I lose faith. I wish I could take a pill that makes me hate Wendy's and Taco Bell. I wish I could crave healthier food and not literally gag when I put vegetables in my mouth, but I'm fucked until that miracle drug comes out. I'm seriously considering surgery. Part of me wants to lose weight the old-fashioned way, but another part of me thinks literal restriction of how much I can eat is the only way to combat my binging. Plus, I'm 30, and I want to lose this weight ASAP to maximize my remaining years. What can I say? I miss box and would enjoy a summer of love before seriously searching for the future Mrs. Dozo.
For months I was worried about my heart because of all the weight I've gained, and stress from work. In March, I finally met with a doctor and had a physical. Luckily, despite the weight gain, my ticker was fine. I still freak myself out nightly that I'll spontaneously die (regardless if I'm high or not, so don't even go there!!!), and I feel like that fear won't be gone until I'm at a healthier weight.
Unfortunately for the Doz man, I learned that there's a little fat on my liver after some tests. Despite the lies body positivity will tell you, a fatty liver is not good and can become super problematic if it gets worse. I mean, I definitely have done my fair share of drinking, but this is more because of my obesity than Bud Lights or 007s. If I lose the weight I want to lose, it should be reversible. So before my follow-up, I needed to get some blood work done and an ultrasound to check out my liver.
I'm not an appointment guy. When I used to get haircuts, I would always walk in. If it weren't for my aunt, who found me a primary care doctor and scheduled this original appointment, I definitely wouldn't have gotten one myself. When I got that nasty growth shaved off my nose in December, I walked in to get that procedure done and learned that my garbage health insurance didn't cover that without a referral!
I tried to rip off myself, many a time.
So last Friday (6/3/22), I went to this lab to get some more blood work and my ultrasound before another weekend on the roads. Unfortunately, you can't just walk in for an ultrasound, so I had to come back on Monday.
Everything I knew about ultrasounds came from movies and television. I can't get pregnant, so I didn't think it was something I'd ever experience. I didn't know you had to fast for at least eight hours beforehand until the desk lady told me. That had me terrified. I binge eat, so going eight hours without food isn't that big of a deal, but I drink over a gallon of water a day. I rarely go 45 minutes without water, forget multiple hours. My appointment was for 11 am, which means after 3 am, I couldn't have any more water. That might not be that big of a deal for regular people, but I'm usually up until 5 am, thanks to Ub** and not being an active teacher at this time. I tried to fall asleep earlier than usual, but the C's had just lost Game 2 of the Finals; I had company over and was stewing over the L. At like 2:40 am, I was housing water and looking at my phone to check my remaining drink time. Usually, I have my gallon jug I got from Am*zon on my nightstand, but to prevent myself from the muscle memory of waking up and taking a quick gulp, I placed it on the ground sort of under my bed.
At 3:38 am, I couldn't take it anymore and took a small swig of water to wet my whistle. I didn't even swallow (that's what she said); I just sort of gargled it around my mouth to avoid dry mouth. I probably did this three times before falling asleep around 4:30.
Then at the crack of 10:15 am, my alarm went off. I didn't chug water for 15 seconds, as is tradition, got my ass out of bed, took my morning sit-down pee in case of emergency, then took a quick no-hair wash shower.
On Friday, the desk lady told me to get there at 10:45 to fill out paperwork. I walk into the office at 10:51, sign some shit, and wait for the procedure.
At 11, the technician gets me and escorts me to the "women's radiology room," so I feel great about myself right away. During this walk, I felt something I'd felt far too many times in my life, "dude, you gotta poop." But I was past the point of no return and had to fight through it. I know they've got a tight schedule, and I can waste 20 minutes on the bowl without blinking an eye. We enter the women's radiology room, the lights are super dim, and there's this fancy medical plank for me to lay across. Right away, I'm feeling nervous that I'm gonna break this thing. My confidence has never been lower since the Covid 100, and the last thing I need to do is crack this thing and get another outrageous bill. Luckily, it's pretty sturdy, I prop myself onto it, and the tech tells me to lift up my shirt and put my arms above my head. She placed a towel on my stomach near where my lifted shirt ends.
This is where the one thing I thought I knew about ultrasounds goes down. From movies and television, I expected the lube they used to be ice cold, but much to my delight, it felt room temperature, almost like aloe. She sprays the lube on my gut and starts rolling around the little camera thingy. At first, it almost feels like a massage and is borderline enjoyable. Then without hesitation, it's like she's trying to pierce my gut. It does not feel good, and parlayed with the poop baby I'm trying to avoid from crowning, I am in a TOUGH spot.
She just keeps rolling and pushing the tool that I'm not gonna google for the proper name. Some rolls are alright; others, it's like her goal is to break my skin. It fucking hurt. During the procedure, I wondered, do they usually press this hard, or is it just because I'm so fat they need to compress the blubber to get a better picture? I know my body takes up a lot of surface area, but it felt like she was going over the same spots repeatedly. Then she'd ask me to turn on my side, away from her, so my ass was facing her. At this point, my sole goal is not to shit my pants during a procedure most famous for pregnant women.
Time is standing still. I don't know if it's been five or 45 minutes. I kept thinking to myself of a way to not sound like a seven-year-old on a road trip and ask how much time was left. Ultimately, I kept my mouth shut, hoping my sphincter would follow suit. She has me rotate like two or three more times, and my biggest goals are now don't poop, don't fart, and don't have your butt crack pop out, which, if you know me IRL, is sort of my default setting. Between my flat butt and high crack, it's not hard to get a peak, especially without the back of my shirt to help me out (it was lifted up, remember?).
We're both masked up, so I can't really get a gauge on this chick's facial expressions. From where I was lying, I couldn't see the screen (not that I'd know wtf was going on if I could). I was trying to read her eyes on whether the news was bad or not, but between trying to keep us away from an embarrassing disaster, I couldn't really tell. I guess no news is good news?
After 27 minutes of hell, the ultrasound is over, and she hasn't said a word about my condition. I still don't know where I stand (and won't until the 14th!). All she says is, you can use the towel to wipe off. So now I'm laying there helpless, wiping my stomach off with a prepared towel like one of the handful of women I've bedded in my 30 years. So fucking emasculating. I recognize this right away and can't help but chuckle at the situation, and the tech gives me a look, but I save it with, "I guess this hamper full of towels is where I put it?" Nailed it.
Hopefully, this will be my first and last experience getting ultrasounded. After I dried off my gut as much as I could with a rag that they definitely rewash and use again, I raced home, gave birth to my poop baby, and went back to bed for three and half hours. Word of advice to the millions of people reading this. Don't get fat. Hopefully I don't have to quit drinking, but I will if that's what it takes to not die. GO CELTICS!