I need to find a new doctor in Georgia. One thing I’ve learned about selecting a general practitioner: if you are a man and have reached a certain age, always look for a family doctor with a slender index finger and a gentle touch.
My Florida GP said I needed a colonoscopy in the near future. This did not make me happy. I hate going to doctors, waiting rooms put me in a foul mood, and colonoscopies are humiliating affairs.
When I had my last one, Meredith went with me to drive me home after the procedure. After filling out multiple pages paper work, I sat down in front of the intake lady. It’s a safe bet she was not voted “best personality” in high school. She looked like a real tight ass. Maybe that’s a protective mechanism when you work in a colonoscopy clinic.
After reviewing the paper work, she asked me, “Do you want us to notify anyone if there are complications during the procedure?” I stared at her trying to comprehend the question. Was it a trick question? Of course I want you to tell someone if something goes wrong. My mind was telling me to say, “No, let’s just keep it a fucking secret.” But I managed to control myself and said, “That would probably be a good idea.” Then she asked, “Who shall we notify?” Maybe I’m missing something, but I thought the answer was obvious. My paper work clearly identified Meredith as my wife and next of kin. I couldn’t help myself. “Oh, I don’t know. Just pick out any fucking stranger walking down the street.”
Things were not going well. Then it occurred to me that my life, or at least my ass, was in this lady’s hands. She probably had the ability to make a note on my chart that I was an obnoxious pain in the ass so that the medical staff would assure that I really would have a pain in the ass. I had a vision of them using an industrial sized video camera to do my scope.
Fortunately, Saint Meredith stepped in and sent me to sit on the far side of the waiting room while she handled the rest of the intake. Which leads to another question: why is the reading material in a doctor’s waiting room always out of date? What good is a three-year-old Time magazine? I turned to the guy sitting next to me. “Hey, look here, it says they’re inventing something called the cell phone. Imagine that.” And have you noticed that doctor’s waiting rooms always have magazines like Yachting World, Conde Nast Traveler, and Unique Homes? Most of us can’t afford the magazines, much less their subject matter.
Eventually a nurse took me into a room to change into one of those gowns where your ass hangs out. Now that made sense to me since it exposed the crucial part of my anatomy for the procedure, but I wondered if I would put the gown on backwards if I was going to get a vasectomy.
In the days before the procedure, I had what I thought was brilliant idea. I wanted Meredith to write a message on my ass cheeks with a magic marker for the doctor to read. I was thinking it could say, “You are boldly going where no man has ever gone before”, or “Whatever you find is mine”, or “I bet you see a lot of assholes in your line of work”. Meredith refused the task, and, not surprisingly, I couldn’t find any other volunteers.
I was heavily sedated and do not remember the procedure. The next thing I remember is waking up on a bed surrounded by screens in a large room. I was very groggy, but I knew there were other patients in the room. The main clue was the reverberating farts that came from all corners. No one informed me that they pump a massive quantity of air into your butt when they do a colonoscopy. I must have gotten enough to fill the Hindenburg. I let one rip and was afraid that I was going to fly around the room like a balloon. It must have been a good one because I heard an old lady say in a plaintive voice from across the room, “Oh, God, I wish I could do that.” Holy Jesus, lady, it’s not that hard when you’ve been inflated to 150 pounds per square inch.
There were a number of patients in the room to judge by volume of flatulence. The variety sounds was amazing. There were bass rumbles, high pitched squeakers, baritone ass-flappers, loud rips, explosive thunderers, and assorted barks, duck calls, croaks, snorts, flurpies, and flutter blasts. It was a veritable cacophony of flatulence. Maybe it was the effects of the anesthesia, but I swear the collective fart chorale reached a thunderous crescendo with the final bars of the 1812 Overture: Dah, dah, dah, dah, dunt, dunt, dah, boom, boom. It was awe inspiring. I contributed my part to the symphony, and I’m telling you it was hard work. Sweat beaded on my forehead. When the final lingering notes faded, I lay there exhausted and deflated, but feeling a sense of accomplishment. I was a little worried they were going to move on to the opening movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony because I had given my all for the first selection on the program. Fortunately the concert was over.
After a time, a staffer finally came to tell me I could dress and leave. On my way out, I glimpsed an enormous woman being wheeled in to the operating room. She had the biggest ass I had ever seen. It deserved its own area code. I wondered how they were going to pry her ass cheeks apart to do the procedure. It would take at least two five-ton bottle jacks, in my opinion. If I were the doctor, I wouldn’t have attempted the procedure without a miner’s lamp and safety equipment. Maybe they have a special tool for that. “Nurse, please hand me the hemostat and the ass-spreader, please.”
On the way home I contemplated what it must be like working in a colonoscopy clinic. It can’t be uplifting and inspirational. You’re not exactly dealing with the best side of people. You probably sit at the family dinner table every night dreading the question, “See anything new at work today?” How does one end up working at a colonoscopy clinic? I don’t remember seeing that occupation on any job placement questionnaire I ever took. Maybe it’s one of those vocations that is revealed on an aptitude test. You know, the ones with questions like “how do you feel about snakes?” and “do you dream of deep dark tunnels?” I took one of those tests after college, and it said I should be either an insurance salesman or a lawn maintenance technician, so I became a lawyer.
The bottom line is that while I’m looking forward to moving to Georgia, I’m not looking forward to getting another colonoscopy after I get there. Maybe the moral of the story is that you have to take the good with the bad.
(For a comprehensive list of fart synonyms, check out this website.)
No comments:
Post a Comment