Xray Visions

Lately I have been subjected to several xrays. Of my wrist. Nothing else. Yet every time I head into the Xray room, a technician asks me if I’m pregnant. I am momentarily flattered, until they immediately add, “We have to ask” with a wink and a smirk that says, “We know you couldn’t possibly have an egg left, you post-menopausal train wreck.”

I always laugh and say, “Not a chance, but thanks for asking!” We share a moment and laugh. (You could at least pretend I pass for an amniocentesis candidate, bitches.)

As I sit down and place my scaphoid wrist bone in the cross-hairs, I add, “Well, unless there is an alien baby in there.”

The nurse brings over a lead apron and places it over my shriveled, useless ovaries smiling, “Just in case there is an alien in there.”

“Thanks, I wouldn’t want it to have three additional arms.”

“Or two sets of eyes.”

She hides behind the lead-enforced wall-of-safety while another technician pushes the zapper. They chat briefly in radiology-speak.

“What are you ladies talking about? Do you see something I should know about?”

She comes back to rearrange the position of my hand. “I see you have a screw in there.”

“Seriously? That damn alien! He must have left that behind after he probed me.”

“I’ll make a note of that for the surgeon.”

“You’d better. He probably won’t even notice.”

She heads back and starts talking medical gibberish with the button-pusher again and I hear the buzz of the x ray machine.

“It burns!”

“You’d be surprised. There are some people who actually think they can feel it.”

“No way. You must get all kinds.”

“Well, we can’t really say. It wouldn’t be professional.”

“Uh ladies, that ship sailed.”

She ushers me to the door smiling, “Can you stay with us all day to make it more tolerable?”

“I’d love to. People take this shit way too seriously. Of course, if they’re in pain…”

“Yes, well, sometimes we’re the ones suffering.”

“I’m sure you are, but imagine when this side-show baby wants to come out? I hope it doesn’t have horns or talons.”

“Come back again and we’ll take a picture for you.”

“Excellent. I’ll post it on Facebook for all those fertile bitches who expect people to gush over their ultrasound pictures. Like a fetus is a big accomplishment.”

“Good luck with your little alien.”

“Thanks. We could have skipped the damn apron, I’m going to drink heavily through this one.”

 

                                       Here’s looking at you, kid.

About the author

Amy Sherman

Amy Hartl Sherman is a freelance writer, poet and humorist. A graduate from the University of Illlinois, a retired flight attendant, improv comedian, empty-nester and overall nobody, Amy writes erratically as opposed to erotically, and sometimes humorously, while living with her husband, one fat cat, and a co-dependent Dachshund. Her sons escaped unscathed.

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Copyright © 2014 Amy Sherman

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