The Poke

Oh, the indignities of growing old…
Last month my GP announced it was time for my fourth colonoscopy. FOURTH! COLONOSCOPY! GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY!
The rule, as he explained it, is: after 55 you have to have one every five years. At least that is my doctor's particular version of the rule. Your medical practitioner may have an altogether different notion of how to manage the polyps, lesions and other detritus in your colon. But mine recommended a visit to my gastroenterologist, a lovely man with too many harsh consonants in his name (Kuritskes),softened by adelightful sense of humor (something you might not expect in a man who dealsdaily with, dare I say it, …….assholes!).
I told him that Ialso had some worrying problems with swallowing, which had recently almost led to my demise. He then recommended an endoscopy (a peek into the stomach through the throat). Since I was already "under" for the anal prod he said he could now slip a similar wand down my throat to have a poke at my esophageal sphincter. "I'll gag," I shrieked! "You won't notice a thing," he assured me. My only caveat: "Please use a different wand for each procedure."
The day before the event, one is forbidden to eat anything solid, of course. Needless to say, all I could think of was a massive ham sandwich. And I don't even care for ham sandwiches. At 7 PM sharp,came the first Fleet phoso-something-or-other thatone is directed to drink with, according to the doctor's directive, a Coca Cola. Was this product placement, I wondered? Wouldn't a Pepsi have done equally well? However, the potion is so disagreeable that it made even the sickenly sweet coke seem bitter. But drink it I did, and was rewarded two hours later with an effluence that would have rivaledthe sewers of Paris. "Holy Shit!" I thought, as I hung on to the sides of my toilet.
That night, I was troubled byrather lurid dreams of my first love affair, although I hasten to add that these two episodes are in no way connected.
The next morning I woke up early for drink number two which roared through me like Grant through Richmond (a simile familiar to fans of the Civil War). A neighbor who had volunteered to drive me arrived, and off we went to the hospital. The Hollywood Freeway was virtually empty going our way but a massive accident on the opposite lanes had turned the highway into a parking lot. I tired not to think of it as a bad omen. But rather took heart that my situation was a lot preferable to the hell that those accident victims were going through.
The hospital itself was actually part of the Motion Picture and Television Home, in Woodland Hills, about forty minutes from my house. On the trip tomy ultimate destination, the GIC clinic, I was greeted by a lot of old and somewhat vague yet oddly familiar faces of the inhabitants. They were old actors, acting as if they were still on a film set and greeting me as ifI were perhaps a new face on the crew. "Good morning" they chirped as theyteetered past me to the hoped-for Craft Table.
Once in my section of the clinic I was asked to disrobe and slip on that very becoming little hospital gown…you now the one. A rather taciturn Asian nurse hooked me up to every device known to man: oxygen, blood pressure, heart monitor, you name it. I tried, to no avail, to make small talk. "How do you enjoy working at this lovely clinic," I volunteered? "Fine," she said, jamming the needle of an IV into my wrist. And then sheturned on her heel and left.
Suddenly and without warning, the room was full of people. The anesthesiologist introduced himself and announced that he was ready to start. The Gastroenterologist then appearedand told me to roll over on my side. He then asked every onein the room to agree to do an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. And to my surprise, they all said they agreed. I commented that it was very "cute" that they all did so in unison. And the doctor confided that it was now the law, a law that prevented, I can only assume, one of the parties involved from mistakenly trying to amputate my leg. I suggested that I should agree as well. The Doctor replied that mine was the most important agreement in the room. So I said, "AndMaude agreed," referencing a famous line of Bea Lillie's (whose letters to Noel Coward I am currently reading). This of course only served to bewilder the staff,who must have assumed that the anesthesia had begun to take effect rather more quickly than was intended, or that I was a female impersonator.
Next, a rather attractive and vivacious nurse asked how I felt. "Do you mean, while I lie here waiting for the poke and the prod," I asked, with just the slightest tinge of sarcasm? "No," she said, "The procedure is over." "Not possible," I countered. "You must mean the man next door." "No, you are finished and they found two polyps."What a surprise! The entire procedure had taken place and I hadn't known. "Two polyps," I repeated, for lack of anything else to say.I guess I should be grateful to hear that they hadn't also discovered Seinfeld's missing sock andthe Lindberg baby.
And then myfriend Jan suddenly appeared at the door ready to drive me home. I confess that I was somewhat worried about her turning upas she is a recovering heroin addict (this is Hollywood after all) and she might have had a fix or whatever it is they do. But no, she sailed in on her cane and took me to lunch. The car ride was a trifle unnerving as Jan has recently had hip surgery and had to lift her right leg by hand off the accelerator and onto the brake to even slow down much less stop the car. But once we reached our destination THE DAILY GRILL, we ate heartily and I made sure that I thanked God, Jehovah and Allah (just to cover all the bases) that I hadsurvived my latest indignity, theproverbial poke and thewretched prod.

© Bruce Gray 2008