One Week to Go

Looks like I won't be able to blog at length until I get to California, and it has nothing to do with being busy preparing for the move and everything to do with a cruel, unsympathetic colleague who's putting preposterous work demands upon me before I leave Japan.

Quick summation: mad daily deadlines aside, we're pretty much all set, thanks to my wonderful husband, who has had to handle almost all the arrangements. As payback, he says I have to handle everything once we're on English-speaking soil again. He's taking advantage of my currently apologetic state. And I feel bad enough to let him.

Last week: Got Edward microchipped. To enter Japan, your dog must have a microchip that's ISO 11784 or 11785 compliant (in case anyone's confused, we had to get this done in preparation of our return to Japan in a few years). Got a bit worried the night before the chipping, but a quick online search reassured me that it's nothing worse than getting a vaccine and most dogs don't seem to mind. Then we got to the vet and she started saying things about big needles, blood, and it being best if I stayed out in the waiting lounge while they inserted the microchip. After an increasingly tense 45-minute wait, the vet, face strangely flushed, finally stumbled through a door and ushered me into one of the rooms. My eyes instantly fell upon Edward, who lay in a defeated slump on the examination table. (His normal response to those tables is to climb the nearest available person to get off it or simply take a flying leap, never mind that for his height, that must be the equivalent of a free-fall off the Brooklyn Bridge.) Another nurse was pressing some gauze to a spot near his shoulders and it came away bright with blood. Then I saw the needle itself. It was big--2mm wide, the vet said. I think Edward thought so too and tried his best to protest--hence, the red-faced vet. We then had to wait another hour, back in the lounge, with Edward collapsed on the couch beside me like a deflated soup dumpling. When a fat corgi waddled in and Edward's ears didn't even prick, I almost thought they'd drugged him. He remained in this shell-shocked state the rest of the day.

When I took a break from work in the evening, I turned to find Edward huddled against the couch
and finally had to launch a vulture hand puppet (one of his toys) attack, to coax him out of the Land of the Impossibly Betrayed.

He's fine now. And he beeps, like an item getting price-checked at Walmart, when you hold a microchip scanner over his back. It's rather funny in a totally exploitive way.

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I promise that the next post will be about the move to California. Unfortunately, I'm going to be up yet again (see previous post) at 5am tomorrow, this time for an interview to get my American visa, so I have to finish up my work and try for at least four hours of sleep tonight. Since there's no barium involved, I'm almost looking forward to getting grilled.

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What Happened with the Barium

I wanted to blog about what happened with the barium-drinking yesterday after I got home, but was totally monopolized by work. Okay, I was also monopolized by the couch for a while, because I'd woken up at 5:30 that morning in order to walk Edward and then get to the clinic in time for the health check. Which meant I'd only had two hours of sleep, half of which I lost to in-bed agonizing.

I was slightly comforted when Edward and I stepped outside to discover the most gorgeous weather in full bloom. Although I'm never awake to enjoy it, I love the slow, private feeling of early morning. I decided then and there to make a habit of waking up at 5am after I turn 60.

The hour-long train ride brought all the stress right back. I was with my husband, whose "Don't be a baby" pep talks only confirmed that I'd be getting no assistance from his corner. I hunkered down, feeling tense, alone, and really quite thirsty since I'd been told not to drink anything after nine the night before. I waffled for a little bit, telling myself there had to be some way out of this, then trying to talk myself into accepting that I had to do it. But inexorably, my fear gained firm and total control. The barium-water suspension (in a now Super Big Gulp sized tankard) I kept trying to picture myself swallowing had morphed from the consistency of milkshake to plaster of paris. I'd once made a mask of someone's face with plaster of paris and I remember how fast it set. I imagined the barium congealing halfway down my throat.

I could do this. I had to do it. But then I thought: No, I bloody well do not have to do it. People have died from refusing blood transfusions and chemotherapy, and maybe refusing was the wrong choice, but it was their choice to make. Suddenly the expression "pick your battles" popped into my head and, worthy or not, I picked: There'd be no drinking of barium for me today.

