So, I got up extra early this morning (that is, around my usual workday wake-up time) because I had to experience one of the joys of A Certain Age — the colonoscopy. This is actually my third; because my dad had the first of his three rounds of colon cancer when he was 41 (the second was when he was 56, and his third at 63), I got a head start on the whole business.
This was pretty routine, really, but given my family history, I always get nervous. As I lay on the gurney this morning before the procedure, I found lines of Philip Larkin poems — specifically “Aubade” and “Church Going” — running through my head. The anesthesiologist stopped by to let me what to expect (namely, to get knocked out with a truck, and perhaps to have a sore jaw if sleep apnea became an issue and they had to hold my airway open), and I was wheeled into the theater at 7:41.
I rolled into “the position” as preparations went on around me. There were quite a few people there; as a former colleague noted about these things, “It isn’t the camera — it’s the crew.” One of the nurses told me I was about to get sleepy, but that the medicine might sting a bit as it came in the IV. I chuckled. She asked why I was laughing.
I told her that I had thought of Larkin’s line, describing death as “The anesthetic from which none come round.” She chuckled as well, and th–
If it stung, I didn’t notice. I woke up in the recovery room around 8:30. Mrs. M told me she had already spoken to the doctor, and that there was nothing particularly remarkable upon which to remark. As my father was known to say, “Not only am I a perfect asshole, I seem to have one as well.” Thanks for the line, Dad. About half an hour later, having been monitored and detached from my IV, I was allowed to get dressed and ride home — I’m not allowed to drive for the remainder of the day. I ended my 36-hour fast with a fast-food breakfast (fittingly enough), and other than a bit of cottonmouth (which the breakfast burritos didn’t help), I seem to be none the worse for wear.
So it appears that you may have to put up with this blog — or at least this blogger — a while longer. At the very least, there’s no need to cancel the Berries’ gigs on the next couple of Saturdays.
And my jaw doesn’t hurt.