A Little Tubing Trip Down the Ol’ Alimentary Canal

For my first blog post of Summer 2021, an appropriate subject would have been the delightful pastime of floating on an inner tube lazily down a river. Believe me, I’d much rather write about THAT kind of tubing trip! Instead, buckle up for the dramatic saga of my NG (nasal-gastric) tube and its perilous journey down the alimentary canal, AKA my digestive tract.

Looking back with my usual impeccable 20/20 hindsight, I should have taken my recent bouts of heartburn as a warning. I think I just didn’t want to be bothered with antacids and the like. I remembered my mom’s lifelong battle with acid indigestion. Instead of changing her diet, quitting smoking, etc. Joanie opted for chugging Maalox straight from the bottle. That form of self-medicating had zero appeal—I much preferred to tough it out. The stinging sensation always passed eventually, and hey! It wasn’t nearly as bad as labor! Btw that is my benchmark for all my illnesses and injuries—does it top the exquisite agony of childbirth? Not quite? Then it’s nothing!

But neglecting myself caught up with me last Monday night, when I woke up and suddenly began (trigger alert) vomiting blood. My first response was to just go back to bed, but then it sank into my thick skull that this could possibly be something serious, so it was off to the ER at 4 AM. What followed was 14 hours of misery, languishing in an emergency room cubicle bed because the hospital had no available rooms. I figured I’d be stuck with needles and X-rayed and tested for this and that, and I was. I did NOT factor in the NG tube (cue the foreboding music in a minor key).

Pre-ordeal, this procedure was variously described to me by the attending medical personnel as: “pretty unpleasant,” “ a little uncomfortable” and my personal favorite, “not the most fun.” So what? thought I. Couldn’t be as bad as labor!

Turns out, it was—or at least the insertion of the ungodly long piece of tubing into my nostril, down my throat and esophagus and into my stomach gave my old contractions a run for their money. It didn’t help that the nurse assigned to this task was more drill sergeant than Flo Nightingale. His was a “tough love” approach, barking orders at me as I gulped and gagged and swallowed. When I finally got it down, I croaked, “how long will this be in?” He gruffly responded, “As long as it takes!” and disappeared, never to be seen again. 

In the end, it was nine miserable hours before the tube was removed, after an endoscopy. Ouch!

I shouldn’t complain; many other people have endured The Notorious NG. And turns out I only have a little gastritis, remedied by some dietary adjustments and time. I’m home now, with just a sore throat and swollen neck to remind me of my “not the most fun” tubing adventure. 

Happy Summer! It can only improve from here! Right?