I have to admit it.

I hate to admit it.
But I have to admit it.

I love me some crazy.

Sure, I enjoy the occasional weird or strange or bizarre, but deep down, at the end of the day, I’m all about the crazy. When I was getting my psychology degree, I took every abnormal psych class they had. And I would pester the professors for real-life, worst case scenario stories; the crazier, the better.

That’s probably why I was totally over the Michael Jackson death news coverage. His mom, his ex-wife, Diana Ross, Neverland, the poor kids who didn’t think looked like him due to their glaring whiteness, but everyone else said had his nose or eyes or something. Yeah yeah yeah…

But what’s this?

Diprivan?

Some kind of mind-blowingly dangerous instantly unconscious sedative!?

Some kind of mind-blowingly dangerous instantly unconscious sedative that can only be administered by an anesthesiologist!?!?

TRAVELING with your own, personal anethesiologist on tour?!?!!??!!!??

Coma by night, jazz hands by day.

Wow.

That’s f-ing CRAZY.

And I kind of love it.

Thanks Wacko Jacko.

I should have known I could count on you.

No one on anything less than sixteen not-to-be-combined substances could dance like that.

Last year I had a surgery on my bladder, and there was a MAJOR build-up around the anesthesiology part.

I literally was counseled for around 10 minutes that I could wake up in extreme emotional distress and thinking I was a panther or Courtney Love and did I have anything weighing on me that I wanted to talk about now, before they put me under?

(I was so seriously stressed that by that idea. I thought I might confess to killing Kennedy or something.)

Anyway, I don’t know what they used, but here’s how the day went (so that we can all vicariously pretend to be Michael Jackson).

I had to quit eating at 10pm the night before.

• Kind of worked and mostly fretted all day.
• My procedure was scheduled for 3:15pm, and arrival at the hospital was at 2:30pm.
• Sat in chair.
• Time passed.
• Someone came to get me, and realized that no one had taken my blood.
• Blood-taking lady was kind of mean.
• I was so hungry I could cry.
• Aforementioned counseling about hte ravages of anesthesia and a general disussion about kayaking (unrelated).
• Anesthesiologist was named Dr. Wolf and he’d recently been to Africa and I liked him a hell of a lot better than my bitchy urologist.
• Sat in bed a nervous wreck waiting to wheeled into operating room and drooling over the smell of toast because it was now 4:15pm and I was insanely hungry.
• Woke up in serious pain…and hungry, but not hysterically crying or confessing all my deep, dark secrets.
• I don’t recall whether I felt rested or woozy or groggy or anything, because everything was eclipsed by the pain. (It was a procedure where apparently not everyone wakes up hurting, so they wait until you wake up to determine if you’re going to need pain medication.)

Ate toast, and learned my surgeon had long gone home without ever even seeing or talking to me. Nice.

So there you have it!

Anesthesia ROCKS!

(or maybe it doesn’t?)

This also leaves me wondering: Did he ever eat?

You have to starve before getting anesthesia so that if it makes you puke, you don’t choke to death on the ham sandwich you had for lunch. If he did this every night, when the hell did he eat!?

I guess that explains the Skeletor physique…

Meanwhile, the year before last I had to have a gum transplant (where they cut a chunk out of the roof of your mouth and attach it to your gums by your molars) and they gave me this pill beforehand and it was HEAVEN.

I was blissed out and doped up but without any ill-feeling side effects and my brain would notice something and then quickly move back to just spacing out. It was like achieving Zen without even trying.

I remember the procedure…but not really. I remember it as a very hazy series of moments.

I basically just sat there and thunk happy thoughts whilst they sliced and diced my mouth. And although that sounds awful and probably was awful, I honestly kind of remember it like a good day.

What am I trying to say?

If I ever get super rich and super crazy, I’m demanding some of that stuff. Stat.