Sometime in the middle of the night someone came in and slapped a bracelet that read “falling risk” on my wrist along with a matching sign that ironically fell down.
Another day, another word that I can’t pronounce.
Today’s word is gastrograph.
It sounds like a cheap art gadget from the sixties like the Spirograph (remember those? You drew with math?) maybe the gastrograph would enable you to draw with farts?
Today I got to take a gastrograph test.
They took me downstairs and I gotta say, it was pretty horrible. They inserted a liquid that traveled through my system with the goal of learning if there are any obstructions in the small bowel.
I was put on a machine that looks like a modified George Foreman grill with tubes. I laid on a cold solid straight metal board for an hour while they figure how they wanted to take the pictures. Then they put the contrast in me . After a while they took pictures.
This was followed by two X-ray sessions, one in my room and one downstairs.
Think of a very unglamorous glamor shot.
It seems that the contrast doesn’t seem to be moving around like it’s supposed to.
If it can’t escape my sexy colon, nothing can.
That’s a concern.
So I do find myself a “Falling Risk”.
Actually I have let go…that’s all I’ve got.
And I am falling.
I am falling into the big arms of Heavenly Father.
It’s all I know to do at this point.
I lift my hands, fall backwards and shout…
“CATCH ME!
I’m your boy!”
carbonated joy 