Hej Dog & Colonoscopy Cancel
Episode 12:18:2023 - Prompt: Confusion
Where Confusion took me…
In Friday’s Round-Up on COOKING I wrote about a misguided trip to IKEA in search of a trashcan. There is nothing special about the trashcan other than we want to replace one we bought 10-years-ago that’s held together with duct tape.
I omitted one piece of information about the event: the Hot Dog.
I have fond associations with eating hot dogs as a child. My first TV memory was watching Soul Train while chomping on a raw hot dog in the closet.
The Oscar Mayer bologna jingle captured my heart around the same time. I had a very particular way of eating a bologna sandwich: Pepperidge Farm white bread, a scraping of mayonnaise on both slices (no globs!), one slice of bologna and one slice of Kraft American Cheese.
I know. Gross. It was a phase.
Same thing with hot dogs.
Until I lived in Berlin and delighted on Knacker and Bratwurst with lots of mustard held by a tiny, tough roll.
Anyway, we don’t buy hot dogs or bologna or any processed or pre-made foods to eat at home, and I never ever eat fast food.
So….
It’s Friday night. We were trying to buy paint, ended up at a mega mall, and then found refuge in the brand new IKEA looking for a trashcan where there were barely any people.
That was confusing. IKEA is notoriously packed.
We followed the arrows, ignoring all of the displays, trying to find the trashcan and ended up at the food kiosk. I had only eaten homemade pumpkin pancakes & pumpkin muffins that day (a baking spree) and I asked my partner:
“Hej (that’s Swedish for Hi, but it sounds like Hey) you wanna get a hot dog?”
We both started laughing and ordered 3 beers (2 for him) and 4 hot dogs (2 each).
As I eyed the simplicity of my dinner - a plain hot dog in a plain bun - I thought of my Swedish friend who is a commercial director I write with.
He knows how staunch I am about not selling out, so I sent him a photo of the HEJ! at the condiments station and one of my minimalist hot dog as a joke.
Guess where I am.
Don’t eat that! he wrote in response to the hot dog photo.
Too late. Shopping for a trashcan.
To throw up in? he replied.
Then he told me, “Everyone knows ya never go to the hotdog stand at IKEA. The restaurant - sure. But never the hot dog stand, Michelle.”
I then asked him where the trashcans were, believing every Swede knows the layout of IKEA.
Mandatory for citizenship.
Then he was confused and asked, “For kitchen, office, or bathroom?”
Which brings me to one of my mom’s best misdials.
Long backstory short…
When I turned 50, I was contacted by my health insurance company about getting a colonoscopy.
(I won’t hyperlink colonoscopy. No one wants to see that!).
I knew a few things about it: fasting, drinking some thick stuff, pooping everything ancient out, and then being put under while a gastroenterologist inserted a camera up my butt.
(Yes, I am a grown up explaining this.)
My mom, who is 85, was contacted about having a colonoscopy and was told they’d give her something to drink that would replace the need to put her under anesthesia to do the endoscope.
They felt that for her age, it would be safer.
If you’ve been following this Substack, you know we had a terrifying summer regarding my mother’s health.
In the days leading up to the prep date for this procedure, as we read the contraindications about this liquid, we both felt - rather I felt - it was a risk we didn’t need to take.
Our beloved dog had just been bitten by a pitbull-type dog, and we’d already spent 2 days at the veterinary hospital.
I asked my mom to postpone her procedure until next year, feeling that everything always goes wrong on a weekend, and that I’d had enough wringing my hands in emergency rooms for a while.
She agreed, and we went into the Consultorio in our village to ask the doctor to cancel her Monday appointment.
The doctor understood our concern, and since the procedure wasn’t urgent, agreed to call the Radiologist in Granada to cancel.
But the phone number wasn’t on the confirmation form.
“I have it in my phone,” my mom said. “They called me to confirm.”
She finds the number on her recent calls log on her phone, dials, and hands the phone to the doctor.
As he’s speaking to them, my mom & I become distracted by something else to talk about.
Until I heard him say, “¿Qué mascota?”
Mascota is “pet” in Spanish.
Once I figured out what happened, I revealed the source of confusion.
My mom had given him the number for the vet where we also had an appointment for the dog on Monday morning under her name.
The receptionist at the animal hospital & the doctor at the human health center went back & forth for minutes, trying to figure out how to help each other.
Wondering why a dog would get a colonoscopy for a wound on his neck!
In this moment, I knew it was better to avoid the risk of the procedure and let this year end on a quiet note.
Plus, my mom was able to skip her fast & enjoy my pumpkin bread!
YOUR TURN: It’s easy to confuse & be confused by information, intentions, gestures, phrasing, emotions, directions, codes, and pretty much anything.
When I saw how earnest the doctor was in trying to make sense of an absurd mix up worthy of a Monty Python sketch, I realized how trust is necessary for confusion to set in.
Can we be confused by what we don’t believe or trust to be true?
Where does CONFUSION take you?
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“I NEED to stay in touch with my friends,” my student said. Maggie was a high school senior, a good student, and a STAR—Student Technology Adviser. Now she was in trouble for creating a work-around to access Facebook on the school network. “My Facebook friends are the only thing keeping me going,” she wailed, “the people I met at High Status University this summer. My brother goes there; my parents expect me to go there, too.” I wondered if those expectations were hers, to measure up to her brother. Maggie wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I NEED to get into High Status University.” I recognized her my-life-is-over-if-I-don’t-get-what-I-want desperation and confusion of needs—food, water, job, housing—versus wants, things we think will improve our lives. After saying some consoling words, I informed her of the five-day network suspension and invited her to come talk to me anytime. Maggie did not get into High Status University, but Excellent University welcomed her. After her freshman year, she came to visit and told me that High Status University’s rejection had been for the best. She’d found good friends at Excellent University, challenging academic programs, and a good-fit place separate from her brother. God had placed her where she could meet all her needs and many wants. No confusion about that.
Spring 1995: I was full-on in my exploration of post-Communist East Berlin, guided by my West German sweetheart, who had moved to the city after high school to avoid military conscription. Like many young people, he lived in a squat in the east of the city.
It was my first Walpurgis Night, celebrated on April 30 with dancing around bonfires—more embracing the idea of witches than driving them away. This preceded the first of May, notorious in Berlin for left and far-left protests accompanied by clashes with the police.
Looking for action, my BF and I strolled through the nearby park, dressed in our requisite combat boots and bandana around the neck (to hide/protect the face if needed). The atmosphere of revelry shifted to anxious excitement with the arrival of the anti-riot squad, and then pandemonium when a flying cobblestone triggered their violent response. Charging the crowd, they were met by a surge of collective resistance. Blasts from a water cannon and clouds of tear gas followed in quick succession, causing young and old to flee in all directions.
Even amidst the confusion, a sense of solidarity buoyed our spirits. Seasoned protestors shared lemon slices to help relieve the effects of the gas as we huddled together in an inner courtyard. It was a night to remember.