In Which Things Come Out All Right in The End

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.


About profmondo

Dad, husband, mostly free individual, medievalist, writer, and drummer. "Gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche."
This entry was posted in Family, Literature, Pixel-stained Wretchery, Why I Do What I Do. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to In Which Things Come Out All Right in The End

  1. dave schutz says:

    You want ‘perfect asshole’? Have I got ‘perfect asshole’ for YOU!
    And congrats, it runs in my family as well, it’s how I lost my dad, so I get hooked up to the Roto-Rooter pretty regularly as well.

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