This will doubtless come as a relief for those starting to wonder if the blog is going to turn into the unending saga of my alimentary tract. We should be out of danger once this post is over. Meanwhile, you were warned.
The X-rays were boring.
The night before wasn't.
See, in order to clear your system out so there's nothin' blocking the X-rays--I would assume--they order you to chug a bottle of this saline laxative. (Actually, the exact wording was "Drink this whole bottle, and don't make plans for the evening." Wise words.) It's...incomprehensibly vile. Drinking seawater would have been infinitely preferable. This was like sour seawater bile. I got down as much as I could without vomiting, but jesus.
The next few hours were...somethin' else, all right.
After about an hour, I called James from the bathroom (not something I usually do) and said, "For the love of god, come home, I think I'm dying. It's like a freakin' CLOWN CAR! Bring toilet paper."
He came home. He's a good man. He laughed at me, because he's human, but nevertheless, a good man.
Approximately once every ten minutes for the rest of the evening, James was treated to a screaming Ursula charging through the house (usually accompanied by the cat, who thought it was race time) yelling "SHITSHITSHIT!" although whether as an expletive or a description, I'm not entirely sure myself. Eventually I closeted myself in the bathroom with a seed catalog and my misery. I have a wishlist for several thousand dollars in bulbs, and the cleanest colon this side of the Mississipi.
Compared to that, being shot with iodine and hopping onto an icy X-ray table every five minutes was nuthin'.
Hopefully I can resume my normal life now, except for the biofeedback sessions.