Can a HIDA-Scan Gallbladder Test Turn Into a Lyric Essay on Love?
This is what lying in a morgue must be like, I thought, if one could imagine being a sentient cadaver. The room was cold enough to quell any smell, or sense of smell, and the 38 inch, white sheet-covered board, was sufficient to fit my widest part, with a miserly inch to spare. Narrow shelves popped up to accommodate my arms. A technician who looked too young to have a 15 year old daughter invited me to recline on the hard surface, one pillow under my head and one under my knees. Her name was Angie, short for Angel in this eerie white gloom. The room was silent save for the snick and whir of expensive electronics. “I’m going to put an I.V. in now,” Angie said. I felt the needle pinch tender skin as the inner bend of my elbow sprouted an odd, blood-filled appurtenance. “I’m injecting the radio isotope,” she said. “We’ll track it through your liver, then your gall bladder, and then into the small bowel. This first part of the test will take about an hour. You shouldn’t feel any sensation
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