Surprise, surprise, surprise.

One of the most irritating aspects of health care is the frequency of the surprises. Sometimes they're good (you're going to have a baby! You don't have lupus!) but more often they're bad (it's a cancerous tumor! You have gangrene!).

I don't know if it's because patients blur together and nurses and doctors forget what they've said to which patient or what, but I was continually surprised. I'd go in for an MRI only to find out it was a CT scan and that I had to drink some nasty syrup. I'd be told a test would take fifteen minutes and it'd take an hour and a half.

The latest surprise happened a full two years after my treatment had ended. I still go for occasional MRIs that are getting further and further out in terms of time, but they're still keeping an eye on me. The last time I went for my usual MRI I found out that I had a bonus test -- this one for bone density. Nobody had told me about the test, let alone that radiation and/or chemo could have an adverse effect on my bone density back when I was getting treated. They didn't tell me I was getting tested for it now, either. Thankfully, it's nothing more than a glorified X Ray, so it was painless. That, and the fact that I consume ice cream as if it's my job, ensured that my test turned out fine.

To that end, here are 10 questions you should ask your doctor. They're not hard. If he/she can't answer them, find another doctor. I don't mean to get all Star Jones on you, but really, they need to spend a little more time explaining this stuff so you're able to make an informed decision.

It's Alive! Alive!

Next up was an MRI to check my progress. They ushered me in and I got my cotton gown on and all that. First step was a blood draw. I got taken back into a room with many bays, all seperated by thin curtains.

So I'm sitting there waiting for the nurse to get whatever she needed to get, and I hear a nurse, mom and little girl in the bay next to me. I never saw them, but I'm guessing the girl was probably nine. She had to have an MRI and was clearly scared. I could hear the terror in her voice as she struggled not to cry. It was heartbreaking. I seriously considered going over there and telling her it wasn't a big deal; that I'd been through much worse and I was fine. Hey, just look at me! Here I am! It won't be a big deal!

I should add that at this point I had six big-ass shiny staples on the top of my head, keeping things together.

I reconsidered. If some strange man with mangy hair and a row of industrial staples in his head comes into your room when you're already shitting bricks, a well-intentioned word of assurance probably isn't going to mean all that much. I'd be thinking "Holy shit! What's next for me??" I stayed put and just tried to send her good vibes.

Tiny Bubbles

The spinal tap didn't hurt at all, which surprised the hell out of me. It was a little weird, sure, but I didn't have any pain. Folklore suggested that it was one of the most painful procedures out there. Hardly.

They told me to go home and lay down immediately. The fluid needed to settle, and if I was doing jumping jacks or whatever there was a chance I could get an air bubble in the fluid and that would be a Very Bad Thing. Not wanting to tempt fate, I followed their advice.

We went home and my wife (who truly deserves a blog completely devoted to her awesomeness and support through this whole thing) whipped up some catfish po-boys and I settled in to catch up on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

The next day I felt a little odd -- sort of spacey and I had a slight headache at the base of my skull. I didn't think much of it. At this point, I was feeling strange for all sorts of reasons, so I went to work. We were redesigning our corporate web site and had an important meeting with the developer that day.

About thirty minutes into the meeting I had a headache that was brutal. It was unlike any other headache I've had before or since. It was like having a warm cotton helmet with nails in it placed on your head while someone screwed two inch screws into the base of your skull. I couldn't talk. I couldn't think. I could hardly see. I got some aspirin and went back to work.

We had another meeting after lunch. I mentioned the spinal tap to a woman in the group and was surprised when her eyes bugged out and she said "Oh my God! I wasn't able to move for three days after I had mine!" I didn't think it was that big of a deal. I got through the meeting and went home to lay down on the sweet, sweet sofa in our basement.

Tap Into America

Your brain is swimming in fluid. It's the same fluid that runs through your spine. The doctors recommended a spinal tap to check my spinal fluid to make sure there weren't any other tumors floating around that they'd missed. They wanted to have a complete picture of my situation before they did much more.

Up to this point, I knew a helluva lot more about Spinal Tap, the movie, than spinal tap, the procedure. All I knew was that they were supposed to be excruciating. Hooray. Off I went.

I did the usual change into the drafty cotton apron thing and got wheeled around on one of those beds you always see on TV. Everyone I met was very serious and somber. I wasn't expecting Rip Taylor to be hooting and hollering, throwing confetti everywhere as I was wheeled into the room but damn.

Once I was in the room they asked me my name and birthday for about the tenth time and explained the procedure. They'd insert a needle into my spine and withdraw some fluid they could later use to check for cancer cells. Gulp. Okay.

An older doctor in his early sixties came in and introduced himself. I wish I could remember his name because it turns out the man's a maestro when it comes to spinal taps. More on that later.

They asked me to turn over on the bed and hang onto the big steel bars mounted at the end -- the same kind you see in restrooms and other areas for handicapped people. I'd need those to hang onto while they tilted the table to get my spinal fluid. Turns out your spinal fluid's more like corn syrup or tree sap than water -- very viscous and thick. Tilting the table allows the fluid to flow a little faster. Gulp again.

Oh, and if I wanted, I could just look up on this screen at the end of the bed and watch the needle go into my spine. Gulpity-gulp.