A dozen scenarios played in my head as I tested out my limited Japanese, trying to formulate the most articulate, effective argument I could present to the staff at the clinic. I quickly nixed the idea of sobbing out a heartrending plea and prostrating myself before a stony nurse. (I don't know why, but all the nurses I've ever encountered in Japan have been stony, both in heart and facial expression, which utterly baffles me since why would an uncaring person choose a line of work in which it's practically your job to care?) I tried out calm, lucid, and reasonable, but found it difficult to maintain this facade when my only defense was: "I can't swallow thick, creamy drinks." Eventually, I stopped rehearsing and just told myself I'd stick to my guns, no matter what. I wouldn't worry about being polite and accommodating for once. I would stand up for myself.

Finally we were exiting the train, me all grim-faced determination. And then, after a short wait in the clinic reception area, my moment arrived, my battle, and I made myself squarely face the nurse holding my chart.


Me: [Pleasant but firm] Excuse me, is the part of the exam that requires drinking barium absolutely necessary?

Nurse: No.

Husband: [Surprised, almost disappointed at my reprieve, the stinker] Really?

Nurse: Totally up to you.


Of course since the nurse was speaking in formal Japanese, her response took several pages longer to get out. But the above was the essence of it. God, you would not believe the relief that just about caused my chest to cave in at that moment. Admittedly, as far as battles went, it was a pretty pitiful one. Not even sure one could call it a "battle." But I'd won. I wouldn't have to choke down, or puke up, barium. I was the happiest girl in the whole world.

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Rescue Me

I'll be leaving Japan at the end of this month and living in California for a few years. Husband's getting transferred. Before anyone starts screaming "Why didn't you tell me before?"--we were only informed about the move last week. And it's been a bit 'o madness around here, what with procuring all the necessary documents, sorting out our apartment, deciphering animal import/export regulations, and everything else.

That news out of the way, all I can say is: I don't want to drink barium! (Just so you know how upset I am about this, I almost put three exclamation marks at the end of the previous sentence.) I've never liked my husband's company for all sorts of reasons, but I've, as much as possible, withheld my opinions because he gets rather sensitive when I defame that hallowed establishment. Well, this time they go too far. I honestly do not understand why--since I sure as hell am not one of theirs--but they are insisting that I get a full health check before we move, and this health check includes a Barium Swallow. Without knowing much at all about the procedure, all my life, I've felt this is something that I would avoid at all costs. Now that I have to do it (tomorrow), I've of course tortured myself by reading everything I can find on the ordeal.

My husband--and probably many of you, upon reading this post--thinks I'm being a sniveling, wussy cocktail wiener. What he doesn't realize is that this isn't me being what he categorizes as typically contrary, noisy, and difficult. This is me trying my best to tamp down full-blown terror.

I can, in fact, quietly and calmly withstand a fair amount, in terms of medical tests: needles, invasive procedures, all that good stuff. I'm also unfussy where food is concerned. But what I cannot handle is drinking thick, creamy substances. It isn't just the gag factor, the roiling nausea; the thought of it actually makes my innards squidge and my throat close up in a serious panic. Insects, animal entrails, heads, hoofs, claws--fine, serve me up a plate. But mayonnaise, banana smoothies, creamy yogurt--*shudder*. And still, if I took it a teaspoon at a time, I could manage to down those things.

But tomorrow's x-ray is going to require fast gulping of large quantities (two to three cups) of barium mixed with water to a dense, "milkshake-like consistency," some of it done while lying down.

I can't do it! All of a sudden, I'm recalling those fluoride treatments at the dentist that used to make me all but hyperventilate with fear as a child. The dentist would insist that I bite down "harder" on the trays filled with creamy, sweet fluoride, and when I obeyed, the fluoride would gush over the sides and start filling my mouth, flowing toward the back of my throat. Breathe. Deep breaths.

This must be a phobia, right? I mean, if I step back from the situation, I can see that my reaction is verging on extreme. But, A phobia of what?, you might be wondering with some derision: Too much sour cream with my borscht? Strawberry malts? As unappealing as such things are to me, it's more... a fear of being choked, of drowing in viscous substances. It's a phobia--it's not supposed to be logical.

Why, why do I have to have a health check, I ask you? If the company is worried about liability, I'll happily sign a release form, promising I won't cause them any trouble if I fall sick and/or die while overseas. Why am I even their responsibility? I'm just a wife, and a non-Japanese one at that. Who gives a damn about my esophagus and intestines? If I start screaming when the nurse advances on me with a large tumbler of barium, will the doctor put a big red X on my report, deny me permission to leave Japan? For the love of god, this seems so antiquated--surely they could come up with less-crude methods. Well, obviously not in time to save me from tomorrow.

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