A New Meaning to the Term "South of the Border"

As discussed previously, I went to the gastroenterologist yesterday where I was given a clean bill of health. Apparently, my low iron is the result of my being a frequent blood donor. I guess that's what I get for helping people. Anyway, this is good news, because I was afraid I was going to have cancer and have to get chemotherapy, and I don't want to have to start growing my hair out all over again, so we dodged a bullet there, huh?

I have to say, though, that the procedure ended up being quite unnerving to me, not because of the procedure itself, but because of the drugs that accompanied it. As promised, right after we talked about what was going to go down (or up, depending on what you're referring to) the nurse took a small amount of something and pumped it into my arm. I remember wondering how long it would take to kick in, as the doctor was already gloved in a somewhat menacing manner.

And then I remember nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Seriously, next thing I know, I'm in a recovery room with my lovely wife, vaguely aware of the fact that I can see other people waking around and I've just let loose with a thunderclap, all the more frightening given the amount of laxatives I had taken the evening prior. The nurse was kind enough to explain that it was a side effect of the procedure, which somehow doesn't make me feel better about trumpeting in a room full of strangers, but I guess I should be grateful. Fortunately, it was all thunder and no lightning, so I had that going for me as well.

I find the memory loss aspect of this all terrifying though. I seriously have absolutely no recollection of anything after the drugs. Not even a glimmer. Now, I'm sure the nice people who did the procedure were on the up and up, but it's scary that I was essentially in their care and helpless for up to an hour and I can't remember any of it. Worse, they knew that I wouldn't be able to.

What if they dressed me up like a clown while I was out? What if they used my posterior as a vase for a dozen daisies and then sent a picture to an ex? I'm petrified to Google the name of the doctor for fear that I will discover one of those MySpace pages where you can't see the picture unless you're added as a friend.

What's funny is that those of us who used to follow the X Files knows that alien abduction is the usual culprit of lost time. There's a certain irony is this, considering that getting probed is what I expected, and it's the other alternatives that bother me. Besides, I'm reasonably sure that the doctor wasn't an alien. Although now that I think about it, he did have kind of a Pancho Villa mustache, and it's not like I asked to see his papers or anything.

Oh man, I totally got probed by an alien. Someone call David Duchovny.