Being doomed as I am does have one perk: I get to see the miracle march of modern medicine, though, of course, it can't cure me, but that's just being bitter.
I was thinking about this today at my painless echocardiogram. It is just to make sure the ticker doesn't conk out during the colonoscopy.
At my first one years and years ago, a mean, old nurse told a 10-year-old Matty to relax and not take deep breaths as she rammed the 3-inch-wide sensor between my ribs in a freezing room. OK, she was probably 30, but she was mean.
By contrast, today's technician did no ramming with her quarter-wide sensor. She did not, however, have the jelly warmer that they have when I get the ultrasound on my kidneys and bladder.
There is much more -- thermometers you don't have to shake, automatic blood pressure cuffs. But the echo registers at the top, probably because the first experience was so bad.
I get to watch another march, but this one is less cool: the inexorable downfall of my body.
I remember walking into appointments and hopping onto the table, then wheeling in but still getting on the table myself. This time someone had to lift me on, and the technician got Mom to help me roll onto my side.
If they'd just find a cure, I could go back to singing the praises of that alliterative first march.
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