Do you ever notice how terms such as “abnormally large” have vastly different meanings to physicians as compared to the rest of us?
For example, back in January, I had a colonoscopy. The doc said he removed an “abnormally large” polyp while sticking the camera up my exhaust pipe.
I don’t know about you, but I had visions of something the size of a hot dog, or at least a pen, getting sliced out of me.
But when I went to see Dr. Manji for my follow up last week, he – while reiterating the polyp was “abnormally large” – said it was close to three centimetres in length. That’s just over an inch.
Which doesn’t sound “abnormally large” to me. But I guess it is in terms of colon polyps.
On the topic of polyps, am I the only one who envisions a sea creature, tentacles shifting in the current, when I hear the word? You know, in my mind, a polyp in the colon looks like that. But in reality, I guess they look like a bump of skin, or at worst, a piece of cauliflower (not actual cauliflower, but skin-coloured cauliflower).
But back to the big polyp I had. It wasn’t cancerous, but the doc is concerned because something made my body create the (fecal speed bump) polyp. So, I get put in the Colonoscopy Express Lane. He wants another look up the tailpipe in three years. Typically, it’s five years between butt checks, which I could attain if my next scope is clear.
In the meantime, I get to look forward to fun times with nuclear-powered laxatives in about 1,100 days.
The cat came back
I received a call last week from a reader asking about our cat, Finn. Since I hadn’t written about the little maniac in a while, she said she wanted to make sure he was OK. I assured her he was.
What I didn’t tell her was that Finn was in the middle of his first 24-hour-plus sojourn through the neighbourhood. The meathead went out as usual the night before. It was particularly windy that night, so he must have sought shelter somewhere, because every time we called for him, he didn’t come. That continued through to the morning.
I fielded the phone call that day, and we returned home that evening, again calling for Finn, only to receive no sign of the fur ball.
Finally, about 9 p.m., after I called for him and the side door light went on automatically, he came meowing up to the back door.
He was none the worse for the wear for his time outside, and went right to his food bowl. After that, it was a brief cuddle with Mary Beth, and then he wanted out again, and off he went.
Only this time, he came in later that night. And he slept very well.
Since that time, he’s back to his evening walkabouts with other neighbourhood felines. He’s never far, and usually comes in by 1 a.m. or whenever I wake up in the recliner and call for him.
Finn has gotten to the point that if we don’t let him out, he gets a bit antsy inside, and acts up until we show him the door.
It kind of reminds me of our first cat, the one and only Archie. He’d get up on the kitchen counter and knock everything off, and then would get up on the fridge and flick all the magnets off the front of the fridge that he could reach.
Of course, that all occurred late at night.
At least with Archie, he was less of a nocturnal creature. I think he considered himself part dog, and part human.
That little guy would come when called, would sleep in our bed at night and would sit up in a living room chair, just like he was a man watching a ball game. I swear he’d have enjoyed a beer if I had a cat-size one for him.
As for Finn, he’d probably give the beer a sniff and a taste, and then he’d knock it onto the floor.
Dumbass.
